Back with more stories of stupidness

Want to hear a story about us making complete tits of ourselves? Yeah course you do.

Dr D, Calv and myself were off to a housewarming party on last Saturday night. We get to the house, in the middle of a long line of terraced houses you get in London, and see loads of balloons and loud music and lots of voices next door. The thing is, none of us really knew where we are going and taking note of salient points like, I dunno, the address of the house is not our forte really. So we all think "well there's a party in there, and we are going to a party so we must have read the number wrong". We walk up to the front door, ring the door bell, and some bloke answers it who we've never seen before, but heck, it's a house warming - there are loads of people we wouldn't know. We mosey on in, start walking to the back of the house and then notice everyone looks about 17, they've all dressed in kinda slutty school outfits, and it looks like a scene for Skins or something... that's when it hits us: those balloons with "Happy Birthday" all over them outside are not because they didn't have any other type of balloons. The sign with "5 things to remember as a Christian youth member" was not an ironic little joke in light of all the booze that supposed to be inside, the totally out of character hip hop music was out of character for a reason. And the 17 year olds who all stopped their conversations and doing god knows what in the kitchen to stare at 3 30 plus year olds looking confusingly around were definitely not our friends...

There are lots of things out that are very embarrassing. Having to quickly mumble "sorry, wrong party" as you scamper out the door quick as you can, with a whole brigade of teenage brats laughing their arses off at your in definitely one of them..

If only I'd known, I could have saved myself so much trouble

Finally! After 6 years, all the hassle, all the guilt from my folks about not moving back to Australia, leaving everyone I know and care for back home, everything. Finally, I've got my British passport! One of the main reasons for not returning to Oz is just so I can have that little purple book so I don't visa's to travel, can join the fast immigration queue at the airports and have complete freedom to move anywhere in Europe.

So how does it feel to finally have it in my hot little hands? Bloomin marvellous. Though doing a quick google search about the different types of pictures of native birds in the passport showed me this link. God damnit! If only I had know that I could have bought a British passport from uk.shopping.com/Buy! And apparently at low prices!

So, where'd you get those from?

Last Friday was our work Christmas party. You know that it's been one of those sorts of nights when 2 days later someone emails you from work saying "Ok, next time we all go out, we're gonna have that dance off. Get ready", and your thinking "Dance off? What dance off? Was there some sort of West Side Story moment at this party? Am I a Jet?"

I won't bore you with the details of how I went through the usual malaise of the "what the fuck am I going to wear? Why does everything I try on in the shops look like shite?", but suficite to say I knew it's bad when I get sent a care package of clothes thanks to Li, with all her lovely party frocks in it. Unfortunately for me, I don't have the breasts to carry off any of her tops (chicken fillets wouldn't have filled been enough for my puppies. In fact, whole chickens stuffed down my top would not have helped at all). Surprisingly, help came in the form of a dress that my mother had bought for me when I saw her earlier this year.

Now I love my mum, honestly I do. And her clothes are fantastic. On her. Unfortunately her dress sense, when extended to me, is not a winning combination that's going to get me in on the cover of Vogue anytime this century. So you can imagine my shock when she told me she had bought me a dress and the smile I had prepared myself to wear when she showed it to me was genuine and not a hard, plastered on grimace. It's a green patterned maxi empire cut dress, with a sort of plunging neck line, that I had planned to keep covered behind a pashmina, a bolero, and whatever pillars happened to be at the venue. 3 glasses of champagne later and that plan flew out the window. So after the whole chicken fillet/borrowed clothes debacle, I was shocked to find out that my breasts were in fact topics of conversation with my bosses wife. I practically chocked on one of my never ending glasses of champgane when she asked me where I got my cleavage from? (No, they were not a christmas present, I've had these my whole life).

So relatively sucessful Christmas party? So-so. No raging hangover the next day (thanks to The Ex-Flatmate and a friend of ours going off to Tesco's at 3am to buy pizzas (yum)). Bruises all over my legs from being flung around the dance floor (oh wait.. I remember this "Dance Off" thing now... The massive bruise on my knee is proof that I am, in fact a Jet, from my first cigarette to my last dying day), and a hole in the top of my foot where someone has decided to try to crucify one of my feet by smashing their stilleto heel into it. This is Christmas people, not Easter. And I'm not the massiah, I'm a very drunken girl. Now with added boobs.

seriously. I love this song

yes. I have had a few.

"it's the teror of knowing what this world is about
its watching some good friend sccream let me out
pray that tomorrow get me higher
pressure on the people
people on the streets"..

and further on..



" Turned away from it all
Like a blind man
Sat on a fence but it don't work
Keep coming up with love
But it's so slashed and torn
Why why why?

love love love love love love love love
Insantiy laughs under pressure we crack
Why give ourselves one more chance
why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love, give love, give love,?
Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love?
Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
this is ourselves

Under Pressure
Under Pressure
Pressure"

- Queen & David Bowe

If you haven't listened to it in years, get it, get a pair of headphones, sit on a chair, have a few, and love this song again.

Want all the words? Look here

I have had a few. So yes, I am on my bed, headphones on, ipod on, pyjamas on, loving this song. Ok, it's by Keane (who I normally hate) but wow, what a great song. Listen to it. Love it. LOVE it. Yes I've had a few.

32.5

Dr D and I went to the Magic's house to watch movies and eat pizza on his ma-hussive hi def projector on Friday night. Magic and I went to shops so I could get some coke, and other high calorie food, like Strawberry Cheesecake hagen daaz ice cream, 3 packs of chips, and 5 cans of assorted pop. The man at the cash register gave us this look of "this is what you're eating?", so I felt the need to tell him "oh don't worry, this isn't the only thing we're having for dinner tonight. We're having a salad as well". (By salad I obviously mean thin crust pepperoni pizzas..)

After we'd scoffed our "salad", drinks and crisps, I went to the bathroom (not to throw up) and was riveted by a weird looking set of scales. Now, The Magic is a man of many gadgets, and when it comes to bathroom scales, it is no different. When I questioned the weirdness of his bathroom paraphernalia, Magic told me they calculated a persons body fat percentage. So naturally being geeks, we all bundled in the loo, socks off, to see how fat we were.

Holy sweet baby jesus, these scales are harsh. Their ratings go underweight, normal weight, over fat, and obese. That's it. You're either normal or fat. And the difference between normal and obese minuscule. So when Dr D and the Mag found out their percentage was their 20s, it came as a bit of a shock to all concernted that this translates to "obese". When I got on the scales, I thought "well, it'll be high, but hopefully, maybe...". I nearly fell off when it said 32.5%!

Naturally being the sensitive and caring creatures we are, we're all now taking the piss out of each other, with comments like:

"Is that a chocolate spread sandwich you're eating?"
"No. It's marmite"
"Really? "
"Yes"
"Marmite?"
"Yes"
"Notice how I've said marmite with my tone going up? Much like that 32.5%..."
"Shurrup"

Alpacas and cello strings

Argh. It’s been a bit insane at the moment. So where the bloody hell have I been for the last 10 days?

Let me start with saying that for the last 2 years we’ve been writing the new version of our software, which we'd code named "Alpaca". Why? Well, unlike Java, which codenames all it's latest versions cool sounding names like "Kestral", "Tiger", "Mustang" and other fast and interesting things, we decided that, not being anywhere near that cool, should start with the letter A, and name it the stupidest looking animal we could think of. Look at this thing:

Frankly, it's fucking pathetic.

So right this very minute, we’re now on the hairy edge of releasing Alpaca, and have got a code freeze in place for this Wednesday. So we’ve been frantically trying to bug fix for the last few months, which means I've not really been around to blog. Despite having done cool things like stay at the Hotel Li, for a fun weekend of re-aquainting myself with booze (yes, at the dinner table at a very lovely restaurant, whilst Li and C were chatting, I actually turned to the bottle of wine, looked at it sitting in it's silver wine bucked, chilling in icy water, stroked it lovingly over it's white napkin and whispered "oh Alcohol, you crazy thing. I've mised you too. You know I couldn't stay mad at you for too long"), getting my arse slightly kicked at the Sex and the City board game... (which turned from a proper game to a quiz show style affair, with C being the quiz master, and Li and I having to slam the table in lieu of a buzzer everytime we knew the answer. By this stage we'd had a few cosmos, so it was all loud, blustery, and painful for my poor hands), lots of shopping, and saving babies from death.

Tonight, C and I went to the Magic's house to play beautiful music. Well, to play some music. ELLSO starts again this Saturday, and obviously I've not picked up the cello for the last 3 months. I've been the cricket that sung for the summer and has nothing to show for it in the winter, or something random like that. So tonight we decided it would be a good idea to get together, having a drink, and a good bash at our instruments. Would have been lovely if, whilst trying to tune my cello, I hadn't thought "Oh i'll just turn the peg a bit", causing the peg to slip, the string to never get back in tune, and eventually, after much fucking about with the peg, for my A string to SNAP. So much for the practise. Instead C and I alternated between playing cello and playing the piano, and Mag held the treble end up by playing violin. It definitely was a nice way to end my day, since it had all been a bit shite up to that point.

So that's really all i've been up to. An even faster, cliff notes special:

Book I'm currently reading: "The Colditz Story" by P. R. Reid. I've been up to the bit where they attempt to escape at the end for 2 days now. You'd think I'd have finished it, but I keep falling asleep. It really is a great book, but it just makes me sleepy.

Game Currently Playing: Halo 2 on my xbox. "Arbiter, you don't know who you're shooting at cause all the grunts look the same? Arbiter, stop shooting at our ship. It's supposed to have a hull you know. Arbiter, stop fucking about in general"

Last historical thing I toured: The Royal Albert Hall, where we did a private tour, going backstage and underground, for free grâce à the London Open House festival this weekend. Ok this was a bit of a brag, rather than a cliff notes special

Thing I'm most looking forward to right now: Hmm.. sleep? Pie and Mash for lunch tomorrow? Sleep right now? Tricky..

Thing I'm least looking forward to right now: Hmmm... not being able to sleep?

If you have a cliff notes special on your life, then please by all means, post it and let me know, or just leave me a comment. I'm especially interested in the last 2 categories. Whilst I clearly dodged the answers, please leave me proper ones!

So that's it really. A fair bit on, but when our software is out the door, there will hopefully be more imputus and time to blog. Busy, busy, busy.

7 Long Days

If I get through the rest of tonight, I will have not have touched a drink in the last 7 days. 168 hours with no booze. Thats 10,080 minutes, sans alcohols. That will be the longest period in the last six years that I have been on the wagon. Eek.

Why? Last Friday night a big group of us went to my all time favorite East End pub ("knees up mother brown, knees up mother brown") for a night of chat, dinner and drinks. The night started with pints of Bombadier, and then went on huge amounts of Almangacs, and finished with barrels of whiskey.

I should have realised it was going to be quite messy when were were still there at midnight, and the landlord came over to our table and said "well, you might as well have the rest of this" and gave us 1/2 a bottle of Jamesons. One minute I'm pouring more whiskey into the Magic's glass, talking about god knows what, then it's scene missing, then it's 11am, the sun is streaming through my window, I'm in bed with most of my clothes still on, wondering how the hell I got home, with the start of one of the worst hangovers of my life. Children: Heed this lesson: Armagnac is evil. I should have remembered from all the other nights out, or perhaps the infamous champagne-cognac cocktails I had in St Maarten with the Ex-Flatmate. This hangover was quite similar, in that all I could do was lie on the couch, and alternate between drinking water, watching mindless, mindless, mindless Girls Aloud music videos, and clutching onto the bathroom floor, begging the room to stop spinning and throwing up. My hangover did not clear up until Sunday, and even then on and off I have been having headaches, mixed with painful joints, limbs and all over tiredness for the rest of the week, that culminated in me taking this Thursday off, because sitting at my desk with my head in my hands is not fun.

So to mark this momentus occasion, I'm going to watch a Bond flick at The Mag's (where I have to drive, so I can't drink) and tomorrow night I intend to have a glass of champagne. Just to see if I can still leap off the wagon with gusto, because whilst I'm not an alcho, the fact that I'm not missing having a drink is starting to worry me... I'd better not be becoming sensible. That simply will not do.

The name's Girl. SuperNerd Girl

Look at my cape! Watch me soar through Nerdville!

I am a nerd today because in order to do some testing for a client, for code which we'd written about a year ago, I needed to have access to a private method. Which I didn't have. In order to do this, I was shown the hacker ways of reflection today, to make my test class get around Java's security. Hell yeah, for that brief 10 minutes of coding, I was just like Angelina Jolie in that flick Hackers.

Well, just like except, obviously I actually eat food, so I have more body flab than Ms Jolie. I also don't have really cool clothes, don't have collagen enhanced lips, and my handle isn't anything nearly dangerous sounding as "Acid Burn". Oh, and I haven't adopted any kids from random Asian countries, I'm not going out with Brad Pitt. And yes, yes, I know I wasn't trying to foil an evil computer genius, or hide from the Secret service, but I was trying to work out why there is a really random bug in my code, using a hacky technique.

Other than all those things, honestly, you couldn't tell her and me apart. We could have been the same person.

Plus, I was more hard core because we didn't have any crap graphics to get through the security settings in my code. All java baby. Mostly run through Linux. Oh yeah. Nerd me up.

What a week

There has just been too much going on in my life for me to take it all in. And I know this post is going to sound all whiney, but that's exactly how I feel at the moment. Tired, emotional, and really overwhelmed by everything. All I want to do is stay at home, watch tele, and just dig my head in the sand. But unfortunately, it's time to start acting like the adult I'm supposed to be, and just get the bloody hell on with it....

1. Moving house & the great appliance debacle
Holy crap there is so much to do. I have to get so many services ported across to the new place, like water and gas and electricity and phones. On top of that work has been a bitch, so I can't seem to find the time to do everything. PLUS, I have to buy a cooker, fridge and a washing machine, and for some reason I just can not make up my mind. I've never heard of brands like "Indesit" (or as I've now heard them called Indeshit), "Cannon" or "HotPoint". How am I supposed to make an informed choice? I think I've got the washer/dryer/fridge/freezer thing nailed down. I just have to get down to buying the bloody things.

The thing is that now I am suffering from a total lack of conviction, and I am completely indecisive about everything. I was trying to buy a card reader this morning, and got totally flustered about buying a £8 reader or a £6 reader. The cheaper one is from Amazon, but the more expensive one seemed to have a longer cord. This is all it takes to floor me now. I can't decide if I should have one piece of toast or two. Eat sushi for lunch or hot dogs. Am I thirsty now or not? Do I want to sue the people who are selling me my house or not??? What is fucking wrong with me????

2. Police
I got a call on Tuesday from Aylesbury police. We went to Aylesbury for the weekend last week to show The Flatmate how random the whole place was. So when I get a call from a police woman, saying that she has some questions for me I think "holy crap? What did I do? Did I assault someone and not remember it, even though I wasn't that drunk? ". She then asks me if we stayed at the hotel which we did stay in. This has me thinking "hmm, I'm sure The Flatmate paid the bill? We did take the biscuits from the room, but they were supposed to be complimentary??? We didn't trash the room at any stage.. maybe they're calling because I couldn't get the tap to stop slowly dripping... Maybe it is over the 50 pence biscuits... but they weren't even that good..". The police woman then starts questioning me on whether we saw anything suspicious on Saturday night because they are investigating an incident of a rape at the hotel, possibly involving a man or a member of staff. This has me completely freaked, because we were there, but we didn't see anything.. admittedly, we also had a good amount of whiskey and cokes in us, but still... that's really freaked me out to be honest... What if C or I had been alone in the room and someone tried to break in? What if they accused The Flatmate because he was alone in his room? How could I have been at a hotel, where there were so few people, and not notice some woman had been brutally assaulted? There is this real feeling of guilt for some reason, that I can't seem to shake.

3. FOP
FOP week has been moving along slowly. Unfortunately The Flatmate called me up all in a state because all the restaurants he wants to go to are full on Saturday, and he didn't think about making any arrangements prior to today. This gets me annoyed because I'd spent most of the week "reminding" (ok, fine, nagging) him to get things organised, and he'd just get annoyed at me for "reminding" (nagging) him. So I didn't have the greatest amount of sympathy when he spent ages on the phone complaining that he'd left it too late. All well that ends well, because he finally found somewhere, we just hope that all the vegetarian/vegan/non-beef/non-red meat eaters will be ok with an Argentinian Steak House. I like steak, and yes, my name is Jack and I'm alright.

4. FUCKING HOUSE
I've officially completed today. So officially I am supposed to be living there today. I am supposed to have the keys. I am not supposed to have the sellers living there. I told my solicitor about this whole not moving in until Sunday thing, and how the estate agent (never deal with Foxtons) had specifically told me not to say anything to them, and she's gone dead set nuts. Now she's servicing them notice telling them that if they're not out we're going to charge them, and if they aren't out on Sunday at 2pm, we're going to sue them. Apparently I could ask them to pay for the two days they are living there, and if they didn't pay then it would be up to the estate agent to pay, completely explaining why the estate agent didn't want me to say anything.

I just want an easy life! I just want to move in without all this freakin' hassle. Fuck fuck fuck.

On the plus side, Calv pointed out that we are going to a casino tonight, and if I get the keys today, I could just throw them on a roulette table and say "all on black". Then I'd have to explain to everyone why I was living out of a cardboard box, because I don't own a house anymore.....

FOP, Wrists and Boggle Eyes

I know I've not finished regaling (aka boring) you with stories of Svalbard (where it's not -37.6C, but when we were there it was a pathetic -1C) but so much else has happened, so I'll do Svalbard later.

1st: Groaning Debt
It seems that after 6 painful, head banging against the wall, hair wrenching months, I've finally exchanged on my flat! I'm getting the keys on Friday, and legally, I'm bound to it like a hostage, gagged and flung into the back of a car. However, as nothing with this house has gone smoothly, the vendor can't move out of the flat until Sunday, because he can't drive and he has to wait for his brother to help him move (what is wrong with hiring a dude and a truck I ask?) , the vendor, his girlfriend and son will be squatting in my flat for 48 hours. My esteemed estate agent told me "well, this does happen all the time, but best not mention it to your lawyer eh?". So obviously not trusting this sleazy man as far as I could throw his short, squat, rotund, little body, I ran and told my lawyer who was less than pleased. But still, squatting aside, it's done now, and some of my lovely friends are helping me move my junk on Monday. Love the lovely friends

2. FOP
It's finally happened. The Flatmate has an end date, a get out of jail, exit strategy finally planned.

Last Friday, removalists came to pack up his stuff and ship it all back to Australia. Naturally, being a complete hoarder, his estimated 15 boxes turned into 35, probably because he's taken a load of my crap too (why? my dresses won't fit him, he's way too tall!). So our flat is not 1/2 empty, and devoid of all things his. Amusing he's living out of a suit case for the next 2 weeks, and because they've taken all his stuff, including his linen, he is sleeping in his sleeping bag, on a naked mattress. Talk about temporary. Also, being seduced by the lovely warm March spring weather last week, he packed all his cold weather gear, and now is paying the price as it's fucking freezing in London, and it's starting to snow again. Snow. In London. In March. It must be some sort of punishment from the gods for abandoning me. Obviously the gods are on my side, and want the wicked Flatmate to freeze. Ha!

So the next 2 weeks are FOP week for The Flatmate (FOP = Fuck Off Phil). A vast array of events, all involving eating, drinking and spending money I don't actually have anymore.


3. Punishment for Boggle Eyes.
Speaking of punishment, on Saturday, probably in answer to me taking C and The Flatmate to Aylesbury, where Dr D grew up, for a truly, mid England, thug filled, old men coping off with old women in sleazy nightclubs, with lots of underage kids thrown in the mix as well, night out. We thought The Flatmate needed to see the randomness that is a night on the tiles in Aylesbury. And also I was making a last ditch attempt at keeping The Flatmate in London, by throwing a 5Ft 9, blond, yes slightly boggled eyed, friend of Dr Dr in his path. Of course it never works out the way I plan, as whilst she looked kindof interested in The Flatmate, that interest waned very quickly when Dr D said "well, I work with her* (pointing at me) and he (pointing at the Flatmate) lives with her (pointing back at me).." At this, her boggle eyes looked at The Flatmate, then back at me, then back at the Flatmate, probably trying to work out what sort of weird bunch we were, then she buggered off literally 10 seconds later. So in punishment for me trying to change The Flatmates destiny, I've managed to end up with tendonitis (or more accurately De Quervian tenosynovitis) in my right wrist. Basically, my wrist is fucked, and I can't grip, hold a pen, move a mouse or type. You find being a programmer who can't type or use a mouse is very difficult. I went to the minor injuries unit at the hospital yesterday, only to wait in the queue behind what seemed like a thousand people, all of whom seemed to have open cuts, broken feet or missing limbs. 2 hours I sat waiting, so I could finally see a nurse, try and explain that whilst I did go out on Sat night, and yes, my wrist started hurting on Sat night, I did not go out, get pissed, and fall over and hurt myself, and that this definitely is not a UDI (Unidentified Drinking Injury). 20 seconds of looking and my arm, she sticks my wrist in a splint, says "rest" and packs me off. So much for the NHS.

*Amended because Dr D has issues. BIG HAIRY ISSUES.

So that's what's been happening here. Sprained limbs, house moving, and FOP events. It's going to be very weird now as we start doing our "lasts" of everything. Last dinners at fave restaurants, last nights in, last fights involving fisty cuffs, and kicking.. It all sounds a bit perverse huh? Good thing The Flatmate never reads this..

Easiest way to make a man come running

1. Walk past the man's bedroom, muttering slightly
   
2. Walk past again, this time holding a tool box - this obviously makes him prick his ears.
   
3. Open tool box, spilling some of the screwdrivers on the floor - this is to pique his interest and make him knit his eyebrows together a little.
   
4. Walk into the bathroom, screwdriver in hand - he's getting more interested/nervous
   
5. Start unscrewing the piece of wood behind the toilet, to get to the toilet cistern - his head pops out the door. At this point, he will ask "do you need a hand?", to which you have to look around, smile and say "no thanks!"
   
6. Put the 'blue loo' cleaning block in cistern, then start screwing the wood back into place. When inevitably, it does not end up quite flush against the wall, say loudly "oh damnit, that's not supposed to go like that" - this makes the man ask his brother, who is on a call from Australia, to hold on a minute.
   
7. Go back to the hall, take out hammer from the toolbox, then start hitting the wood, to try and get it back in place.
   

This is my sure fire, never fail, guaranteed way to make the man (aka The Flatmate) throw the phone down on his international call, run out the door, down the hall, into the bathroom, saying "Um, ok, are you sure you don't need some help? Don't need me to come to the rescue then?"

Hmmm, and I'm supposed to be owning a house soon? Now I'm not sure that's the best idea is it...

No more feelings of rejection

It's finally got me. On my birthday, after too much fondue, meat, cheese and chocolate variety, the gastro bug that's taken everyone down got me too. Whilst it is annoying throwing up everything you've eaten, I've taken the pragmatic approach of thinking "my female friends will be proud of me.. at least I'm not injesting any calories".

Unfortunately it wasn't so bad that I couldn't go whoreing myself (AKA doing a presales demo/meeting/training) at a large financial institution at Canary Wharf , but I was sick enough to go home halfway through the day yesterday and stay at home today.

The thing about being home from work is that I always end up padding about the house, unshowered and in my pj's... lying on the couch, feeling sorry for myself, and smelling slightly ripe... The good thing about having a stomach bug is that I have absolutely no appetite, because everytime I eat, my belly feels like it's full of little dwarfs, doing summersaults, with little shoes that have spikes in them.

So today, I've watched the 1940's Noel Coward classic "Brief Encounter", which is a terrific example of stoic british angst at it's finest. Lots of long looks, sighs, fainting spells and "oh darling, don't look at me like that, it's awfully shamefull what we're doing. One must keep one's composure". The Flatmate as less than impressed with the whole film. And now I'm off to show my xbox some love, since it's sulking because I've not paid it any attention today. The Flatmate is off to have lunch, because he says there is a funny smell here... maybe I'd better shower first... hmmm

Infatuated again

I wrote a couple of months ago about a horrendous crush I'd developed on Superman (yes, you read right. Not much of a mind blowing announcement: "Geek girl fancies comic book hero. "). Oh god, how pathetic).

However, the revolving door of fictional men I get crushes on seems to have stopped right firmly at the door of Jane Eyre's Mr Rochester.

This is of course helped by the fact that he's recently been played with Toby Stephen's in the BBC production, which is just amazing. After watching the BBC production, I was in the throes of the 19th century novel, and I have to say, I don't know where this novel has been all my life! And on top of that, I can't get over it was written by a Bronte, considering how I can't even count the ways in which I loathe and despise Emily Bronte and her pathetic book "Wuthering Heights" (for god's sake Catherine and Heathcliff. Get a god damn fucking room, or go get lost on the moors until collapse of starvation and wild dogs eat you).

Mr Rochester though. God damn. Whilst it's sad for someone my age to lust after a fictional character, especially the youngest son of a wealthy man who ends up (LOOK AWAY IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO SPOIL IT) locking his wife away in a tower and becomes a brooding, angry, depressed, hollow shell of a man. But there you go. It's too late. He's long "dead" and I think he's great.

Happy Birthday C!

It's C's 29th birthday today (6 days before mine) so this post goes out to you:


C is very much into 1940's looks (hair, dancing and dress), so I have been trying to find a picture of a cheesecake girl that she might like. The only problem with this is that it means that I need to type the words "pinup", "girl" and "cheesecake" into google, which obviously puts my work pc into worlds of problems. I'm seriously waiting for the internet police to come and take me away for looking up porn.... albeit 1940's porn...

So C, Happy Birthday! Hope you're having a good day :) Don't worry, we've still got 365 (372 if you're me) more days in our 20s...... It's possible it could go all downhill from there....

Oops: I forgot to mention that I found this picture here

For The Flatmate

Whilst watching an episode of 'Friends', Ross' g/f comes in and finds them playing Strip Happy Days, and goes "Ok, I'll catch up" and takes her top off.

The Flatmate: "Damnit! I came in late, and only saw the end of that!"
Me: "Damnit! If only we had a tivo box of some type which was recording what we were watching!"
The Flatmate: "Damnit! And if only that tivo box meant I could rewind and see her in her bra!"
Me: "Well why don't you then?"
The Flatmate: "Well, I would, but if I did, you'd blog it."


The Flatmate - you're so damn right.

Screaming my rebel yell

Since Friday night, roughly 60 hours ago, this is the sum total of all I've eaten:

• Approx 2 dozen pieces of chicken wings. All with hot sauce.
• 2 servings of fries
• 2 x 1/4 massive serving of nachos
• 1/2 a family size bag of corn chips
• 1 whole rack of baby back ribs, fries, and 'slaw
• 1 serve Chinese noodles
• 6 pints of beer (I think...)
• Too many bottles of beer to count
• Cocktails - including shots (too many to count + don't actually remember how many I had bought for me)

A truley mature, healthy and varied diet huh?

This is how the blame is being organised for this weekend of glut:

1. Beer/shots/beer/shoots/first serve of chicken wings: Going out on Friday night after my ex-ex boyfriend told me he was definitely moving to Ireland to be with his g/f, even though he told me he would never leave Australia when I moved to London. I needed all the extra beer and shots to help me fuel me for the inevitable drink and dial I ended up doing...
   
2. 1/2 family size bag of corn chips: Being horrendously hung over on Saturday morning, dragging my sorry arse onto the couch, and finding a pack of Doritos on the table. I had to substitute my coke/corn chip cure for just corn chips and water to try and feel human enough to go to orchestra...
   
3. Beer/Fries/Ribs + fries + slaw/cocktails: Hair of the dog + we were going out for dinner anyway... AND I can't go to Bodeans and not have ribs.. That would just be plain wrong.
   
4. The Beer+Wings+Nachos Blowout: Superbowl Sunday and watching the Chicago Bears bend over and receive a spanking from the Colts.
   

In fact, this whole weekend has just been one big be as naughty as I can possibly be weekend.

Firstly: The ex-ex: I believe that all phones should have the "Don't Make An Arse Of Yourself" feature, where it recognises when you're drunk and if you call a number you KNOW you shouldn't, either blocks said number from being dialed, or at the very least gives you a recorded message with something like "if you make this phone call, you know you will end up waking up tomorrow, realising that you've made a complete tit of yourself, and end up wishing you were dead, because frankly, your now in your late 20's and you're still acting like a fucking teenager".

Damn you Drink+Dial. I don't really remember what I said but I'm sure it contained the words "why didn't you move for me? What the fuck was wrong with me?" and "you bastard", even though I know that this is not this guys fault, and it was like 1000 years ago for fuck sake, and given the choice, I wouldn't have changed a single thing, because we both know it all worked out for the best anyway.

Secondly: C and I bunked off 3rd period musicianship class at orchestra this Saturday, because 1) we couldn't stand listening to Viola Woman drone on and on about crap that has nothing to do with the class, 2) the sun was actually shining, and we wanted to sit and bask in it's cancer omitting rays. I've never bunked off class in high school, and I felt like such a rebel. I was practically Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club (though obviously without the being a boy and smoking dope bit).

Thirdly: HOW MUCH JUNK HAVE I EATEN THIS WEEKEND? I can't add up all those calories because I don't believe numbers can get that big. The Superbowl has the most to answer to for my poor diet. Despite the fact that I know nothing American football, I happily used Superbowl Sunday as my excuse for staying up until 3.30 am on a school night, help demolish 2 massive Pyrex serving dishes of nachos + guacamole, drink copious amounts of beer, and gorge myself on delicious spicy, buffalo chicken wings. The Flatmate and I went to Dr K's and Calv's house last night, where they cheered the colts, and I of course cheered on the Bears.. who lost. Typical. Calv and his friend Mappy were supposed to do a podcast for their website, which I was going to special guest star on, so on Sunday morning, (with another hangover), I boned up on my Superbowl knowledge. I was desperate to say on the podcast how I believed that "Chicago would take a very similar approach to what they did in the NFC Championship game against the Saints, and play a very physical game." And how I thought that "The Bears would try and get as many hits on Manning as they could, whilst their corners would do all they could within the rules to manhandle the Colts receivers and throw off the timing of their passing game." However we never recorded the podcast, and around 2 am, I kept falling asleep, waking up, eating some more chicken, taking a slug of beer, then fall asleep again.

Ok, this week I'm going to be uber virtuous and v angelic. I'm going running and cycling, eating only salads, fish and low fat soups.

OOOHH, someone at work just gave me a caramel egg... Ok right after this I'm going to good.

Who am I kidding, I just can't do virtuous and angelic.. I'd best just go buy myself some eatin' pants.

In Loving Memory

There will be no Friday Moment of Zen this week for 2 reasons:

1) I wanted to talk about the gorgefest that Sunday night will be thanks to the Superbowl. I don't even watch american football, but any excuse to eat nachos, buffalo wings, ribs, and guzzle bottles of beer is ok with me (I'm so classy!). And whilst I do have a full post about Gorgefest Sunday Superbowl, I can not find any pictures of chicken wings that do them justice.

2) Today's entry will be in loving memory of The Flatmates Nintendo Wii.

Which I apparently bricked by sending him an email.

Oh yes, that's right. The Flatmate's Wii, which we got him for Christmas, and which you can not now buy for love or money is bricked. Dead. Fucked. Gone. Bye bye.

Apparently by sending him an email which has loads of html tags in it (who knew that a Eurostar itinerary could so lethal?), I've managed to kill his Wii. It starts up, begins to play the Wii music, then boom. Dead. It just stops working. He's been on the phone with Nintendo customer support, and they've never seen this before, so he's now had to send it back the very same day he bought a brand new controller so we could play 3 player Mario Carts.

Oops.

So to help stop him from topping himself, we took him out last night to get a bit pissed. And in loving memory of the games console that everyone wants, but no one can get, I'm missing out on the Friday Moment of Zen, because for him, there can no longer be zen like state of being.

2007: Year of the Sweet and Sour Pig

According to Chinese Astrology, 2007 is The Year of The Pig, and to celebrate, China Post have issued a new stamp with a twist to celebrate the New Year.

How brilliant are these stamps! Not content with them being dead cute, what with the little piggy pulling it's mum's tail, the designers have added a really bizare twist by making them scratch and sniff stamps that smell like sweet and sour pork AND that taste like sweet and sour pork when you lick them. I'm not sure if that would beat the taste of stamp glue, but I'd be willing to give it a try.

What with 2008 being the Year of the Rat, hopefully China Post won't come out with a limited edition garbage flavoured stamps with pictures of mother rats eating their young. That wouldn't be nearly as cute.

Painfully time between Christmas and New Years

Painful not emotionally, but physically, soley due to eating too much roast pork, smoked salmon, m&m's, rolos, Christmas pudding, Christmas Mince Pie Ice cream, cream in general, roasted spuds, crackers, cheese and chorizo. Unfortunately, none of my pain was booze related, for I couldn't try as I might, muster up any desire to drink. I hope I'm not getting old.

I'm currently gripped in the horror of realising I've eaten too much over Chritmas and am now carrying a fair old chunk of holiday weight, right in time for a New Years Eve. And, as you can see from the following conversation, I'm taking it very, very seriously:

K: "So do you want me to bring over a curry or chinese take away for dinner tonight"
Me: (slightly indignantly) "Neither thank you very much. I'm trying to not eat too much before New Years, because I have to fit into a dress, so I intend to eat either very healthily, or nothing at all, for the next 3 days"
K: "Oh ok. Um.. Are you eating right now?"
Me: (Not so indignant now) "Umm.. yeah.."
K: "What are you eating?"
Me: (in a very small, embarrased voice) "Big slice of cold roast pork, wedge of stilton cheese and a couple of crackers"
K: "You sure you don't want a take away then?"
Me: (resigned) "Oh, go on, bring us a large fish and chip then"

I'm hoping to be back before NY's, but if not, I hope you had a lovely Christmas, and a fantastic New Years. I'm off to a hotel in Kensington with 15 good friends, dinner, dancing in a ball room, and the dress above that I might need to be sewn into because I've chubbed up a treat in the last week!

Christmas party update

Yes, I had a fucking good time. Yes, I didn't care that I don't look like a supermodel. After many years of careful experimentation, this is my personal recipe for a fantastic night out, direct from me to you:

1. heavy self medication on G&T's, red wine, and other fun drinks
2. a free bar that lasts the whole night
3. cheesy good time music
   
4. dancing your arse off with guys who know how to twirl a girl round a dance floor

I ended up wearing a black halter neck top, black skirt, and some heals that for once didn't rip my feet to shreds, and despite my low self esteem, I actually thought I looked pretty good for once. Don't worry, that was just a passing phase :)

The only problem I had with the whole night was that I constantly kept losing my drink! I swear I kept leaving my drinks on various tables and I didn't just skull them. There must have been some cleaning fairies that would just sweep half drunk drinks off tables.. damn them!!

Out of 150 people in our company, our little group of 12 or so were the last ones left on the night, until we got kicked out of The Clink at 2.30 in the morning. And, as is natural, we all ended up in our house for a SingStar sing off.. One of our bosses and his wife came home with us, and as people were singing and drinking, he kept looking really bewildered at us asking questions like: how often do we do this? Do we practice? How do we know the words? and saying that he couldn't believe that people would go to someonse house for kareoke. I think he thought we were all really sad, until he tried it himself. And then we couldn't keep him off the microphones. Kareoke fun? Well millions of Japanese think so, and they can't all be wrong my friends. Our house really is the party corner of South East London. Not only can our neighbours not hear us, but we have more booze than god lying around our house. At about 5.30 am people started going home, and the rest of us who were staying the night, passed out on my couch, voices raw, and eyes bleary.


Once I get some more pictures from The Flatmate and grow some balls, I'll put pictures on my flickr account of us lot, all dressed up, and dancing like it's 1999.