Nothing to do with Charlize Theron or Bob Dylan.

Location: Norwich, United Kingdom

Keep on Truckin'.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

A Week Of What?

I'm writing this from bed, surrounded by toastcrumbs, my dressing-gown, two litres of water, a W. G. Sebald and my phone. And why? Because a couple of weeks ago I managed to spread a Northampton-sourced disease right through this house. And that was bad enough. But now, we're talking the Big Momma Flu and if that spreads? Well, we're probably going to run out of food, start eating old copies of Cosmo and Marie Claire for sustenance and be found by Mr. Jay in three weeks time, skeletal and clawing tasty magnolia paint from the doors with our nails. Probably. Therefore I have quarantined myself with all the essentials for survival and am considering building a rudimentary latrine in the corner for when I finish those two litres, plus a water-butt on the window-sill to replenish supplies.

But whenst camest this disease?

Well, to tell you that would be to let you into the circle of trust and...Oh OK, you've twisted my arm. Despite your perceptions that I am merely a sad spinster, eking out a quiet youth until the day I can move into my sister's annex with several cats, most likely called Fred and Ginger, I did receive a card on Valentine's Day. From Mr. Jay himself.

Unfortunately, thinking him to be a wee bit of a cad due to past misdiscretions (see below), I've made the poor boy work his socks off. Last Thursday he took me out for drinks and, on Friday, I shunned his birthday party in favour of spending the weekend with the lovely Cat in Southampton. Yesterday, on my return, Mr. Jay surpassed himself not only by buying me Mini-Eggs (feeder!) but by taking me to the best place he could have: the beach! At this chilly chilly time of year, our trip to Southwold (via Memory Lane) was a day of interesting foam, brown rip-tides, Stella Artois, beach-huts and stones with holes in them. In short, I am easily swayed and it was lovely.

But it has nearly fooking killed me today.

Fortunately, Lydia owes me a few squids and I have persuaded her, my minion, to get me tissues and Vitamin C when she goes to Tesco's.

Add to quarantine-room construction list:

No. 8: Cat-flap for door

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Stoopid Stoodents

When it gets really bad, you find yourself in a Kebab shop at 2am discussing taking a late-night bus across the City in order to jump naked into a lake together.

Moo: You'll need to teach me resuscitation.
Me: I can't teach you that now - it'll take me ages to teach you that!

Moo pauses, and considers the photo of Garlic Pizza.

Moo: You have thirty minutes.

Sunday, February 12, 2006


This time last year I remember posting about the heinousness of Valentines' Day, the actual heinousness of my own Valentines' Day and the equally as heinous aftermath. Hopefully, Mr. Postsecret won't mind me stealing his blog-fodder, because this postcard just about summed up my thoughts when I woke up this morning.

Apart from last year, which was a bit of a slip-up, Valentines' Day doesn't really depress me. Obviously the fact that even the Nationwide cash-point has joined in on the hearts-and-flowers shebang is a little gruesome, as is the 'This is not just Valentines' Day, this is M&S Valentines' Day' advert. Oh yes, and the abnormal couple-single ratio which becomes suddenly apparent in the week preceding le grand jour. But let's face it, single people (and i'm talking to my friends here): we're young, vivacious little things with easy access to alcohol. There are worse things than not having a burly man to carry your food shopping home and to receive your unwelcome drunk 'n' dial. Poverty springs to mind.

The best Valentines Day I ever had was in my Fresher Year when my friend PJ (who is outrageously gay) took me for lunch and insisted shouting us both a bottle of Pinot. As I cooed, 'Oh, you shouldn't' over the wine list, the ridiculously attractive waitress gave me a look which was unmistakeably: 'Err, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree there, love'.

If any of you are feeling down about this fateful Tuesday, think of me. I'll probably be in a gutter somewhere, moaning that I was run down. By a parked car.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Socks Up

Personal Minutes.

1. Carnagerous* game of Can-You-Succesfully-Throw-Popcorn-Into-Your-Housemate's-Mouth?-N.B.-She-Is-Sitting-On-The-Other-Side-Of-The-Room at 1.43am.
2. Wake time of 3.18pm


1. Stagger downstairs feeling like you may have been in a bar brawl last night (with an eye to falsely prove it) and remove disparate Popcorn pieces whose Toffee coating is clinging to the carpet.
2. Buy new batteries for alarm clock.

*carnagerous (say car-nedg-er-us) adjective

expressing the physical aftermath of an atrocity: 'a carnagerous room'.
Word Family : carnagerously, adverb ; carnagify (carnagified, carnagifying) verb ; to destroy, or make carnagerous.

Thursday, February 09, 2006


For some reason I ended up talking about weddings and babies today. Yes, weddings. Weddings and babies. Babies. If I ever do pop out a few sproglets (shortly before donating them to my mother, who likes them), I shall regale them with tales of my halcyon, student, days. Days where I stayed up all night on a helipad talking to a boy, or when the House of Trouser threw me into a skip. When we founded Bov Care, the charity that gives £2 a month to a student so that he can have a pint. When we established Tourettes Soc. And now to add to my list of anecdotes Most Likely To Bore A General Acquaintance At A Party™, the time I checked my watch-9.08am-and the word 'dildo' had already been uttered six times.

Such is the joy of 'Spinsters, Lesbians and Whores of the 18th Century'. No, really. When those sproglets come along and say 'Mummy, It has come to my attention that you are really a woman of letters. I wonder, what is your specialist field?', I shall reply, unabashed, 'Dildos, my darling, dildos. Leather ones, and lambskin ones, and ones made of sacking. You know, for the poor lesbians who only got to meet girls at the farmer's market'.

In other news, today is actually my Blogday. 1 year is now officially the longest I have kept a diary. Hurrah for me!

EDIT: It appears that my Blogday was actually February 6th. Oops. However, February 9th is also Sam's(of Medical Records) birthday, and hence is easier to remember. Henceforth: Blogday equals February 9th minus much logic. Fin.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Spell With Flickr

NO 0nyc times square ferris wheel'...\Hc for coookkkiiiieeeeeOuntNostalgiques Epoxy letter RbronzeYFAIOne Letter / R

Do it! Do it now!

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Oh Dear, Mr. Jay

It is never a good deed done to take ANYONE to a Student Union knees-up. This includes students of every sort (namely undergraduate, postgraduate and the like). It is especially true of those who have left University, found careers and spend Six Nations Saturdays in a paralytic stupor down the local. Henceforth, it was nee our greatest idea to take Mr. Jay to 'Club Retro! With kaftans! Bee-bop-a-loola-she's-my-baby! A Hard Days Night! etcetera etcetera'. Granted, we all had a fun night. But one of our Dover Street crowd and Mr. Jay did find themselves in a little bit of a tryst at the end of the night, prompting a very shamefaced apology from the man himself this morning. Honestly, he couldn't look me in the eye, and it wasn't even ME, ferchrissssake.

'I just can't believe I did that'.
'It. Was. A. Kiss. Don't beat yourself up about it!'
(Shakes head). 'I just can't believe I did that'.

Oh, Mr. Jay, stop acting all Mills and Boon. We liked you better when you were getting all excited about the beer mats and going all Brokeback* on us at the LCR. If you learn nothing else from your little blunder, learn this:

If you're going to drink for 8 hours straight, have more dinner than a ham sandwich.


*Brokeback Mountain: The only film to have EVER made me cry, besides Titanic and The Lion King (both of which were pre-puberty and, to be fair, Leonardo di Caprio was possibly the first Real! Live! Boy I had ever seen, and he died. As for Mufasa... Wowzers, this one's going to be hard to explain...). I also saw Memoirs of a Geisha this week, but it didnee get me like Brokeback. Honestly, if I thought about it hard enough I could probably cry right now. At this keyboard. But I won't, because despite what Ang Lee tells you...


...Jake Gyllenhaal is STILL alive in this world, and that is enough to make me smile. And swoon. (And his sister aint bad neither).

Saturday, February 04, 2006


Have you ever held a crush on someone you've never met? I have, and I've held it for roughly 2.5 years, where the closest I've ever come to The Crush is when I literally hurled myself at him (par accident) at the end of my street, squeaked an apology and ran off, adopting an impromptu "lumbering gait" which incorporated some sort of skipping motion, such was my fluster. As an initial "encounter", it wasn't my smoothest move.

Yesterday I finally had the date with The Jesus Stalker, during which, in an otherwise enjoyable afternoon, he felt fit to comment on my "yachting jumper" (it's Fred Perry, dahling), "thin" hair, "overly-posh" accent and "stick legs". Gosh, i'm loving these quotation marks today. In a counter-move, he also begged (again, literally) for me to have another drink with him and, only an hour in, made plans for "us" to go to Cambridge together for the day/weekend. Steady, love. All in all a confusing few hours, made even more so by the unexpected arrival of The Crush.

The Crush, in all his stripey-jumpered glory even felt fit to sit at the next table, and give me what can only be called "the eye", for the duration of his stay. Thus my poor little brain was torn between being a good date and being my rather pervy self, and I struggled to maintain concentration as The Jesus Stalker plumbed the depths of his own psyche. When The Crush's staring became rather obvious, the poor Jesus Stalker was moved to say, "Do you know this guy?". My reply was of course, "Murliniurghabur", to which he responded, "Because he's really turning on the charm there". Oops. My suggestion to go upstairs (TO THE GRADUATE BAR) was welcome. And, thankfully, for all parties, I managed to stifle my secret desire to grab The Crush in a Diet Coke sort-of-fashion on the way.

I really am terrible.