I'm a sick puppy

I was just reading back through my last couple of blog posts and I'm noticing a pattern here - I only seem to blog when I'm down with the sickness.

Why is this? What is there about me having a stuffed up, nose, feverish brow and rattling lungs that compels me to think "Wow, I feel awful. I must write this shit down!".

What normal people do in this situation - well I say normal people although I think I've yet to find one solitary person in all my 34 years that I would describe as truly normal, and what is "normal" anyway, who decides what is normal and by what measure normalcy is quantified, if indeed it can be?... but I digress. What, for the sake of argument I shall call most people would do in this situation is take as many pills and potions as possible and attempt to sleep until they feel better. But no, not me.

Don't get me wrong, I'll take all the pills and potions that are going and squirt whatever the hell you give me up my red raw nose until it bleeds (like it did rather explosively just a short while ago) but then instead of attempting to drift into blessed unconsciousness I'll sit here at midnight, watching First Blood, feeling like crap and tripping my feverish tits off on night nurse waffling on here to non-existent blog readers about it all.

What is wrong with me?

Oh, yeah that's right... I'm sick... again.

Out, damned snot!

OK, so that's a terrible pun, I admit it. But the sad fact is that this is about the level of wit I am reduced to these days. I blame it on my reduced mental capacity - well, I can only assume that my brain must be crushed up into an ever decreasing cranial cavity, the rest being filled with a seemingly endless supply of festering mucus.

After spending the first two months of the pestilent stink hole that is 2010 with some dreadful sinus-clogging malady, I finally got rid of it just in time for tree pollen season. So, every morning without fail I begin the snot-filled day with two squirts of nasal spray up each crusty nostril and an all day antihistamine swilled down with a berocca to fight the good fight against the various daily assaults against my ailing immune system. I am confident that Boots will ride out any recession based on my level of custom alone. My bank balance on the other hand, as well as my nasal passages, is getting a right royal kicking.

I resent this.

I don't want to be spending my hard-earned cash on not feeling like utter crap. Not even spending it to feel good; just to maintain some level of equilibrium above the point of a shuffling sniffly morlock. I want to be spending it on going out, travelling, eating, drinking or generally having fun in any way shape or form. Sadly though I spend my days at the pharmacist's counter buying various pills and potions to swallow or stuff up my nose, not to get high, just to get normal.

How utterly utterly despressing. Sniff.

Saturday night's all right

Yeah well, Saturday night may be all right, but I'm sure as hell not.

I seem to have acquired an ailment with the incredibly attractive feature of making me cough repeatedly until I'm in danger of either retching or bursting some kind of probably quite important blood vessel in my face.

On my way home this evening, having made an early exit from a mate's gig in Camden, I had some kind of coughing, spluttering seizure type affair in the back of a black cab. As I wheezed and whimpered, eyes watering and wincing visibly as yet another thick gob of festering green lung butter dislodged itself from my breathing tubes and ended up in my mouth, I could see the poor cabbie looking nervously in his mirror, trying to check surrepticiously whether I was going to expire in the back of his vehicle. This went on for about twenty minutes as we were stopped at just about every red light in heavy traffic on the way back to Whitechapel. Thank God he didn't try to chat to me. He must have known it was taking all my reserves of energy and effort to keep from collapsing in a crumpled heap just long enough to stumble home and pop some much needed pills.

Anyway, a couple of hours later and I'm here propped up on pillows on the sofa typing away whilst wrapped in a slanket, watching Robocop for what must be at least the eighth time (although I have to admit it never gets old - "Can you fly Bobby?") so it's clear that I did make it after all. My suppurating corpse was not left huddled in the back of a London taxi as a stark warning to those who ignore the perils of deciding to push on and go out even when they feel a bit rubbish. Not this time at least.

Oh dear, I feel another coughing fit coming on. Time for another hot drink I think. I wonder if I have any night nurse left... .

Rock and roll, eh? Livin' the dream baby. Livin' the dream. Sigh.

12 Aug 2008 - Tell me why, I don’t like... Tuesdays

What is it with me and Tuesdays?

The rest of the week my life seems to bumble along quite happily; making progress through my list of jobs at work and at home, feeling generally contented with my lot in life and feeling comfortable and secure in my surroundings and my place within them. All in all, quite a normal and pleasant existence without unduly frequent episodes of forgetfulness or clumsiness, although I do appreciate that these will inevitably become more frequent as the little grey cells deteriorate and the years advance, but that's normal and I'm pretty much OK with that. Pretty much. I could be quite happy and not feel like I wanted for anything if this was my perpetual state of being.

But then it comes to a Tuesday and it all goes horribly wrong.

I forget my security pass for work necessitating a 20 minute queue for the main security desk to get a temporary one then having to be let into my office by someone else as my office key is on the chain with my pass, or I leave my keys at home, or my wallet or my phone - the last two of which I did today - or I slam my thumb in a drawer, or I forget to post my parents' anniversary card (today again), or I get messages from three different people at work all with urgent things that need doing yesterday which throws out my list of jobs for the week and puts me behind on everything (yep, still today). You get the picture - and there's probably even more smaller things that seem to conspire against me, all building towards one shit-tacular, craptastic, arse-biscuit of a day - and always on a Tuesday.

It's got to the point now where I'm not sure whether it's the Tuesday that's doing it or whether I am making this into a self-fulfilling prophecy by being so unutterably pissed off at waking up to another Tuesday that my mood makes me clumsy and forgetful and generally just a bit more rubbish at everything all day. Whatever the reason, Tuesdays don't like me and I don't like them right back.

So if any one of you happens to bump into me on a Tuesday, please forgive me if I'm a little tetchy or flustered and above all be nice to me because I'm probably having a bad day.

27 Jun 2008 - Wonderful, wonderful Amsterdam

I'm quite a lazy person generally. It's just something I've come to accept about myself over time and now I'm pretty cool with that. One of the effects of this is that I don't blog very often. I message my friends or, shock horror, actually talk to them if I've got anything I want to say. So generally the only things that motivate me to muster the energy and effort to blog are extreme displeasure and irritation or crushing ennui. Usually this means I only blog when I'm hungover, however, today is different.

Today I had an absolutely wonderful day and that in itself has motivated me to write and share my lovely day with anyone who cares to read about it.

I spent the day on my own for roughly 5 hours wandering around Amsterdam in the sunshine - predominantly up and down the canals and over bridges in the red light district occasionally pausing for a drink and a sit. I've only been there once before and had a great time then too - but this time I just felt so at home. Normally when I'm shopping or travelling alone there is some point where I feel self-conscious, particularly in shops with pretty, slim shop assistants. I can honestly say that today is the first time that there was not a single moment where any thought like that even remotely crossed my mind. There is quite a lot of beautiful, slim (and some not so slim) flesh on show around there, but everyone I met was so friendly, smiling, helpful and complimentary that I was completely relaxed and felt fabulous all day.

I must just give a big shout out to one particular very funny, charming and helpful Dutch sex shop proprietor called Dimitri who I had a long conversation with. Very laid back - as you'd expect given that he was smoking a large spliff out the front of the shop (Red Rose) when I got there. I loved the shop sign, which is why I went over to it - glad I did. Had a great chat and I'm happy to have found a friendly, relaxed sex shop that doesn't feel sleazy at all (which is always my problem with places in Soho) and where I'd be happy to go with my partner and actually browse and ask questions and for demonstrations - on hands, it must be noted here! - without feeling rushed or like I needed to get out because there was a slightly uncomfortable feeling about staying there too long. I didn't feel uncomfortable as a woman going in on my own either - not at all. I will definitely be going back there at some point. If you're ever in Amsterdam, check the place out. It's on Oudezijds Achterburgwal, 129-A.

The upshot of all of this is that today was wonderful, and wonderful in a way that has left me smiling and relaxed and really looking forward to my next trip over there, which I will be organising very soon!

Just wanted to share. x

03 Oct 2007 - Confessions of Facebook junkie

Yes, I must admit that after the initial, albeit short-lived, resistance on my part that usually forms my almost automatic reaction to virtually every new in-thing, I am now hopelessly addicted to Facebook.

I hate it, but I love it, but I hate it, but I seemingly can no longer live without it.

It's like smoking without feeling like you look cool whilst you're doing it - although admitedly it's unlikely to kill me, unless I start using it on my mobile and refresh whilst I'm crossing the road - my blackberry's nearly got me that way a few times.

If it weren't for the fact that I do actually have more work to do than I can reasonably handle every day, I would take every quiz, add every feature and bite every chump's neck I could lay my vampire schoolgirl fangs on. I am now a Jedi padawan and regularly trade "glitter" with my boyfriend's mum. Every time I get poked I'm momentarily thrilled that someone is thinking of me. Then I feel dirty, but not in a good way. It's like the short-lived pleasure of masturbation followed by the brief but inevitable moment of shame - or so my male friends tell me... .

So how was I suckered in? How did I fall for it?

Well, the truth is that I'm a crap friend. I am rubbish at making any kind of social effort at all and Facebook is the perfect tool for the lazy friend. Why bother to spend the time and effort emailing, texting, phoning, let alone actually meeting, anyone ever again when you can placate them by throwing a sheep at them or sending them an imaginary fish for a made-up aquarium? After all, nothing shows you care quite like a cartoon crab.

Is there some sort of support group I can join? How do I halt this cycle of beguiling banality? More to the point, do I really want to? All suggestions welcomed, just post on my funwall or write me a sticky note.

04 Jun 2007 - I Love Sausage!

Contrary to first impressions this is not a proclamation of my admiration for the male member. Rather, it is an declaration of my profound love of what I regard as one of the highest forms of art (so definitely not the male member, my fella's excluded, obviously): B movies.

They don't even have to be what would traditionally be regarded as B movies. You know the kind I am talking about though. Those so-bad-they're-great monuments to cinematic tat, often, but not always, including some playboy bunny wearing glasses and speaking lines she doesn't understand very badly who is playing a scientist.

I love them in all their cheesey, badly acted, ropey special effects laden, out of tune synthesized incidental music ridden glory. I am a firm believer that you cannot have more fun with your clothes on in a room full of like minded mates. They stimulate conversation, belly laughs and are the best all round bonding experience you can have - and you don't even need alcohol, although generally it never goes far amiss (certainly in my house).

So, why "sausage"?

Well, I must admit I can't take the credit for that one. My dad coined the expression to describe the schlock horror, Japanese creature features and other dubious sci-fi nonsense that we used to stay up and watch together many many years ago when Channel 4 used to show stuff that was worth watching really late on a Friday night into Saturday morning, rather than that hideously unfunny west country nerk and his cronies or (shudder) Big Brother.

"Sausage" means something that is better than the sum of its parts. Something that you can't help but enjoy despite it being made up of total crap. As a description of this particular film genre, I think it's just about perfect.I can highly recommend "Megalodon", "White Fire" and "Shark Attack" (1, 2 and 3). Invite a couple of friends round, get some pizza, take the phone off the hook and enjoy.