Being Crap

I've been so wrapped up in the self for a whole variety of reasons (lots going on at work and lots going on out if work) that I only just today got to the post office to send a parcel to my lovely sister whose birthday was on the 22nd and deserves to be remembered better. Lunchtime post office queues are massive but afterwards I popped over the road to borough market and bought delicious cherry tomatoes and pears. Then passed a chocolatier selling a classic hot chocolate in the style of those Parisian ones Bails and I ran from cafe to cafe guzzling to keep warm against a blisteringly cold Christmas one year. Warm, thick, rich (and small enough not to over do). On this cold, grey, nondescript day it made me happy. A crocodile string of children ran, skipped, hopped and lept past the window. I laughed. Abandon walking in favour of all manner of alternative ways to get along the road. Joy.

Friday lunch

I'm eating very hearty lentil soup out of heavy 70s style crockery at a cafe in Peckham. There's an architect and a builder (who is also a painter) chatting opposite about exhibitions and the weekend. A man who works for a different department than me who I know by sight but never talk to is having a toasty at the table to my left. And on the right a very intense woman in a turquoise jumper is ready a book called "how to be a Christian, and lead a good life". Must shake a leg and get back to work.

Delores

My aunt Delores died today. She had been ill for some time. It's a bummer.

I remember staying with her and Uncle Tom at New Year 1994. We would pick her up from work at 3am and go to the supermarket (a revelation at the time - there were no 24hr supermarkets here then) and buy brownie mix which she cooked up when we got in. Late at night, hot brownies. Lovely. Dad, Uncle Tom, Delores and I were in Las Vegas together (slinging coins into the Elvis slot machines by the bucket-load), driving up and down The Strip and playing Bingo at 10 in the morning. Two ladies were drinking strawberry daquiries. It was all I could manage to keep up with marking off two sheets, Delores had about 6. It was everyday stuff but always a laugh.

Miss you Delores. And thinking of you, Tom.

Dark in the afternoon

Gloomy. All day. And then it got dark at 4.30. Can't stand the closing in of winter straight after the clocks change. It seems to catapult us into the depths of winter in one swift falling-back hour. And soon it will be dark at both the start and end of the day. Won't even see daylight unless you venture forth at lunchtime. I think that's why I have liked snow recently - quick way to lighten up the landscape.

In search of a plain black polo neck

It might seem a staple needed in every man's wardrobe especially at this time of year. But it seems polo necks have been replaced by roll necked sweaters in the fashion stakes. Been everywhere to no avail. In John Lewis found a navy version. He tried it on for size. Ask if they have them in black. The assistant said, no the closest would be the orange. ??!!

Wig

A man walked past the cafe at lunchtime wearing a terrible wig - long reddish brown ponytail , pulled down too far on the forehead.
 Reminds me of my first pony said Kate. I was embarrassed that he had a docked tail so I bought him a hairpiece from Woolworths and tied it on.
Did it work?
Well the hairpiece was blond and curly (being very little choice in Woolies) and the horse was chestnut.
And you found that less embarrassing than having a horse with a docked tail?

Apparently so!!

Inching Towards End of Summertime

It's been dark all day. Misty and moist. Not even a glimmer of sunshine. Lights have been on all day. I find it increasingly difficult to stay awake as we get towards 5 o'clock. Sure signs of the approaching winter. My body hates the change of time. Takes ages to adjust.  I feel like I'm going into hibernation already.  Roll on the spring. Or perhaps I need to find bars to go to with roaring fires and warm drinks.

Night bus

Painfully good looking blond boys channelling James Dean in denim. Sitting on the top deck on the way to dalston as the windows steam up. Steamed up windows are not so good for checking the reflection - slightly pained eyes looking out from hooded lids seems to be the expression that requires the most practice. Decanting at Dalston they are replaced by more edgy pissed Hackney-ites. 

Play the game

I got sent this picture and a magnifying glass in a mysterious parcel. No instructions or explanation. Today I got an email that look for longer is live. Go now and play the game. The pictures are visual clues to London stations. And there are prizes.

This week I have mostly been trying to get sacked

So I was sacked as catering manager for the disaster that was carbonara (foolishly thought I could cook it and transport it to another house to be eaten - bad mistake). Anyway I may never need to cook again. Which perhaps takes the pressure off.

This weekend I was also suspended as entertainments manager because after being sent into a crap venue to check out the crowd (was more crowded when I was in the first time than when we eventually went in together - where all the people went in that 15 minute interval I don't know).

Next I'm going to try to be sacked from cleaning duties and advisor to the king.

Fran once told me that she decided early on to be bad at looking for things so that when someone is flapping around looking for the lost item in a less-than calm and orderly way she won't get called on to help because she is so bad at it. Never even crossed my mind to decide what you might be good or bad at. A total revelation. Good thing to work on though!

Crazy Forever

Haven't been offered anything for a while but in a week I received two. The first was tickets to see a show. Yes I'd love to, I said (without reading what it was that I was accepting - something about getting things for free - don't really care what it is, its free!) Anyway it turned out to be a raunchy erotic review transferred from Paris' Crazy Horse Club. Thought about asking Bails but decided that there was a more appropriate companion in my life who might actually really enjoy it. And he agreed to come. It only took the promise of toplessness for him to be in. Excellent. Didn't really fancy going as part of an all female couple to a titty show.

So behind the Southbank Centre they have set up a temporary building with a tent-like theatre inside - drapped in red cloth, lots of bevelled-edged mirrors and a pillar-box sized stage opening. We had platinum tickets which meant we were sitting at the very front at a table. Close enough to see everything. We were sharing the table with a woman who writes for Burlesque Beat (can't link to it becuase it seems to have a trojan infection) - she was hyper excited.

So there were "perfectly formed" women dancers, wearing virtually nothing save for some painted on pubic hairs and a variety of g-strings. Raunchy music and good choreography. Group dances and individual routines. Great lighting effects - sometimes strobe and sometimes contouring across the dancers bodies, poles, stripping and mincing walks. All greatly appreciated by the male companion. Appreciates them were the exact words. I too can appreciate them but found it strangely untitilating.

My favourite was the routine which included a mirror down the centre of the stage with the dancers pushing their hands, then arms up over the mirror so that a double-ended image happened - once the whole body was used it was sort of like some weird siamese twins trying to pull apart from each other. Slightly alien. And then a routine with a man and woman drunk and snorting coke competing with each other drumming on a table in a sort of drug addled river dance. Finally a pole dancing where the dancers were all doing the same routine in slightly different timing which was reminiscent of the dancing in Sweet Charity.

Some men behind were discussing the fact that the women's bodies looked heavily made-up. In the second half the audience loosened up and there was a bit of catcalling. But nothing like the time at Nux Vomica when the stipper of the year played the violin and melted ice-cubes in her vjj - all the men jumped onto chairs and howled like wolves. Stripping was common at Nux but usually involved artistes who were painted green or other artisitic oddities which didn't cause this reaction. After this we suggested to the organiser that maybe it would be good to have a putting-on next time alongside all the taking-off.

Anyway Crazy Forever had a good atmostphere, some interesting choreography and was greatly appreciated by the male portion of the party. Me, I thought it was a little bit tame. Or perhaps I need something else to get turned on - some men perhaps, some smells, slightly different visuals...

Free Timeout

Finally a freebie that is something I actually would have paid to read (unlike the Metro, Shortlist, Sport etc). Free Timeout shoved into my hand this morning. Haven't actually read timeout for a ages - it had me laughing out loud. Not as thick and comprehensive as the pay-for version but a good teaser for getting interested to find out more. Could be time for more exciting going out...

Morning Meeting

Waiting at Highbury and Islington to catch the train to Moorgate. Always the third carriage - because it is closer to the exit leading to the Northern line. Step on and surprisingly frequently bump into him. There is a momentary decision about whether to be cool and wait to be noticed or to be forward and prod the recognition. Those around are often surprised at what may seem like an overly familiar initial meeting. It not being clear what the relationship status is - colleagues, acquaintances, friends, lovers - who's to say initially.  The chat is mildly flirtatious and knowing. Gentle morning teasing. A slight leaning together. Sexual frisson not so common on the train to work. After three stops there is walking to the tube. A game of guess which tie he may be wearing with the shirt he has on and a quick smell for approval of the cologne he has chosen for the day. Then a swift one stop on the tube and he is off with a promise to give me a shout.

Steam Room Talk

Usually the steam room is quiet - a haven of internal thoughts and dealing with the damp heat working over the skin and into the lungs.

This evening a woman sat pontificating about the sizism at the legal firm she works in (I can't tell you the name but it's in Chancery Lane). They take on trainees but they are always blond and between sizes 6 and 10. They take on black male trainees sometimes but none of them have ever been hired. It's not like in America where the best person for the job gets it no matter what or who they are.

Other people in the steam started to look away, raising their eyebrows. She finally left. Then another woman came in and started talking about the lamb curry dinner waiting at home. She was going to open champagne to have with it. The Muslim men in the steam tutted disapprovingly. On a Monday night? Yes she giggled. Lovely. She talked about the method and ingredients she had used. One man said - it means nothing to me, I don't cook. At which she started to harangue him about expecting women to cook, clean and have babies for him - why does he expect women to do these things for him? Because all women are submissive by nature.

Silence in the steam. Lead balloon. I think you should be careful making those gross generalisations, say I. Well don't you think so? He asked. No I don't I said.

Fortunately before I could get in a fight the lifeguard came to ask the women to leave because the male only session had started.

First visit to the vets

Took the kittens to the vets for their first procedures this week. Philomena was spayed, and Leopold was castrated. Can't tell you how guilty it made me feel. However it was that or incest babies. The girl cat has to wear a cone for 10 days and the boy cat thinks she's some kind of  monster and keeps hissing at her. She keeps trying to walk backwards to get the collar off - to no avail.

Three days later they were due for a check up. Philomena has completely changed personality and went into the basket of her own free will. Leopold put up a fight, scratched and bit me. So I left him behind.

It's all a trauma. And not cheap either!

Morning Coffee

There's this arsehole in Costa's with a group of 7 management students. They are having morning coffee and he is lecturing them (Australian) with gems of cliches from what seems to be an American self help management manual. He just loves the sound of his own voice. His students make lots of notes. The men take him very seriously and the women laugh at his jokes.

At another table a man shows his friend videos of his golfing in Scotland holiday. 

Morning make over

She's 40ish wearing a blue suit and doing her makeup on the train. So far she has the panda eyeshadow done and is colouring in her eyebrows.

One of those floating seeds drifts past. She catches it, closes her eyes, makes a wish and releases it.

Then the mascara, looking like torture, flick flicking the brush over the lashes. Curling them with the tongs, eyelid peeled slightly revealing the eye white. Things that should be confined to the bathroom. After that consealer, and then lipstick.

Olympic Hangover

I miss the Olympics. I miss the buzz in the city - all the upbeat happy people sitting around the parks watching big screens. It felt like being on holiday even though I was working. The weather is overcast rather than sunny. I miss the back to back coverage and all the sporting cliches. And the athletes and their amazing feats, wins and losses, emotions. It's sort of lonely in the city now.

Square head

Three Italian people sit down at the cafe next to me. See this man, one woman says, he has a square head. The Russian would have had a square head like that. I look. He certainly does have a square head. I giggle. She notices and laughs embarrassed at being caught bitching. Its a description, isnt it? I can only agree. They carried on talking. He had pale but broad big shoulders, nice legs, very muscly. Nice man. Big square head. Sounds lovely!

What Olympic sport are you built for?

Getting into the Olympic spirit wondering what sport would be easiest for someone in their late thirties to get into. Something less punishing like... Shooting or archery? No need lots of skill. Boxing? Not at this age. Weight lifting? Need strength.

The only sport I was ever any good at was swimming but not in a competitive way.  Never was fast enough - graceful of stroke but no speed. So not built for speed. Handed a massively heavy weight and told to curl it - it was all I could muster not to drop it on my foot. Not built for stength either then. 

What are you built for then?

I could only come up with pleasure. I can be witty, passionate, demonstrative, generous, willing and find quite stupid jokes funny. Might also be built for creation - I like making things, am fairly good with my hands, designing stuff. And although I haven't had any children I have been told by a couple of older people that I was lucky to have good child-bearing hips (one man told me that it was the most common cause of death for younger women in his village - the difficulty of childbirth from narrow hips). Nice to have some appreciation of my wide arse! 

Also I've always been missing that competitive drive that sports people need to make them strive to be the best. Don't know what happened to my dose of it.