I ain't no Bridget Jones...

pork in my teeth...

I just came home from Brixton,
Where a few of us sat down
For another 'Mad Monday' special
In the Dog Star part of town.
They cook a mean burrito
Although I have to say
That even though they're cheap as chips
There's a bigger price to pay

The meat is really stringy
And they're rammed with tons of beans
So many that they're spilling
Out of every taco seam
The salsa's not that spicy
And the veg, it ain't so fresh
Lizetta's guac was good enough
But mine, it lacked in flesh

Perhaps the worst encounter
Is the one I'm still enduring
Unlike those flashy chalk board signs
The after's not alluring
You see, although I've brushed now
And I'm tired beyond belief
There's still a nagging piece of pork
Wedged between my teeth

quick rant...

I'm well aware I have been neglectful, dearest bloggy blog, but not by intent I assure you. A lot is going on right now and yeah, I've been busy but I haven't really been able to write anything down. That's a pretty weird feeling for me, really... seeing as I always write EVERYTHING down as a way of getting it out of my system, but just as Susan Miller said in my April horoscope...:

"What seems to be happening this month is that all the right assignments will come to you now, ones you will be able to use to show as evidence of your growing stature in your industry. You are learning a great deal about your job, and that learning period is almost over now."

...things definitely HAVE been changing. Gotta love Susan - roll on tomorrow for May's line-up. I WANNA KNOW MY DESTINY!

It's kind of weird really. Well, I guess I have sort of made things different because life was too easy. How stupid is that? When life gets too easy I go and ruin it and make it difficult again, because... well, I don't know why. WHY? Maybe I have itchy feet, a total curse, or maybe I just don't want to be a robot, stuck in a rut, doing the same as everybody else, in the same pattern, with the same future. Even though I kind of DO want that at the same time. Oh I don't know. It's weird. I'm 27 so I guess I should probably wake up and stop dreaming, but part of me really always wants an adventure, like Alice. I don't wanna ride the tube, I want a frickin Cheshire Cat to pick me up on its tail and put me in my chair every morning. I don't wanna cook a microwave lasagne for one, I want a tea party with the Mad Hatter. I don't wanna go to the pub again, for another beer, I want to drink tea on a crazy golf course and help the Queen's card slaves paint the white roses red. I WANT I WANT I WANT. Call me screwed in the head but if I can't have an adventure maybe I just want the next best thing. Which is a change.

Anyway I sort of feel as though I'm standing at the edge of a cliff that's about to crumble, and I don't know which way I'm going to fall. Maybe it will happen like in that scene in Alice in Wonderland?  Maybe I'll land on my feet, or maybe I won't land gracefully at all. Who knows. But things have definitely been set in motion and I'm feeling a little apprehensive, like I followed a stupid white rabbit who then just disappeared, hehe.

Oooh lordy I've just put some wheels in motion that could change things drastically. How exciting! But scary too. I've been doing a lot of thinking...

care-a-lot...

Every time this pops into my inbox I get a little rush of joy... not unlike sliding bare-assed down a rainbow in a world where no one minds that you're bare-assed, or wasting precious time sliding down rainbows.

The Care Bears Newsletter makes me happy, like I'm a kid again. I used to wake up at 7am on Sunday - pretty unGodly for God's special day I know - just to stare at the telly, and pretend I lived with the Care Bears in a magical world above the clouds.

I remember once, on a car ride down the M1, I thought I saw Good Luck Bear waving to me from behind a bush. And then when I looked at the sky, there was a huge fluffy white cloud in the shape of a bear head, sporting a sun-drenched silver lining. I didn't tell anyone what I had seen, but I took it as a special sign that they cared about me, too. Looking back, it probably meant I'd been watching far too many cartoons and I was perhaps, teetering dangerouly on the verge of confusing fantasy with reality.

Maybe I was quite a strange child, but sometimes I think life was more fun when the Care Bears were real...

could well be the best night ever...

... not something I've done, but something I'm planning. On Saturday night, me, K and "persistant but ultimately unsuitable and now newly attached to someone else boy" are heading off to the Exeter Ball in Oxford. And it's fancy dress. Check it out! The theme is friggin' Moulin Rouge!! Seriously, I'm so excited I'm practically peeing my skinny jeans. I can't imagine anything funnier than dressing up to hang around a thousand drunken Oxford graduates, let alone in costume. It'll be like my Lincoln uni days all over again, except on a bigger budget, without the inbreds,... and I'll be old.

Weird. I'll be really old. It could scar me for life, this weird night out, or it could take me back to my youth. It could take me back to the things I never did when I was actually at uni - fancy that! Maybe this is my chance to do all those crazy things I shied away from. I can't imagine what they are, were, could be, but I guess I won't know until I get there and totter round in my corset and high heels and attempt conversation with a hundred Bruce's, Harry's, Hermione's and Timothy Warren Junior the thirds.

I'm not quite sure how we got our name on this thing, but apparently my company has been sponsoring it for years so we always get free tickets. How random. Perhaps the ranks up "higher than thou" are based on an old college crew of "buddies" who slap each other on the back and congratulate one another about their ventures over a hearty game of chess, each line littered with long, pent up anguish over their faliure to come out of the closet and embrace their real selves.

Oh... you know I'm just jealous cos I don't have that background. I wouldn't have the foggiest how to play posh, or rich. In fact, knowing us lot we'll head straight for the buffet table, exclaim loudly about how much everything must have cost, whinge even louder about how disgusting it is in the face of the fact that we're all so skint this close to pay day, then proceed to shove everything that won't fit into our mouths, into our handbags.

But this is my chance. There's gonna be jugglers and fire-breathing gymnasts and a tent where you can smoke sheish, and all you can eat food and drink, and a masseuse, and we're even getting a free cab home, if we can find it, and if Penelope and the badminton club haven't sped off in it, frightened they'll be late for Latin and lacross in the morning.

Joys, I can't wait. What a surreal invite for a Saturday night out of London!

dear Granny...

Remember when you used to buy me blackcurrant flavour Chewits every week, when I was good? Well, actually, come to think of it you still gave me them when I was bad, but I wasn't supposed to notice that.

Anyway, en-route to the hardware store just now (where I bought some screws, in case you were wondering), I stopped in the dairy to buy some Chewitts. I was really excited, granny. REALLY EXCITED. Those Chewitts used to be the taste sensation of my week. Almost as good as Wham Bars. God I loved those Wham Bars. Just now, I had one of those "Good God, I'm an adult" moments, where I suddenly thought, wow, it's totally crazy but I can go where I want, and do what I want, and eat what I want and you know what I WANT??? Well, right now, I want some Chewits.

But they've changed, Granny. They're not bright purple anymore for a start. They took the colours out Granny, because they said the additives make kids hyperactive. They never affected me though, Granny. I mean, I don't think they did. But maybe I was too busy bouncing on your sofa, doing cartwheels through the kitchen and chasing your dog round the garden making train noises, pretending to be Thomas the Tank Engine. Who knows. But the texture's different too now, Granny. They're not as crunchy when you first put them in your mouth. They reckon they might break some teeth now. But you know, I don't think they really care any more than they used to care about breaking kid's teeth. They just want us all to think they do.

I'm now munching my way through a packet of McVities Milk Chocolate digestives to ease my sorrow at this sad, sad world, and thankfully, those haven't changed a bit! In fact, my entire team is reminiscing to a time we first tried these sweet delights and sighing in a symphony of biscuit satisfaction. It's a beautiful thing to know that some things remain sacred. Such a shame about the Chewits though.

the Sunday Pri-grimage...

It's a pilgrimage, to Primark. Thus, it is a Pri-grimage. And there's no better way to spend a sunny Sunday morning than tubing it to Central London in a 27 degree freak-heatwave, to queue an hour round the block of a bargain clothes shop. I got slightly sunburnt while I was waiting, actually, on the back of my neck. But no fearsome sunbeam was going to stand in my way of a hundred rails of cheaply made, sloppily sewn, slave-labour style garments, no siree. This morning, be it rain or shine, I was gagging for a bargain. (And I still really needed a jacket).

By the time I got in I had tried in vain attempt to have a chat with the girls standing in front of me and behind me in the queue. After all, we were all in this together. We were all dismissing London park-lounging to brave the savage sunshine in town; to adorn our feminine frames with new clothing. We all woke up this morning with the same dream. The dream of having, by nightfall, an entirely new wardrobe for less than £50. The dream of successfully swooping in on that one wanted garment, just as the competition descends from an adjoining aisle, like a vulture. The dream of making the purchase that breeds a deep, long-awaited feeling of self-satisfaction - the kind that simply doesn't come from working a day-job.

I wanted to know who they were, these fellow hunters; where they'd come from. I wanted to ask what they wanted from the store and how much they were planning to spend, and whether they'd still be there if it was a two hour queue instead of one. But alas, alack, one was mute. Her eyes were fixed intently on the door, hands gripping the railings to ensure her place in line was public knowledge. She had no time for niceties, no spare second for small talk. She had her strategy to plan.  The other said a quick "I think it's opening soon," and then re-attached herself to her iPod while gazing dreamily at a £12 smock in the window. Disappointing, but I understood.

When the doors opened it was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes grabbed the mesh baskets and threw themselves into racks of clothing, tearing at the colourful items like savage pitbulls as their boyfriends and bemused male partners lingered behind near the doorway. It was evolution reversed. Women were the hunters, men the mere helpers, with credit cards and wheely cases at the ready. The scene was a picture. The women were Desperate. Hungry. Obsessed. I was glad I'd had a medium Pret latte in the queue. It gave me the power I needed to reach the £8 floral dress in size 8, before the bitch behind me could attack.

In the end I came away with two dresses, two belts, two sets of trainer socks, a five pack of pants, a brown padded bra, a denim skirt, two pairs of footless tights, a cardigan, one small shoulder bag and a large aqua-marine handbag perfect for interviews, and only a marginal dent in my pride for the grand total of £57.

Still haven't got a jacket though. They were all sleeveless. I'm starting to think I'll have to buy one and sew some sleeves on myself...

suicide celebs...

It might have had something to do with the fact that I slept on an airbed, and also, that I didn't have any alcohol last night, (ON A FRIDAY!) but I woke up this morning, slightly lopsided due to the mattress flagging, having had the weirdest dreams I've had in a long time.  And, the majority involved some kind of celebrity death.

Just thought I'd jot them down before I forget, but there was one involving the death of Lilly Allen. I was never actually in contact with her in the dream, but I walked into a room where some of my friends were and one of them told me she'd died. Can't even remember how but I think it involved drugs. Hmmm. (Sarah just commented that albeit subconsciously, I was clearly doing the world a favour). But I remember being quite schocked. However this could be explained as last night, Sarah and Ju and I watched a program about a celebrity psychic and she talked to Bez, who admitted he was mates with Lilly. She was obviously in my head.

BUT that doesn't explain the second one. I dreamed that Paris Hilton died, by suicide. Only, there was then this weird flashback thing where I was actually watching it happen. And the thing is, she was really upset over something this dark-haired bloke did, and she tried to drown herself, THREE TIMES, in the Thames. Once there was a crowd of people around her and she was walking into the Thames with a long flowing dress on, like she was being encouraged to kill herself. Now, I know that might be a lot of people's "dream" but in mine we were all quite upset, yet we somehow knew she had to do it. And then I saw her get washed down the river and she kind of started spinning circles round this sewage plant, which was all neon yellow and pink. Very odd. Anyway, there was another time, when she jumped out, brushed herself off and then jumped in again, turning her face into the water and floating off peacefully.

THEN, I dreamed that for some reason my family had been imprisoned, only they weren't my REAL family. They were a dream family, of really rough looking people I don't even know. It was my responsibility to collect 6 bags from our house and take them to the prison, which was at the end of this very long field. Only the bags were massive and I needed the loo. So I decided to find a loo first, and went into a nearby pub on a cobbled street that looked like Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter films. Once I was in the loo, the gap in the door was huge and men walking past could see in. I was trying not to let them look at me on the loo but two of them burst in and attacked me, and it was then that I woke up, needing a wee, and slightly lopsided on the airbed.

The End.

Thanks for letting me share.

after the after party...

So, last night was obviously Wicked IV night, and quite honestly, I think that show just gets better. I know, I know, I'm a sad, sad girl, but for some reason I just absolutely love it. I can't get enough. Even though I clearly know every word, and that's not just to the songs, people. That's the entire script. Even though I know it all, I could still watch it again.  FOR A FIFTH TIME. Hmmm, if I wasn't so proud I'd be quite ashamed, as was Man in the Mirror when I told him. Although I restrained myself and didn't sing along. Man in the Mirror liked it, by the way. Much to his disappointment I'm sure.

Anyway, the after party was one of mass proportions and I definitely was not dressed for the occasion. Urgh, it was horrid... you know when you just feel really gross about yourself and what you're wearing? Well I did, and plus, I was wearing this top that must be made of some seriously rubbish fabric (note to self - never buy from Pimark, even though it's an addictive drug that makes you feel happy) because I swear it made me smell funny. And plus, because I was slightly hungover yesterday morning I donned my oldest pair of flares which are slightly faded and shredded round the bottom, and teamed it all up with some scuzzy New Look trainers that walked the rough terrain of New Zealand in February and haven't been cleaned since. HOT or NOT? I'll let you decide.

It wasn't my fault though. I've been to theatre after-parties before and they're usually sorry states of affairs with no celeb attendance at all, a cheap glass of white wine at the bar and a quick schmooze with a bunch of gay people. So obviously, I wasn't expecting an entire floor of the Victoria Park Plaze hotel, and an all you can eat buffet (including sushi), all the wine, beer and bacardi breezers you could drink, (with a nice personal waiter called Alex), and a more than acceptable smattering of celebs, all dressed in the latest fashionable dress/leggins combo. Except the men, clearly, although they were looking fine too. Some even wore suits. I felt like shit.

Still, Man in the Mirror and I had a good time. I'm really liking having a new best boy-friend. Not boyfriend mind. Boy-friend. It's different. We have decided that we're friends because it's easier and we're both shit. (sorry). Also it meant I could get very excited about the appearance of Adam Garcia, who I have admired from afar since his Coyote Ugly appearance, and through several pairs of theatre binoculars, of course. Shame I was feeling far too scuzzy to talk to him. I know, vain, vain, vain, but everyone knows if you look shit, you feel shit.  I don't think I even saw him actually... although believe me, had I been dressed to impress in my usual schmoozing attire I'd have sought him out in the crowd, made a running leap right onto his back and made him sing to me all night in the corner. He got lucky my friends, he got lucky. Thanks to you, my confidence-thrashing New Look trainers. And to you, my smelly Primark t-shirt.

I did however get to speak to  the manager of the theatre comapny, a very nice man indeed. He hadn't forgotten the fact that the last time we had a work-meeting about the show, my mobile phone went off, sounding out the opening number for Wicked in my ringtone. He thought the phonecall, and the ringtone was a plant to impress them - the exec producers and the marketing people. But no. Actually I am just that sad.

And yes. It's still my ringtone.   

my orange just farted...

It was really kinda gross. There I was, minding my own business, reading an email whilst simultaneously peeling an orange, and the obnoxious little blighter just farted. It was quite disturbing and quite honestly, rather ruined the whole fruity experience for me. I think it was something to do with the speed at which I pulled the rind away from the juicy flesh, causing it to rip and a spillage of orangey innards to explode onto my desk. I had to mop it up with a post it note because I don't have any tissues. Has anyone else encountered a farting fruit before?

Wicked Day IV...

That's right... tonight I am off to see Wicked for the FOURTH TIME! Now, some might say I'm just a tad sad but I beg to differ. It really is the best, most magical show in the West End - even better than Dirty Dancing, sorry ladies,... but that was crap.

Oh and plus, I always really wanted to be a witch. No, really. I did.  I once got given a spell book and no word of a lie, I had this argument with a guy at uni and he wasn't returning my calls. Well, I sat in my room and thought, sod it, opened the book on the forgiveness spell and tied a red ribbon round an orange, and chanted some shit... can't even remember. Anyway, believe it or not, right as I'd finished, the phone rang and it was him. He wanted to be my friend again. No word of a lie, I'm serious.  Maybe it was just coincidence, maybe I have magical powers. Maybe I stirred the soul of a resting demon with the powers of GOODNESS within him. Maybe I was just stoned. But it worked.  Not done a spell since, mind. I'm frightened of my own power.

When my pal Z and I were kids I used to go to her house and (after we'd finished with the Care Bears) we'd spend hours mixing up a couldron full of crap in her back garden. We'd shove anything we could find in there,... the majority of it was toothpaste, I believe. We'd then chant spells and dance around it, and once we spent a whole day in this fantasy adventure of our own imaginings, where she was the head witch and I was her apprentice, and I cried when I had to go home because I'd convinced myself I was never going to see her again, once the dark Lord took me away to my tower, in my lonely, windy castle.

Funny thing is... Z has a really creative job now as a writer, and I too still live in half a fantasy world - torn away only for the neccessities of paying my rent and... well, living amongst other humans.

I think Wicked takes me back to those times when imagination was way more important to me than anything else in the world. Actually, I love any form of escapeism these days, especially since I am SO BORED. Hence this mindless babble when I should be working. Ssssssh, don't tell....