Thursday, 24 December 2009

41 The Sausage Incident


It's Christmas Eve and I've finally found my Christmas spirit. I really hadn't been bothered this year until now. In fact, I've been very 'Bah! Humbug!'

Perhaps it could be down to the fact I'm remembering what happened last year. Last year was the year of the afore-mentioned Sausage Incident.

Christmas had started innocently enough. All the family were together. Presents had been opened. Everyone was happy. We all sat down for a full English breakfast.

I'd just taken a bite of sausage and then....

I was suddenly lying on the floor. How had that happened? I felt like I was in a weird dream. A weird dream that involved having fingers in my mouth. Not the chocolate variety, but real human ones. I wasn't even sure whose.

I asked 'What on earth are you doing?' Or at least I tried to. It's hard when your mouth is full. As well as it being bad manners.

Everyone seemed to be ignoring me anyway and talking/panicking amongst themselves. I heard my uncle on the phone calling me an ambulance.

Good lord, no!!

I had no idea what on earth had happened or what was wrong with me but I knew I did not want an ambulance. All I could think about was the fact I had an enormous spot in the middle of my forehead and I was wearing unmatched pyjamas.

Why hadn't I taken note of the old adage that you should make sure you wear clean underwear incase you get run over by a bus?

I know it's not quite the same. Particularly as I was inside where you presume you are safe. It appears not. You should always make sure you are looking your best. I'd received nice pyjamas for Christmas so I didn't even have an excuse.

The ambulance arrived. So I was told anyway. I couldn't see much from my position on the kitchen floor.

I asked if the paramedics were good looking. I must have been feeling a bit better.

They came in and asked the various family members, stood around me, what had happened.

Turns out after I'd taken a bite of sausage, I exclaimed 'Oh!' and then slumped on the table.

A bit like a balloon with the air escaping, they said.

I then seemingly started having a fit and they thought I was going to swallow my tongue (which would explain the fingers in my mouth...)

The paramedics couldn't work out exactly what was wrong with me, so decided to take me in to A&E.

Brother was bored by this point and sat back down to finish his breakfast.

Mum went with me in the ambulance while my dad followed up in the car. I couldn't decide whether they just wanted to get out of peeling spuds or whether there was something seriously wrong with me and it was their duty to be there.

I asked the paramedic if it was anything to do with the big spot on my head. He said it definitely could be and that the weight of it might have made me light-headed.

I decide that the fact he was joking with me probably meant I wasn't dying.

Arrived at the hospital. All the doctors were busy having their photo taken with the mayor who had popped in for a visit.

I was taken to a room and told someone would be in to see me soon to do some tests and ask me some questions.

I started panicking again. What kind of tests? What kind of questions?

Bear in mind my mum and dad were sitting with me.

What if the questions were going to be about sex? Or worse...about periods.

There are some things you don't want to talk about in front of your parents.

On the other hand, if I said I wanted to be examined and questioned in private, I was worried that would make my mum and dad think I had a rare disease that I just hadn't told them about.

I really didn't know what to do.

While I was contemplating, the doctor came in and launched into the tests. Things like walking in a straight line. Nice, parent-friendly tests. Phew!

I get the results there and then.

Turns out they thought the sausage had just gone down the wrong way.

And the pain had made me faint.

Yes, you read that right.

That is flipping all.

Yes, I'd wasted a couple of hours of Christmas Day in hospital, just for that.

And OK, it got me out of helping with the dinner preparations but I really don't recommend it as a good skiving option.

Not unless you can put up with your family joking for ever more about how you have to be supervised around sausages.

Merry Christmas everyone!!

Thursday, 17 December 2009

22 Nice Package


I really must stop opening my post in front of my concierges.

It's just that getting things in the mail really is one of my most favourite things ever. I get so excited and can't wait till I get all the way 40+ floors upstairs to see what I've got.

I feel sad that we don't send post as much now. Nothing beats getting a nice letter.

My best mate Taggart is good. She knows I love getting mail so sends me random things. Like after I had the bad hairdressing experience as detailed in The Headmaster, she sent me pictures she had cut out of magazines of other people with fringes. To make me feel better. She even sent a photo of herself with a fringe. OK, she was aged 9 in it, but it's the thought that counts.

So imagine how excited I was when I got a little padded envelope last week. The return address showed it was from my lovely Danish friend. Oooh she'd sent me a present! The concierges sensed my excitement and were urging me to open it so they could see what I'd got too.

I opened the card first. It was the photo above and had the inscription 'Some gifts are more interesting than others!'

Now I probably should have thought about the fact that despite being from Denmark, my friend lives in Holland - home of rude gifts. I also should have considered that there could be a 'theme'. I didn't though. I just carried on opening willy nilly.

Opened the first thing. A pen. A pen with a picture of a man on it and a note from my friend saying it was to inspire me when I write my blog.

Tried it out on the envelope. The man's pants disappeared as I scribbled. Ah yes, I could see how that would inspire me. Might even help me stop that bad habit I have of putting pens in my mouth...

Opened the other thing. Concierges still looking on. Still interested. As if it was their present.

It was a packet of popping candy. That stuff you used to get as a kid that would 'explode' in your mouth. Our version was called Fizz Wizz. Unfortunately this version wasn't called that.

This version was called Winkle Sprinkle...

Cut to a week later and I'm having my daily chat with the concierges. Rude present incident all forgotten I'd hoped. Opened one of my letters. It was from Santa. Awwwwww! A personalised letter to me. One of those that mums arrange to be sent to their kids...or their big kids.

I read it out to the concierges. Santa was telling me all about how busy he is over in Lapland and how Mrs Claus is wrapping up all the presents. He said how he'll make sure Mrs Claus puts my presents on the sleigh and he'll deliver them to my home in Manchester on Christmas Eve. On the condition that I've been a good girl this year that is...

The concierges burst out laughing. 'That's you buggered then!'

Ho, ho, ho.

Monday, 14 December 2009

39 Mr Not-So-Hot-To-Trot


I haven't updated my blog in a while, because I've been far too busy in a bubble of love with Mr Hot-to-Trot.

Come on! You don't seriously believe that do you?

Don't you know me at all? For a start if there was anything to report, I would have told you first.

It didn't actually go very well at all. In fact 'go' is probably over-stating things a bit...

You agreed in your masses (at least two of you anyway) that I could ignore my own pre-date rule, so I accepted Mr Hot-to-Trot's invitation to go for a bratwurst and a gluhwein at the Christmas markets.

He said he couldn't do the next few days but that we should arrange something for the following week and sent me his number to contact him to arrange it.

I don't think so Mr Hot-to-Trot.

I'm not that keen on having the ball in my court. Not in that situation anyway. I emailed him right back with my number. Ha! That showed him!

He then texted me. Keen. Good.

I texted back. Ball back over to him...

Next day...another text. Asking me how my day was. I said it was great or something. Think in actual fact it was pretty shit but you can't say that to someone you don't know. Best they don't find out you are a real person that has bad days until at least date two.

A few more texts.

Fair enough but this wasn't going as planned. What had happened to our date? Why had we become text buddies instead? I wasn't even enjoying it that much. Call me weird but I prefer to text people I've met.

Then it got worse. He texted me on a Saturday. At night. Asked if I was out.

What on earth was I supposed to say to that?

Of course I wasn't out. I was watching X-Factor. And more to the point, I was enjoying it. I couldn't tell him that though could I? What impression does that send out? Should I lie and say I was out? What if he then said he was also out and that we should meet up?

What a dilemma.

In then end I sent one saying something about having gone out most school nights that week and I was having a quiet one, but if he was out to have a drink for me.

Good answer. I thought.

He obviously didn't think so. No reply for ages. Damn. Why didn't I lie?

Then...Have just made a cup of tea and am settling down to watch Match of the Day.

Hurrah! He's as sad as me! (Actually I'd say sadder, but I suppose that's debatable.)

A few more texts over the next few days.

Eventually he sends one about meeting up. Finally! Didn't he realise I had people wanting to hear about a real life date, not about texts between two strangers.

He suggests a night. I can't do it. I suggest a night. He can't do it.

Oh for god sake.

Then next day he texts to say he can actually do the night I suggested...

Great! Except I had no battery and didn't get the text till hours later...

I reply eventually and tell him I can still do it. Ask if he can.

No reply...

No reply for a bit longer...

No reply for a couple of days...

What the hell?!

Why would you ask someone out and then change your mind a few hours later?

It isn't even as if this is a one-off situation. Oh no. It's happened loads.

A girl can get a complex. I mean I'm not quite at the 'nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I'll go and eat worms' stage...but close to it.

Send him a text..A simple 'no', would have sufficed. Where are your manners?

And that is how our 'relationship' ended.

With him probably thinking 'she's a stroppy madam, thank god I didn't go on a date with her.'

And me thinking 'what possessed me to agree to go an date with a man whose profile picture showed him wearing a cardigan on a night out anyway?' (Oh it wasn't the cardigan I objected to. It's the fact it was pink. And he wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Poser.)

So if you have any advice for a girl failing miserably at online dating, let me know, and in the meantime I'll consult my copy of 'If I'm So Wonderful, Why Am I Still Single'* and see what that suggests.

Or I might just eat worms...


*Every good home should have a copy of this. Next to the Ikea catalogue.

Wednesday, 9 December 2009

20 Too Many Bloggers...


I'm not having much luck with this online dating malarkey.

A fellow blogger called Bamberio seemed to think so too. She suggested I go on a date with a guy whose blog she'd been reading.

Plentymorefishoutofwater was also writing about his dating experiences (the difference being that he was actually having some) and Bamberio thought it would be just 'brilliant' if me and him went on a date and blogged about it afterwards.

Now Bamberio's own blog is about rugby players so I presumed she must know stuff about men. She seemed convinced her idea, was a great idea. She even mentioned buying a hat...

I contacted Mr Fish to ask if he was aware he was being pimped out? He didn't seem to care and also seemed to think us going on a date might be a good idea.

I wasn't convinced though...

How can a blogger dating a blogger ever be a good idea?

No matter what happened on the date we'd have to blog about it. We wouldn't be able to help ourselves.

If one liked the other more than the other liked them, it would be blogged about.
If neither of us liked each other, it would be blogged about.
Even if it went really well, it would be blogged about.

Every flipping thing would be blogged about.

We'd constantly be trying to out-blog each other.

Wouldn't it be a case of too many bloggers spoiling the...er...spoiling things...?

I just didn't know what to do. So I dithered...and I dithered...and I dithered some more...

I dithered for so long that it appears that Mr Fish got fed up and started pursuing a hairdresser with a green thong.

Of course that's when going out with him suddenly seemed like the best idea I'd ever heard.

Why is it that we become interested in someone when they're no longer interested in us? It's nature's cruel trick.

It had happened to me before. I'd been on a night out in Amsterdam and my friends and I were trying to teach ourselves to pole dance in the middle of a busy bar (there was a pole there obviously.) A Dutch guy seemed to like my moves and wanted to talk to me in guttural and tell me I was lekker ding. I was far too busy trying to become Fantasia Sparkletush or something to pay him any attention though.

So what did he do? He went and sucked face with the toilet attendant, that's what.

Weirdly that's when I decided I wanted him. To hell with the pole! (I wasn't doing very well at mastering it anyway.)

It was too late though. He wasn't interested in me anymore. I had nothing to offer him. I couldn't get him into the toilets for free - you need to pay to visit many toilets in Holland, even in bars. You spend far more than a penny. It can make for an expensive night. He was actually being sensible in his choice of snog.

I couldn't compete.

Same now. I can't cut hair and I don't wear green thongs.

What do you get when you cross a blogger with a blogger?
I've no idea, I was too busy dithering to find out.



http://studsonthe22.blogspot.com/
http://plentymorefishoutofwater.blogspot.com/

Monday, 7 December 2009

0 Night Terrors


I was very well-behaved this weekend.

Not everyone was such a goody two-shoes though....

I should start by explaining that the Tower I live in is part hotel, part apartments. It's the Hilton at the bottom and then from floor 25 up to 47, it is us. The residents. Understandably, our floors and corridors also have the look of a hotel. Each one has white walls, black carpet and black doors. They all look the same.

Because of that, I can imagine, it could be an easy mistake to make, to get out on the wrong floor. You know if you were too busy thinking what you were going to have for your tea or something? Or you were drunk? Or you were sleep-walking?

Or all of the above.

Turns out that one girl had made this very mistake in the wee small hours of Sunday morning.

I can only assume that she must have been planning her dinners for the whole week. And probably lunches and breakfasts too. Because it sounds like her head really was elsewhere...

Not only did she get out on the wrong floor...but she went into the wrong apartment too...giving the occupier the fright of his life.

He rushed down to the concierges...

"A girl has got into bed with me and I don't know what to do!"

And as someone who dances on the other side of the ballroom, he wasn't kidding about this being a new experience for him.

I feel there are various lessons we could learn from this. There is the obvious, the one about always locking your door. But, I think the one I will take away from it, the main one, is that if you are going to make a little mistake like that, get your gaydar out first and plan ahead what apartment would be a good one to go into it.

Mind you, knowing my luck, I'd end up playing 'two in the bed, and the little one said...' with Mr Chilled Red!

Saturday, 5 December 2009

12 Tell Tale Tits


One of the concierges greeted me with, "Talk of the Devil", as I arrived home yesterday.

I was quite excited because I love being talked about. If it's something good obviously. It's not so smashing if it is just someone moaning about you.

This was neither. Was actually a bit boring. Turns out it was just that they'd ran out of sugar and discussed that their favourite resident* should be home soon and would probably be able to lend them some. (*That's a title I've given myself by the way. I haven't actually won an award or anything. Yet.)

I suppose it is slightly odd that my concierges know so much about me. They would certainly kick my friend's asses in a quiz about me if the questions were things like...What hours does she work?...What mood was she in on Thursday?...What are in those little brown boxes she has delivered?

I love having concierges though. It makes me feel that someone cares. Even if it's only someone that is paid to. Every good home should have at least one. They sign for your parcels. They call you taxis. They ask how your day has been. They even tell you if it is time for you to dye your hair again cause it is looking a bit shit. Those essential things.

I must admit, there was one occasion though when I wasn't so keen on the whole service...

I'd come in to the Tower late one afternoon to find that the fire alarms had been going off and the lifts were grounded. The concierge told me they probably wouldn't be in use for another 20 minutes so suggested I either walk up the stairs or wait.

Walk??? Did I hear him right??? Walk up 40+ flights of stairs??? I don't think so. I decided to go to the pub instead...just for one mind, while I waited for the lifts...

It can feel a bit weird going to the pub on your own but I'd been in no time at all when a guy started chatting to me. He bought me a drink. We chatted a bit more. He then suggested having another drink. I suppose one more wouldn't do any harm? I mean I wouldn't want to go back until it was almost definite that the lifts were working again...

A few hours later there was a worried woman in Scotland. My mum. I'd said I was calling her that night because I needed some information from a letter I'd been sent up there. Not only had I not called but I also wasn't answering any texts or calls to my phone. This wasn't like her normally reliable, daughter.

More time passed and she was starting to really panic. Particularly as a few months earlier she'd witnessed me collapsing at the dinner table and ending up in hospital (yes, I promise to reveal every detail of that embarrassing story in a future post. It will be called The Sausage Incident..). She decided that that must have happened again. Or I was dead. Or worse.

She instructed my dad to call the concierges. (Ah yes, much better if someone else hears I'm dead first?) Asks them to go up to my apartment and check on me. I'm unsure whether she gave them permission to give me the kiss of life.

"That won't be necessary" they said to my dad. "She went out. She came back in hours later. She chatted to us. She told us all her problems. She's now gone upstairs. She's safe. She's going to have a very sore head tomorrow though..."

Tell tale tits.

The next day wasn't very good. Hangover from hell, in the bad books with my mum and dad and very embarrassed about seeing my concierges. Half expected them to tell me they'd had a good chat with my parents and had all decided it would be best if I was grounded for the foreseeable future...

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

21 Flibbertygibbet


I need a favour...

I've been asked out on another date.

My initial reaction was...Woo Hoo! - How good is online dating when you can get asked out on a date while you are sitting in your pj's cosied up at home? No effort required.

My next reaction was...also Woo Hoo! - That's when I saw the profile photos of the guy that was doing the inviting. Hot!

My next, next reaction was...Woo Hoo again! - Mr Hot-to-Trot was suggesting we go to the German markets for a gluhwein and a bratwurst. I love the markets! What a good date it would be!

Then my reaction after that was...Damn!

I had suddenly remembered my own rule. The rule that I made only on Monday. The rule that went something like... 1/ Always, always, always go on a pre-date first. That stupid rule.

And that's where you come in....

I know it's only Wednesday. I know it will make it hard for you to trust me again. I know you'll wonder if I'm going to go back on everything I say.

I just hoped though, that you might be able to ignore that little comment. Pretend I never made it. If anyone asks, just be like..'Pre-date? What's a pre-date? Never heard of it. Sounds like a stupid idea to me...'

That would be great.

And in actual fact, if I promise to neck the gluhwein and eat the sausage really quickly, it could be like a pre-date anyway...

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

10 Dr McDreamy


Hot doctor alert!

Only just the other week, I questioned the existence of real-life Dr McDreamys. Turns out there is at least one.

My best mate has seen him.

Unfortunately for me, he is in Scotland so absolutely no-where near my hospital.

And unfortunately for my best mate, she was hand-cuffed to a junkie when she met him.

I should add that this wasn't down to some weird hobby that she has. No, she's a cop. She was at work.

Actually I don't think she was hand-cuffed to the junkie but as I'm telling the story and it makes it seem more dramatic, that's what I'm saying.

Anyway, as I said, best mate (who we will now refer to as Taggart) was with her cop sidekick and afore-mentioned junkie waiting for the doc to come and fix the junkie's hand which was gushing with blood.

Junkie was complaining about Taggart and Sidekick arresting him and how he was probably going to get three years. Just general chit-chat.

Until, in walked....according to Taggart...the most beautiful man alive.

A real-life Dr McDreamy.

McDreamy started seeing to the junkie (so to speak) while Taggart fantasised about his bedside manner and wished she wasn't at work. Or sitting with a junkie and a sidekick? How was she meant to flirt with them in the way? And while wearing very unsexy shoes for that matter?

There wasn't actually anything about the situation that was similar to how she'd imagined meeting the future Mr Taggart.

McDreamy finally left the room and she turned to her...er...comrades. 'Ohmigod, howwwwww hot is he?!'

Except he hadn't actually left the room.

Turns out he still had a bit more doctor stuff to do.

He continued 'doctoring' while Junkie and Sidekick sniggered and Taggart wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

After forever, McDreamy finished his thing and properly left the room and Junkie and Sidekick erupted into laughter.

Taggart felt embarrassed.

Junkie, perhaps thinking Taggart would let him go if he was nice to her, started questioning Sidekick's ability as a sidekick. He reckoned that a proper, supportive sidekick would have helped Taggart get McDreamys phone number.

He asked Taggart if he should get it for her when he gets out of prison. Though in his Glasgow accent, it was a bit more like...

'Hen, di yae waaant mi tae fun oot his numburrrr fur yae whin ahm oot tha jail?'

Taggart was not impressed.

No, not because a junkie was offering to be her Cilla.

It was more to do with the time-frame..

'You'll get me his number when you get out of jail?! In three years?! I'd better be blimming married to him by then!!'

Monday, 30 November 2009

39 The Date Date part 2


It's a very strange experience going out with someone you've met online.

You don't have a mutual friend to discuss to start you off. Like you would if it was a blind date.

In fact you don't actually know if you have anything mutual to discuss.

You don't even get the chance to have a proper look at your date...

I know that sounds a bit weird, but think about it... when you are out in a group you can give them the proper once over while they are in conversation with someone else. You can even make licking motions to make your friends laugh if you think your date is lovely.

When someone is sitting in front of you though, and it is just you two, you can't properly look at them. It just comes across as staring. Then they think you are weird.

Instead, in online dating dates, you have to look at them without looking at them. All the while trying to fill that space that is meant for conversation. Silences do not work on internet-born dates. They are more than just awkward...they are excruciating.

So, feeling slightly unfeminine after taking on the role of the man, and being the chattier of the two of us, I decided to take the opportunity to be the girl and satisfy that weird fable that females talk a lot...

So, I talked. Ohmigod, I talked. I talked for Britain. No subject was out of bounds.

'Could somebody please get a gag for the girl with the builder's haircut. She won't shut up.'

I talked so much I tired myself out.

I got respite thankfully, (or maybe he did?) when Mr Third Base went to the toilet. I took the chance to check my phone. There was a text from my flatmate. Well?

I was still replying when Mr Third Base came back from the toilet. I apologised for being on my phone. He said it was ok and he'd take the opportunity to check his phone.

Oh, he had a text too.

Ohmigod please don't let it be from my flatmate.

Yes, my flatmate had insisted I leave Mr Third Base's number for him. Although I'd made him swear only to use it if he thought I'd been murdered, I knew his promises were empty.

I mean this is the guy that walked into the living room, saw me sitting with a male friend and despite not knowing who he was, or his relationship to me, asked if he was one of my internet dates.

Subtle is not a word I'd use to describe my flatmate.

Please don't let him have texted my date.

Please!

Phew. The text wasn't from him.

Finished dinner. Had another drink. Had been all very pleasant. What a nice guy. I was ready to go home though. It was a school night after all.

'What time is your train?' I asked.

'Not for another hour.'

Damn.

Get through the next hour. Walk him to the train station (well may as well keep to the theme of the date, with me taking on the role of the man...) and bade each other farewell.

Get home. Tired and drained from talking so much.

Flatmate wants all the gossip.

I didn't really have any.

Wants all the details.

I didn't really have any.

Asks me what my date was wearing (I don't think in a weird, 'what was he wearing?' leery, way, just in a curious, way. I hope anyway....)

I had no idea.

I realised he can't have made that much of an impression if I didn't even remember what he had on.

Also realised I'd just spent a very long evening with a stranger. And apart from not being very memorable, the only thing I had to show for it, was a lighter purse.

Decided there and then to invent a new dating rule...

1/ Always, always, always go on a pre-date first - It won't tire you out as much, and at least the most you will lose is the time it takes to have a cup of coffee.

Sunday, 29 November 2009

14 The Date Date


I was going on a real, live, date!

None of this pre-date nonsense. Someone thought my profile seemed interesting enough to want to go for dinner and drinks with me.

I was pretty excited.

Until I realised that the date was going to involve work that is.

Yes, Mr Third Base had asked me out but that is where his effort ended. He's from Liverpool so said he that despite being happy to come over to Manchester, he doesn't know it, so I'd have to decide where we were going. Damn!

Putting any fantasies I have about the man being the man and making the decisions, I started going through possibilities in my head.

Do you know how hard it is to plan an evening with someone that you know absolutely nada about? Was he veggie? Would he prefer Indian, or Chinese or maybe Mexican? Should we go cheap and cheerful? Or posh? Or in the middle?

I was non the wiser by the time I met him, so after our initial awkward greeting (where we stood about a mile from each other and just mumbled hi), I said I needed a bit of help choosing.

And his idea of helping? It was to come up with the quirky idea that we should just go to wherever the third nearest place was. Third nearest? God, where's that??? What direction??? We were sitting at crossroads! Call that a help???

Anyway, I finally managed to make a decision and off we headed. Posh-ish pub grub. Nice, cosy, log fire. Hoped he wouldn't notice that we didn't pass two places in between (well I suppose we did if you count the chippy.)

Had to wait a bit for the table. The table that I'd had to ask for. Then when it seemed like we'd been forgotten, I had to go and sort it out.

Ah, I was starting to see a pattern. Despite Mr Third Base being 10 years older than me...tonight Matthew, I was going to have to be the man.

Not to worry though, an opportunity soon presented itself for me to go back to being a girl and I took it...

Friday, 27 November 2009

9 S'now Fun


Forget Mr Third Base's dinner and drinks invitation. I've had a much better offer...

I liked your profile, and would enjoy getting to know you...Maybe I could interest you in a free ski trip when I go to Switzerland for a few days? What do you think?

What do I think? I think how exciting! Switzerland?! Yes of course I'm interested! I mentally start packing and trying to remember where my passport is...

Phone my mum and tell her I'm off to Switzerland with her future son-in-law.

She tells me I'm not allowed to go.

Spoilsport!

I don't even understand what her problem is. He sounds great...

He works in medicine. He says he's 5ft 10 with an athletic build.

He doesn't smoke. He doesn't do drugs. Hell, he doesn't even drink!

And he's 53 and married, so understandably insists I'd have to be 'discreet.'

See, doesn't he sound lovely? My mum can be so unreasonable sometimes.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

0 Furrowed Brow


I received an email reminding me to get my eyebrows waxed in preparation for my date.

Thought it was a strange email to get for two reasons...

1/ I don't get them waxed anymore, I'm a converted threading girl

and...

2/ The email appeared to be from me....to me.

Eh? I really couldn't fathom this out. I'm an occasional sleep-walker but surely I wouldn't have got up, switched on my laptop and mailed myself? I'm not that lonely that I need to send myself messages. Plus it was signed off as me which would kind of defeat the purpose. There were also no kisses and I would definitely put kisses to myself. I'd put loads.

I decided I must be suffering from stress.

That is until my brother emailed me enquiring whether I'd received any interesting messages recently. It all became clear.

He'd set up a new email account, in my name, and had mailed me about my eyebrows to my usual address. He was so excited about his own joke that he couldn't wait to hear from me any longer.

Why is it that no matter what age you are, when there are any dealings with your brother you revert to being a child?!

I'm soooo telling mum on him.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

5 Completely Shameless


The rumour at work has been that I'm there on a secret mission. That I'm just pretending to be a medical secretary, all the while taking notes on the scandals going on so I can then make a documentary about it. Like the one that was done about the police. I'd be doing the dentist version.

There are two issues with this. Firstly, I like to think that if I was there as a spy, I'd do a better job of it so they wouldn't actually know I was spying. The second one is that I'm not sure how much scandal there is in oral surgery. I certainly haven't heard any. Not even a whiff of the wrong tooth being taken out.

Often when you work in TV, many people think that means you can do anything in TV. As if I turn up and just turn my hand to whatever I'm asked to do that day. You want me to film? Sure. Read the news? No problem. Be the Best Boy? Easy.

I think my work colleagues must also think like that as despite knowing I'm in docs, they asked me today if I've been in Shameless.

Shameless? Why on earth would they think that? I felt quite put-out. Do I look like I would have been? Is it the way I dress? Is it my hair? Or even worse, maybe they don't think I acted in it but instead that I live by the Chatsworth estate and have just been caught on camera while going about my daily business.

Turns out it was all just a misunderstanding. A former Shameless actress is rumoured to be working in the hospital and as I work in TV they decided (hoped) it was obviously me!

I can just imagine...Single white female seeks position as a medical secretary. Lots of relevant experience from previous jobs as an actress and spy.

Sunday, 22 November 2009

7 Pre-Dating Mating

I fully accept that, in some ways, I am a commitment-phobe.

Like in the way that I won't buy a weekly bus ticket to get to my temp job. My colleagues query my lack of thriftiness, but I just worry that it will send the wrong message out into the ether, and the universe will think I really like the job and make me stay.

Similarly, I had problems when I went to get a new phone contract recently. I'd prepared myself for the fact that I'd probably have to go on an 18 month contract rather than a 12 month one like I'd been on previously. Yet, it appears that while I was psyching myself up, the mobile phone people were busy changing the rules behind my back. Now all of a sudden they want you to sign up for two years. Two years! I mean, come on! Anything could happen in two years! Loads could happen! I might move abroad, or maybe I'll get married or perhaps have a baby. Or all three. I mean, I don't necessarily want any of those things to happen but what if they did? Do you think for example I'd want to have a baby but still have the same mobile phone? Have my life completely change but yet still be stuck with the same phone from my old life? God, no!

I explained all this to the teenager serving me but he couldn't offer me any solutions, perhaps I'd confused him about whether I was looking for a new phone or a baby. In the end though, I decided that as I couldn't make a decision (that may have been down to the palpitations) I should keep my current phone and go on a 30 day rolling contract. Phew! Much better.

These are perfectly normal things to have commitment-issues about though aren't they? I'll hold my hands up to them. When it comes to relationships though, I'm pretty sure I don't have a problem. So when I heard about the new...er...craze in the dating world for 'pre-dates', I realised that this would be one trend I couldn't keep up with.

Can you imagine me telling my friends I was going to start pre-dating? Pre-dating, which is essentially a quick meeting you have, just a coffee or something, to see if you both think it is worth going on a proper date. Oh, how they would laugh and say that it proves I have issues if I can't even commit to a date, and have to go on a pre-date!

Aside from that, I also thought it was a bit of a crap idea. It could be down to the fact that the article where I first read about pre-dating also listed the pre-date rules. One of them being, that at the end of your pre-date, despite whether you think you'd like to go on a proper date, you must under no circumstances...I repeat...under no circumstances...never ever.. kiss your fellow pre-dater. Instead you must shake their hand.

Now I've never fully embraced(!) the whole European thing of kissing all the flipping time. I avoided going to parties when I lived in Holland after reading in the book 'Dealing with the Dutch' that you were supposed to go up to each individual on arrival and kiss them three times. I figured out I'd be too tired for partying after all that.

On the other hand though, isn't the hand-shake thing a tad formal? I get that it is to leave them wanting more and obviously I'm no expert (as I wouldn't be online dating in the first place) but couldn't it give someone the wrong impression? What if they move in to kiss you on the cheek? Have you to move away and stick out your hand? Wouldn't that suggest that you aren't interested? Or that you think they might have herpes? Or suggest that you have?

So that is why when Mr Third Base called and asked me out (he must be into girls with weird chat!) and suggested we go for dinner and drinks, I decided, to hell with fitting in with the in-crowd. I was going to do it the old-fashioned way and go on a date date....

Saturday, 21 November 2009

10 That's Why They Call it Work

I'm really not sure about this working malarkey.

It takes up far too much time. I mean when am I meant to live my life?

What about my gym sessions? I'm never going to be able to stretch enough to regain my missing inch at this rate. What about my man search? Ive got profiles to wade through. I've got emails from small-endowed men to ignore. I've got bases to get to. I've got dates to go on. These things take time. I don't feel my temp agency thought this through properly. Either that or they just don't care.

Fact is that I've no time to work. Particularly not on a job like this one.

It just doesn't stimulate me. And as I'm a firm believer that life is too short to be filled with tedium, as early as day two I started fantasising about how I could leave.

Obviously I needed an excuse. I mean what if I want to do another boring temp job in the future? I want the agency to know how diligent and reliable I am. I needed an excuse and it would have to be a good one.

The best I came up with was contracting an illness, but I realised that plan had it's flaws. Mainly, that as well as being unable to work, I'd also be unable to do anything else.

I decided to take another approach. Instead of working out how to leave, I needed to work out how to stay.

What would motivate me to stick with this job? There is no hot doctor for me to wile away many an hour fantasising about his bedside manner. I needed some other reason to turn up to the hospital every day.

Then I got it! It was obvious! Can't believe I didn't think about it before!

I'd go on holiday!

If I managed to last the contract, I'd use the money I'd made to take myself on a trip. Somewhere hot. I haven't been on holiday for ages (the three and a half weeks in Greece were for work. Soooo not the same thing). It was a great idea!

I phoned my mum, all excited, to tell her about my brainwave. She thought it was inspired. Well what she actually said was... 'Let me get this right...you think you deserve to go on holiday if you manage to work for a mere four weeks?' Pretty obvious she was behind it all the way.

So seven days in (and counting) and I'd actually been ok. Whenever I felt like slitting my wrists with the letter opener, I'd just turn my thoughts to lying on the beach. It was easy. I mean ok, I'm not even half-way yet. Still another thirteen days to go, but I could do this. Only thirteen days. Thirteen days.

Then my temp agency called.

Agency - Just want to talk about what days you would like to work around Christmas time?
Me - Christmas? Erm isn't this job only for four weeks?
Agency - Yes, but they think you are doing a great job and would like you to stay on.

Bugger!

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

2 And the Award Goes to...

The 'Best Positive Spin of the Week' award goes to the guy from the dating website who mailed me and said...

'I'm fat, but I'm loaded'

While the 'Most Unneccessary Positive Spin of the Week' award goes to the creator of the poster on the noticeboard that I sit facing at work...

Mouth Cancer. It could happen to you!

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

0 (Small Pecker)

(Small pecker) has been in touch again (figuratively speaking that is.)

He's persistent, don't you think? Especially for a little 'un. Bit like an annoying mosquito.

I thought that despite my lack of reply to his first email, he must have decided I was the women for him and he was going to have me no matter what. No, it turns out that he'd just forgotten he'd emailed me in the first place.

I felt hurt actually. Am I that forgettable? I bet he would have remembered me if I'd replied mentioning my bra size.

Anyway, back to the mail. This one was worded slightly different but the bottom line was the same (sorry, couldn't resist!)

Hello really nice geniune profesional guy looking for a relationship or friends possible arrangement maybe with the right gal, being really honest, no offence meant, I am not very well endowed sorry !! and happy to make allowances hence my honesty broad mindedness and flexability , no offence meant !! im 100% geniune, came to a great understanding arrangement with an x gf xx

OK, he can't spell, which is a pet hate of mine, but who can resist a 100% geniune, flexable guy?

Actually, if he'd sent that message in the first place.....without the misuse of brackets.....he would have had me at hello.

Sunday, 15 November 2009

5 Off-Side

I went to Third Base with a boy today.

Now before you start calling me a floozie and thinking I've let some random guy put his hand up my top, I should explain that bases are different in online dating world.

First Base - refers to the initial emails you send each other on the dating website. Back and forward, back and forward, back and forward, until one of you suggests you go to.........

Second Base - which is MSN. This is where you get to have a virtual conversation, so can suss out if you make good banter together. You might converse for a few days - more if one of you is agoraphobic and isn't actually looking for a date, just someone to talk to. (Yes, yet another thing that has actually happened to me) But if you both like each others chat, you might get to......

Third Base - which is the real conversation. On the phone. Then....

Fourth Base - is the actual date. And....

Fifth Base - is letting them put their hand up your top.


Anyway, my guy skipped second base and went straight to third. Forward. I liked it. Good start.

Only thing is that when the call came I wasn't really expecting it. I was in my pyjamas and for some reason it is hard to talk to someone you don't know while wearing pyjamas. You know what I mean don't you?

I also hadn't saved his number so when unknown digits came up, I wasn't actually sure it was him. Did I ask him if it was him? Noooooooo! Of course not! That would be far too easy! Instead I just tried to suss it out by things he said. Like a fun game. He wasn't playing it very well though. His clues were rubbish. Saying stuff that anybody could say to me. For god sake give me something to go on!

Eventually I realised it was him. And the way I realised? It was because the conversation was as awkward as can be.

We'd made the mistake of trying to be smart while in First Base and our emails back and forward, back and forward, were about Barbie and Ken, rather than ourselves (you probably had to be there...) We thought we were oh so clever, trying to out-funny each other and ignoring the boring chat about hobbies and why we were on the site. Hmmm. Yeah, really clever. Clever until it came to the phonecall and we had absolutely nothing to go on.

He asked how I was? I asked how he was?. He asked what I'd been up to? I paused. Now did he mean what had I been up to today? Or did he mean in my whole life?

It was hard work. There were silences. And they were not comfortable ones.

Finally though! A breakthrough! He asked what I do for work. I said I work in TV (don't you dare tell him about the medical secretary thing. It doesn't count. Just like my night working in a Gentlemans Club does not maketh me a stripper.) He asked if working in TV was glamorous. I laughed. The ice had been broken! I could now regale him with interesting stories about TV. It would be fine and he'd think what a great conversationalist I was!

That was the idea and it could have worked. Were it not for the fact I went off plan and instead told him about a job I did in America. I know this sounds like a good start and you imagine this story should involve glamour. My friend Ed also thought so because he actually texted while I was on the shoot asking if I was doing something exciting and glamorous. I'd replied 'yes, very' (waste of a 60 pence text quite frankly) and left it that. What I didn't want to tell Ed, (and what I probably shouldn't have told my Third Base partner but unfortunately did) was that at the very moment...... the glamorous thing I was doing......was......waiting for a baby to shit.

What in god's name did I tell him that for?!

Did I explain that I was on a programme about attachment parenting? Did I tell him about elimination communication? Did I explain to him how some mums don't believe in nappies? Did I tell him these mums say their child will make a certain expression when they need to 'go'? Did I tell him the mums say they see this expression and rush them to the toilet? Did I tell him we were waiting to prove or disprove one mum's claim that she could do this, for a very important documentary?

Did I heck.

No, I just left it at the conversation-stopping line that I worked on a programme involving baby shit.

The phonecall went back to downhill, from there.

Doesn't look like I'll be getting to Fourth Base anytime soon.

Saturday, 14 November 2009

0 Bully For Me

I think this is going to have to be renamed 'Tales from the Cupboard that is Masquerading as an Office' (that's definitely cupboard, not closet by the way). I know it doesn't quite have the same ring to it, but since I started this temp job I feel as though I'm never flipping here!

The job does have some plus points though. For a start I'm now up in time to see the sunrise from my bedroom window. And as well as that there's........erm.......come on there must be something...... think....... think............ok, that's the only plus point but Manchester really does have some lovely sunrises.

Day one was actually ok (which is high praise indeed when its coming from me, and I'm talking about temp jobs), once I'd got over that feeling of being a child at a new school that is. 'Please Miss, I don't know what to do.''Please Miss, can I go the toilet?' In fact where are the toilets? 'Please Miss, can you check my work?' 'Please Miss, did I spell mandibular and maxillary correctly?' I did? 'Please Miss, can I get a gold star then?'

I'd also only been there all of five minutes when I discovered one of the consultants is friends with my dentist (I'm working in oral surgery so this was quite a normal conversation to have.) What is weird though, is that he's friends with my dentist in Scotland. All very coincidental and bizarre, but surely it meant I had an immediate ally and he wouldn't let any of the other kids bully me?

Turns out that being the new girl meant that I was actually a source of interest to the other kids and no-one wanted to give me a dead arm anyway. They clamoured round me in the playground and wanted to know everything, in particular about life in the Tower. What famous people live there? Have I see them? Does the Tower sway in the wind? How long does the lift take? And the biggie, do I get to go to the Hilton bar, Cloud 23, lower down in the Tower without queuing?

All too soon, day two comes though. Day two when you're expected to know what you are doing. Day two when you are old news. Day two when no-one is interested in talking to you anymore and you end up eating your lunch in the girls toilets wishing you'd at least pretended you get VIP access to Cloud 23.

On day two I also got a bit of training on their computer systems. The trainer wanted to get me prepared for what to do in 18 weeks when I'd need to change my password. 18 weeks? 18 weeks?! I don't think I've ever worked anywhere for 18 weeks. That's like forever. I started feeling myself hyperventilate....

Then I got a call. From a TV company. I couldn't answer it but felt myself immediately relaxing. Surely it was about a job and I'd be able to leave without even doing 18 hours, never mind weeks? I listened to the voicemail at the first opportunity. Please be about a job...please be about a job...please....!

It wasn't about a job. Well it was, but just a little one I'm doing for them this weekend. Nothing that required me to pack up my satchel and shout to the other kids 'See ya, wouldn't want to be ya,' and strop out before the bell had rung.

So looks like I'm there for the foreseeable future. Don't worry I'll be fine. Not sure when I'm meant to fit in all my dates though (the ones I'm bound to start having soon), never mind tell you about them. Work doesn't half cut in to your day.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

0 Doctor Doctor

I've got a job. Starting tomorrow. If you thought that would put a smile on today's miserable face, then you'd be sadly mistaken. Note the lack of exclamation marks.

It's because it isn't a real job. Not a TV one I mean. It's a temp job. At a hospital. A needs must kind of thing.

It could be a bit of a game for my friends when I tell them I've got work...is it temp or telly?..hot or cold?...higher or lower? It could be a game if it wasn't so obvious from my voice which one. When it's TV work I'm hyper and they can't always make out what I'm saying. My temp work voice is monotone. Bless my friends though, they always try and put a positive slant on it for me and remind me how it's some money coming in (barely) and how it will get me out of the flat (have they seen where I live, I could happily never leave?!) and how I might meet a nice doctor.

Now I'm interested to know, has anyone ever met a fit doctor? Do they exist, aside from in TV programmes? I've temped in hospitals before and have never met a Dr McDreamy or McSteamy. Not even a 'they could sort of pass for one of them... if you squint.' Mind you, my hospital jobs have tended to see me sitting in rooms the size of cupboards, typing up notes about ear wax and old men's bowel examinations. No doctors to be seen. Good-looking or otherwise.

I'm going to be positive about this though. I mean it's a bit of money coming in. It'll get me out of the flat. And you never know, I might meet a nice young doctor.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

7 Little Miss Crabbit Face

I'm Little Miss Crabbit Face today.

I'm fed up of the weather, my flatmate has broken my favourite Dirty Dancing mug and the worst thing of all, I was humiliated in the lift this morning.

Once upon a time the other month, I accepted an invitation from another Tower resident to go for a drink in his apartment. Don't worry about the stranger danger thing, we'd had a few 30 second lift-chats prior to this, so we were practically old friends. Plus, he told me he had a great set of binoculars and that chat up line always works on me!

A friend had also suggested that I might be a bit fussy with regards men and that I'm too quick to decide someone isn't my type. So, keen to show her that she was wrong and that I'm very open-minded, I accepted the drink date. Even though I was sure he wasn't my type...

He wasn't my type. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy, just not for me. And I don't just mean because he put the red wine in the fridge. We had a nice chat though and then I made my excuses and left (or rather I made his excuses and told him I'd have to go because he was up early the next day. For some reason it never works as well?!) And that was that. Until today.

I'd got in the lift. There were 3 workmen there. I said hi as all us Tower residents do (it's a friendly lift.) Then silence. Then one remarks how awkward he feels when no-one talks in the lift. Well, if he was feeling awkward then, who knows how he felt when the lift stopped and in gets... Mr Chilled Red. Mr Chilled Red who looks at me, says nothing and then turns to the workies and announces that I'm probably feeling pretty embarrassed because last time he saw me I blew him out (note that is blew him out..)

Mortified is not the word. I could feel the workies looking at me. Mr Chilled Red then turns to me and says accusingly that I must have been very busy not to have been in touch. I mumble something about 'yes, very busy' while trying to find somewhere to look. I decided the floor would do. I stared intently at it while the workies and Mr Chilled Red stared intently at me.

Did I mention that I was wearing my gym clothes? Oh yes. In 'imaginary world', I'd be on my way out for dinner or something. I'd be wearing something new. My hair and make-up would be perfect. I'd just be back from a holiday so would have a nice tan (hey, this is my fantasy!) I'd also probably somehow look a lot like Cheryl Cole. The workies would look at me, and then look at Mr Chilled Red and wonder how he even got a first date.

In 'real world' though, I was running late for a gym class so had put my lycra on ready. Lycra is not a good look. My hair was a mess. I had no make-up on. I hadn't even washed. In 'real world' the workies were probably just thinking..'she smells.'

The lift finally got to the bottom after about what seemed like an hour and I dashed off to my class. Spent the whole hour wondering if it will be necessary to move home.

Lesson learnt? Must start dressing up when going in the lift.
Morale of the tale? Don't shit in your own back yard unless you don't mind the mess.

Monday, 9 November 2009

24 It's a Joke

I have bad news.

On Thursday I told you I was going on a date this week. Six foot plus man had asked me out. His profile was nice, his photos were nice and the mails he had sent me were nice, so why not? Finally! A real date!

You could have come round to help me get ready if you'd wanted. I could even have filled you in on how it was going when he nipped off to the toilet. It would have been like you were there with me. We were all going on a date!

Then he sent me a text. A text containing a joke.

Now call me old-fashioned, but when you haven't actually met someone I'm not sure you should be sending jokes to them (or photos of your bits for that matter, but that's another story...)

It was one of two jokes I heard this weekend.

One was from my cousin's 4 year old, while the other was from my date.

One was...funny, while the other...was from my date.

One was...repeatable, while the other...was from my date.

One was... 'what do you call two robbers? Answer - a pair of knickers',
while the other...involved bonfires and muslims.

So we are now, no longer, all going on a date.

So far the dating website has provided me with old men, men who look like serial killers, men with stunted appendage growth and now racist men.

I'm going to ask for my money back.

Friday, 6 November 2009

345 Note to Self...

Must not brush my teeth in my bedroom again. Not using my electric toothbrush anyway. Could give flatmate wrong impression.

Thursday, 5 November 2009

6 Stretching the Truth

I am injured.

The trainer at the gym says it isn't strictly an injury when its just that my muscles are sore due to being unused, but I'm not convinced. It hurts to type, it hurts to flush the toilet and don't even think about making me laugh. If that's not an injury then I don't know what is.

I've mentioned before that I'd joined the gym after a long period of abstinence, and quite frankly the experience so far has been pretty traumatic.

It started when I had my initial fitness assessment. It wasn't so much the bit when I had to do as many sit-ups as possible in a minute (am so not telling how many!) Nor was it having to do as many press-ups as I could to the point of exhaustion (again, no way! Put it this way, when I told my cop friend who had to do the same thing in the fitness test to join the force, she laughed. I was only doing the girl ones as well.)

No, the trauma occurred when I was measured. I have a missing inch. And I don't mean round my bum, which would be welcomed. No, somehow I'm shorter than I thought(which was short enough!) Turns out that I have been living a lie for years. I've been convincing myself that I'm about average, when all this time I should actually have been shopping in the petite section. I probably could even have managed to go for the kids sizes and saved on the VAT. It was a shock to say the least. It's probably the same the way I'd feel if I found out after all these years that I was adopted. Actually as my brother often tells me that I was, I'd probably be more prepared for that.

You realise it also means I've been lying on my dating profile? I'm going to have to be like (small pecker) guy and warn men in my first message to them so that there are no nasty surprises if we finally meet. I do have a potential date next week actually. He's allegedly 6ft 3. We'll be like a mop and bucket out for tea!

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

22 Toenail Tribulations

It is week 4 of living with a stranger whose surname I still can't remember.

It's quite a bizarre experience meeting someone briefly and then deciding you are going to share lives for the next few months. I picked a good one this time though. Well he seems it so far anyway. What I actually mean is that as yet he hasn't left his toenail clippings out for me like the last one did.

No, I'm not joking. Let me set the scene for you. It was a Friday night and former flatmate was away for the weekend and I was absolutely delighted about having the place to myself. I delightedly poured myself a glass of wine and delightedly sat down to watch TV. I should also tell you that my flat is P.O.S.H. So posh you actually get in trouble if other people in the building hear you calling it a flat. It's an apartment don't you know, dahling. It has floor to ceiling windows and at night when you are looking out to a sea of lights you can actually convince yourself you are in Manhattan rather than Manchester. It is also very minimalist - the kind of place that looks untidy when you leave your copy of the Sun lying around. So not the kind of place to leave anything lying around. Especially not things you have cut off from your body. But my flatmate obviously didn't agree because as I delightedly put down my glass of wine on the coffee table there were his toenail clippings.

I've still not got over it. Not sure I ever will. The concierges in my building thought it was absolutely hilarious when I told them. They were giggling like school girls when a few days later they buzzed me on my intercom to tell me that they worked for Toenail Watch and were giving me a one minute toenail warning that toenail guy was in the lift and on his way up to the apartment.

I'm glad someone found it funny.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

5 The Headmaster

You know things are bad money-wise when you have to go to a builder to get your hair cut.

It had got to that time again and having been turning down jobs willy nilly so not exactly feeling flush, I'd been looking into cheaper ways to get a new 'do.' As well, I was currently between hairdressers, which as many girls will know, is far worse than being between boyfriends. The one before last was great but then he moved away. Then the last one I felt just didn't take enough time or care on the job. (You realise I'm talking about hairdressers now, not boyfriends?!) So having no money and no loyalties to anyone, I found myself at the Toni and Guy Academy early yesterday morning, lined up with the other victims, sorry clients, while the trainee hairdressers ran their eyes over us and chose who they wanted. The builder picked me. (He's not a builder now obviously. He's a hairdresser. Well a student one. I just wanted to be clear that he wasn't some brickie in doing work on the salon and decided to try his hand to hairdressing that day. He also didn't actually pick me. He was more encouraged to take me. It felt slightly as if I was the fat child at school that no-one wants on their team. No worries though, I'd been picked and was in the game!)

Well if I was concerned that the last hairdresser was too quick I didn't have to worry about this one. I'd been there two hours and it still wasn't finished. Two hours without a coffee. Two hours without chat apart from when he'd told me about his change of career. Two hours of sitting in an extremely uncomfortable position (tall hairdresser meant the chair was up high and as there were no foot-rests my feet dangled making me feel like a toddler at the dinner table). We were nearing the end though and apart from the sore legs and numb bum, so far so good. The teacher had been over and assessed almost every scissor movement and made sure the builder was putting in the right horseshoes and gradients (no i've no idea either?) and we were now at the front section. We planned what we were going to do. He told the teacher what he was going to do. Then he set about doing it...snip! Erm, somehow I seemed to have ended up with a fringe. I'm sure we were not going to do a fringe. Teacher came over...'oh you shouldn't have done that'. I was right, we definitely weren't going to do a fringe.

Lesson learned for me? Hair cuts are a necessity, not a luxury. You wear your hair every day. Don't scrimp on them. Plus at 'proper' salons you get a coffee...and a foot rest.
Lesson learned for builder turned hairdresser? Who cares! He doesn't have to live with it!

Obviously it doesn't look as bad as I thought though as flatmate got in and asked what I'd done all day.
And my horoscope for today..(I kid you not)...a bad hair day is a great hat day!

Sunday, 1 November 2009

14 Positive Mental Attitude

If you'd got the idea that I was feeling a bit negative about the dating website I've joined, you would be right! As I paid for it with money I got when my beloved grandma died, money I'd decided to spend entirely on new, and potentially life-changing experiences (will fill you on this properly another time) I decided I needed to change my attitude. There must be some normal men on it somewhere, I mean, I'm on it and I'm relatively normal. I just had to find them.

I logged on, full of hope, ready to embrace this adventure. There was a mail waiting...could it be from my dream man...?

hello recently joined again, nice pic and profile by the way :), im single fit geniune guy just looking for some fun or relationship with a decent gal love to pamper and treat a gal, take her shopping and trips away, have to be honest,cant lie, sorry !!sporting a rather (small pecker) sorry !! well so ive been told lol :) hence open minded and happy to make up for it in other ways :) trips away, meals out, shopping etc, had an excelent arrrangement with the x gf , no offence meant !! x

No. It wasn't. My dream man will know how to use brackets properly.

Thursday, 29 October 2009

8 Fairytales...

My friend just called to ask if I'd been discussing being single with her 3 year old daughter Summer, when I looked after her for a short while the other day. I said I hadn't. I could have I suppose but as Summer had spent a lot of the time in tears because I'd pressed the button in the lift and it is supposedly her job, she seemed to have other things on her mind.

Turns out Summer had asked my friend why I don't have a prince and live in the tower all alone. I think next time I'm babysitting and she wants a bedtime story, I'll have to read her my blog instead and give her a current version of the fairytale!

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

0 Tales from Suburbia

It takes a lot to get me to leave the city and go out to suburbia. Why would I when I have everything on my doorstep? As my friend had invited me round to hers for dinner though and as hers is in suburbia, I'd made an exception.

Sitting next to a nose-picker on the bus wasn't the best start to my trip out of town but I'd just tried to feel grateful I don't have to travel by public transport and encounter people like him every day. I also felt glad when I arrived that I'm not one of the neighbours of the residents that have put up their Christmas decorations on the front of their house already. Great big flashing lights that illuminate the whole street. I got a headache just walking past.

I was still in a reasonable mood though until some jobsworth in Tescos decided to ruin it. It appears that when I left the city I somehow went back in time. Back to when I wasn't old enough to buy alcohol. I got ID'ed buying a bottle of wine! I told her I was 33 so had stopped carrying proof of my age a long time ago, expecting her to laugh and say sorry and that I should feel flattered or words to that effect. No the jobsworth that she was, said... 'well you won't be buying this then' and took the bottle off me like I was a naughty child with my hands in the biscuit tin!! I had to walk past the queue behind me empty-handed and feeling mortified.

My friend promised me it was ok I'd turned up without wine but as we couldn't open the bottle I'd taken the last time I visited -the cork wouldn't come out or go in! - so I'd taken it away with me when I left, I think she is starting to get a bit suspicious. Not that it matters, I'm not going round again. Next time I'll get her to come to the City, to a place where 33 year olds are allowed to drink.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

1 Chickpeas

And just to clarify...I didn't turn down work to meet a guy for coffee. That would be foolhardy!

The job was in London starting on Monday and I'd only been called about it on Friday. Actually I don't know why I'm mentioning when I got the call cause the short notice wasn't relevant either. I'm used to that. It was that it was for 5 weeks and with no expenses being paid (as in relocating expenses - of course there was a wage!) Being the wise woman that I am I weighed up the pros and cons and decided that paying rent here as well as down there it would get that it wasn't worth it. And before you tell me that you have a friend I could have stayed with for a pittance and I've made a big mistake blah blah, I should add that I've tried living in London before. I love doing shoots there where you go and get put up in a hotel so when I got offered a 3 month job there and I was just back from travelling with no other prospects, I decided to give it a go. Turns out that when living in London, I'm a miserable bitch!! I hated the travel on top of the already long days and a lot more besides. I lasted two weeks.

So when I don't get any work in the next 5 weeks and am surviving on chickpeas can you remind me of my reasons for not taking the job and that Manchester is much more me. You could also perhaps invite me around for dinner involving something other than chickpeas...
And it goes without saying that if I end up moving to London in the near future, we never had this conversation...

9 Illicit Rendezvous

I could have been working yesterday but instead I had an illicit rendezvous (for 'illicit rendezvous' actually read 'coffee') with proposal guy.

We'd first met in Tampopo while both out having dinner with our respective friends. It's a noodle bar where you sit on benches like at school so it makes it easier to chat to random strangers. He laughed when the waiter knocked over my glass of wine and then saw his chance to swoop in, give me sympathy and then get my phone number (it happened so quickly, I didn't question it and just did as I was told!)

He invited me out on Sunday and we had a great date. A get-to-know-you chat over coffee, then a get-to-know-you-chat over dinner (which he paid for and even better he told me straight off he would be paying for it as he had invited me out - take note guys - girls love this as it saves lots of awkwardness when the bill comes) and then a we-feel-we-know-each-now chat and laugh over drinks. I really enjoyed and we got on well. What was the catch? He only lives in blimming Australia!

So we met for the second and last time yesterday in his hour window before he caught a flight to Thailand on his way home to Oz. Said we were glad to have met each other and I thanked him for doing his bit in reminding me there are decent blokes out there (that don't look like serial killers and aren't a couple of decades older than me). He said he'd felt a bit miffed he'd put in that groundwork only for some 'Pommie' to swoop in and reap the benefits. Ah if only it were that easy.

We bade each other goodbye and I sent him off with advice concerning pad thai and ping-pong shows. And that was the end of that.


p.s. Incase you are wondering...he didn't propose. I like to think though that as he said I had been his best date in years, that it was more to do with the fact he lives in Australia and me in Manchester than the fact he thought I was unproposable to (if that isn't a word, it should be!) I suppose it could also have been down to the fact that he'd got the impression I must be 'well to do' because of where I live and then on meeting me discovered that I'm more fur coat and no knickers.*

p.p.s Don't worry the waiter replaced my glass of wine. With a full one which was a result as I'd almost finished the one he knocked over.

* That wasn't my outfit for the date by the way.

Monday, 26 October 2009

15 The Good, the Bad and the Serial Killer

When you have 20 unopened emails it all seems so promising...

I'd put up my profile after much deliberation (a male friend advised me my first one was crap and then the dating site itself didn't approve the second one - I didn't write enough about my hobbies seemingly! Maybe cause I don't have any?! Note to self: must get some hobbies.)

I'd chosen a photo that hopefully gives a true idea of the way I am (after being told the pet hate of men on these sites is meeting up with women who look nothing like their photo. It was quite hard to find one that shows my size, height, my hair, dress sense as well as one that shows I love X-Factor but hate mushrooms .)

I'd waited a bit to see if I was even going to get any mails and then had paid up in order to be able to read and reply to them.

I was now good to go. With 20 mails to read I was bound to have struck lucky...

Opened number 1. Looked like a serial killer. He even commented on how evil he looks in his photo, like he was proud or something.

Number 2 had no photo so could have looked like a serial killer.

3 had plenty of photos but unfortunately they were all just of his torso, showing his muscles.

At last! Number 4 sent me a nice funny mail, his profile is nice and so is his photo. Things are on the up!

Number 5 is 50. And yes, by 50 I mean years old. Does my photo suggest I'm looking for someone closer to my dad's age than my own?

Question my choice of photo again at number 6 as he states in his profile that he 'abhors TV.' I'm sure my photo clearly suggests I love X-Factor, Greys Anatomy, Home and Away and many other quality programmes.

Number 7 tells me he's only looking for 'no strings attached.'

Number 8 likely to be looking for the same as he asked if I would be interested in someone well-endowed. Does well-endowed ever mean tall cause his profile says he is 6ft 5. Nope? I didn't think it did.

A nice normal guy for number 9. Relief!

Number 10. Aged 56. Am losing the will to live again..

Number 11 is a bit of a contradiction...funny mail but really serious looking guy in his photo.

12 has told me I seem 'elegant'. No-one has ever described me as elegant before. Probably cause I'm not. Definitely need to change my photo.

13's message to me consists of 'lol' this and 'lol' that. Now with only six more messages to read maybe I'm not in a position to be fussy but I'm just not a big fan of lolling.

Number 14 says he can be a 'perfect gentleman or semi-thuggish depending on the needs.' At least if I feel like I'm need of a slap I'll know who to contact.
15 is 5ft 5.

16 is aged 59. I think I'm going to cry.

17 has sent me an absolutely hilarious mail...hurrah!..then I look at his photo...noooo!....he looks like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

I don't think I need comment on number 18. I'll just let you read his mail...'wow--you have done something to me with just a picture--what kinda voodoo do you do when you do that thing you do--hot damn--what in the hell just happened to me--can you please email me--we need to chat--and i am far from crazy--but you...wow- no--really--i don't know what just happened, but i have to chat with you--what did you do to me--lol--'.

Number 19 lives in Birmingham so says he isn't expecting a reply but just wanted to say hi.

And finally number 20...nice enough but all his mail says is hi and how are you? A bit uninspiring. And I'm not sure he'd really like my answer at the moment. How am I, number 20? I'm in disbelief that I've just paid over £40 for this....

Friday, 23 October 2009

1 Modern Day Rapunzel

You could say I'm like a modern day Rapunzel. Ok I'm not trapped and I'm not waiting for a prince to rescue me. Nor do I have long hair. I do live in a tower though. A tower in Manchester that is the tallest residential building in the UK to be exact. According to my friend's 3 year old that makes me Rapunzel and as someone that is clued-up on fairytales I'm sure she knows what she is talking about....

Allegedly I have quite an unusual life. Not just because I live in this tower but also because I'm a freelancer so never know when I'm working next or whether I will have enough money to pay the expensive rent for my lovely apartment. People tell me that would be their idea of hell but I thrive on it. A well-meaner once said that it was ridiculous to live the way I do and it would be better to rent somewhere cheaper and save money for a rainy day. Apart from the fact it is forever raining in Manchester, it seems illogical to me to live somewhere I'm not as happy with, so I can save money in order to live somewhere in the future, somewhere like....where I live now.

As well as that I'm also single at 33, which may not be that unusual in today's society but in amongst my group of mostly married or attached friends it is. They tell me I'm fabulous and they can't understand it which is very nice and is the kind of thing supportive friends should say. It does suggest though that they think it's something I'm doing wrong and doesn't take into account that it may be through choice, which to a large extent it is. Admittedly the Kingdom of Singledom is a difficult place to live - there are some weird residents and weird laws but as well as that I'd much rather be happily single than unhappily attached to the wrong person.

As I'm forever the optimist though, I've just joined a dating website in a bid to meet that elusive Mr Rapunzel and in order to entertain my friends with stories from my side of the grass. I've also got a brand new flatmate - a guy whose surname I can't remember and can't say even if I could. And I've started a new fitness regime at the gym after over a year of my only exercise being the walk to the shops.

So quite an unusual time in general. Maybe even more so because I had my first marriage proposal today. Sort of. It was by text and the guy in question didn't actually ask me but said he may 'just have to propose.' That's almost the same though isn't it? It's promising as he's currently only spent half an hour in my company. Not sure what my answer would be if he did, will judge after our planned date....