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.

3 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!

13 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...

15 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.