new balls please

I am an instant gratification junkie.  Other than a late night flick knife encounter nothing gets my cash out quicker than the whisper of a quick fix.  Top of this month’s separating myself as quickly as possible from my salary effort was The Four Week Detox Delivery Programme.

Each evening as if by magic a beautifully packaged bag of tomorrow’s virtuous vegetables appeared on my hall table.  Gibbering with terror at how much my latest bright idea had cost me – money it seems is almost a better motivator than men – I hurled myself into the detox vortex; signed every  food stuff in my possession over to my open-armed flatmate; called everyone in my address book to tell them I was dangerously close to being introduced to my hipbones and settled in for the headache, shaking hell that is is over-due detoxing.  By day 6 I was on top of the world; insufferably pious; glowing with martyrdom and actually using the words ‘content’ and ‘centered’ in everyday conversation.  By day seven I was decidedly discontentedly informing the detox company that raw cabbage was not in my opinion a foodstuff let alone a meal, not least because I felt it was unlikely to have cost a weeks salary to produce.  They remained unflappable and told me I was simply trying to eat my emotions, I had everything I needed to run an Ironman and the urge to gobble colleagues was all part of my healing journey.  I hung up, ordered a Domino’s and donated my detox packages to my neighbour who has the dietary stop button of a stoned Labrador and happily hoovered up the evidence of my detox downfall.

Phase two of my support-any-money-grabbing-opportunist  campaign continued in earnest.  I visited two Healers in the hope of being stripped of self loathing and several stone with just the hum of a sacred hilltop chant and the hot little hands of redemption.  Instead  Healer One, who appeared to have celebrity client tourettes, advised me I must relinquish any hope of writing and replace the desire with knitting, swap to her hairdresser and thread rather than pluck my eyebrows.  Healer Two took one look at my (fake) Birkin, promptly doubled the price of the session, stabbed the end my toes with a suspiciously egg-pricker looking device, tortured my calves into cramp and informed me any pain was residual childhood trauma and I seemed very angry.

And so to October, which Sharon ( my clairvoyant from Penge) tells me is the month I will aquire a boyfriend; discover a lost grandfather in the form of a robin and decide upon a new career path involving tennis and young children.

A near five month blog boycott and a mis-guided read through the last few entries mean the bar’s pretty comfortingly low for today’s writing whim but I’ve finally decided to commit to something long term that isn’t chocolate or self loathing (possible link?) and am very much looking forward to boring my readership of none senseless on a regular basis again.

A full five month update would require depressingly little space and effort on my part but in summary: I think I nearly met the most amazing man but he has taken to sending me weekly texts explaining why he can no longer get in touch.  My amateur interior decorating yearnings are still to be sated and I currently live with 2 tables, 12 chairs, 2 sofas and an increasingly unamused flatmate wedged somewhere between them and the 5 kilos of glass noodles I accidentally ordered (online shopping dyslexic metric meltdown) while I try to decide if I’m baroque, vintage or if I even like glass noodles.

Oh, I actually had a date that ended in a high five, I wish I was joking, and the worst part is I think I initiated it.  I’ve fallen in love with Portobello and frosted brownies all over again,  I still haven’t found the perfect shade of red nail varnish and people have started describing me as fun which means it’s time to get back into the gym.

2010

NY resolution of regular updates appears to have gone the way of no smoking, dairy or boys who use txt spk but finally the lure of possible attention from terrified family and friends was too strong soo… Happy New Year! So far the most fascinating part of January has been how stunned England (aka one of the coldest, most prone countries in the world) was at our annual snow quota. Scheduled programmes were canceled in favour of three hour soundbites from a gibbering English public, beside themselves at a national platform for complaining about the weather. Facebook and Twitter groaned with snow drenched status updates and I cursed the short-sighted error of admitting  my 2 minute commute to the powers that be.

In spirit of shiny New Year me I packed myself off on an intense life coaching course; I witnessed sobbing participants verbally beaten into admission of the far fetched prognoses of the terrifying, potentially drunk and definitely badly suited speaker .  As I edged closer to the three best looking volunteers I  marvelled at the earnest over-therapied self obsession of my fellow coachees and as my 70 year old neighbour with food on his jumper, dreams of a Greehouse building empire and unrequited lust for his lodger, asked me out for dinner I decided it was indeed time to help myself and demanded a refund.

Oh God I think I’m growing up, which has ironically resulted in me cancelling tomorrow’s Botox session. I’ve a horrible feeling my moral compass has found its way out of my bra drawer and tentatively into place. I actually found myself considering the possibility of being loved exactly as I am, which sounds so gag inducingly Bridget Jones (post Darcy bagging) I’m having trouble breathing. All consuming insecurity and paranoia is my natural blonde habitat, no? Would being loved in current state in fact be a pseudo self help triumph smoke screen for just giving up? Have I genuinely renounced meat and cocaine for its impact on the earth and not simply because I’m over it? Am I going to end up a militant fruitarian in pleather shoes with a palpable victim mentality? Is that preferable to the vacuous, plastic plumped trophy WAG alternative? God I hope my happy medium compass is in my knicker drawer.

So Pro

There’s a lot to be said for the American rapport building tactic of frequent christian name bandying during a conversation, negated by them inevitably pointing out, at the end of meeting, I’ve got the wrong name. Potentially making the English aversion to names and eye contact a safer bet.

Professional tactility’s another minefield. Swedish best friend can have both men and women haemorrhaging verbal contracts and 5 star dining offers with a light arm stroke. My last attempt landed me with an unrequited crush from the water cooler technician and a scented candle rep who glowers at my every move, daring me to molest her again, whilst stroking her HR department speed dial.

Telephone tone is an equally tricky balance to strike. I actually spent two hours the other evening pacing my flat whilst re-recording my voicemail message (apparently movement will aid avoiding the suicidal tone of my last offering). I pride myself on my adaptability from an 0871 to a 0207 voice at a moments notice although I won’t deny my confidence was dented by the twenty minute chat with my father yesterday, who later called to admit he thought he’d been talking to my twin brother.

Interviewing has always been a personal favourite, people feel compelled to tell me the most surprising things. My all time record was getting a prospective PA to admit to a boob job, a Monica Lewinskyesque moment with last employer and insatiable shopping addiction in under 10 minutes. I know competition when I hear it and she was ‘filed pending something more suitable’ indefinitely.  The prospective driver interviewee showing me his strategically placed ‘no entry’ tattoo was another high point, though in his defense the unveiling took a good 12 minutes and yes, he was hired on the spot, you can’t put a price on clear and career relevant communication.

when the Price is right

I think I’ve finally cracked the Katie Price hate campaign riddle (a readership shrugs) it’s not the eye watering body or surprisingly pretty face (sans ridiculous boobs, botox swell and trannie make-up) that might incite a bit of jealousy but not the unbridled revulsion she tends to attract. Not to get too Greer about the whole thing but I reckon it’s her masculine approach to life that riles. Shes built an empire of millions on negligible talent, ruthless ambition, minimal charm and horrifyingly little lash battering. Her appetites and unashamed enjoyment of them are typically blokey and when she gets dumped she goes out on the pull; clinging to ankles screaming ‘forgive me, I’ll do anything’ just isn’t her style.

The confusing part is she’s marketable because of her exaggerated femininity; the chest, excessive use of pink, the hair, the nails. She’s basically a caricature of a woman with a man’s brain and the inability to pigeonhole her as a bimbo or a lesbian seems to really grate. Yes, she was a bitch to the lovely Pete – the ultimate guilty crush – but no more than your average footballer to his bit of fluff. Maybe (and I slightly cringe as I type) she didn’t deserve that final plumm(eling)et from grace although I suspect her £40mil cash stash and stand alone DDs will cushion the fall.

Can you have an ‘emotional affair’ or is that simply a neurotic concept gleaned from an over enthusiastic consumption of Cosmo? When does ‘looking’ stop being innocent and start jeopardizing? Maybe I’m just having a bad run of it but recently several friendboys have confided their ‘virtual fun’ and it’s definitely got me thinking (read panicking). There are at least three spoken fors I know who regularly indulge in some pretty filthy online/phone flirting but laugh it off as harmless – no need to tell the Mrs -  banter. Then there’s the ones who give Tom Cruise’s sofa jumping a run for its money with their public declarations of infatuation but it takes little more than some light lash battering and feigned fascination to get them in a spin. Do I just have particularly noncommittal serial flirts for friends or am I being naive?

I used to believe whole heartedly that I would one day stumble into a bar, lock eyes with The One and picket fences, a lifetime of unconditional adoration and joint bank accounts would be mine. I unquestioningly imagined that being the exclusive Pink Lady of his eye went without saying. In reality he turned out to have a fairly gritty drug habit, be a raving alcoholic and have an eye which roved so voraciously it’s a miracle he didn’t get dizzy.   Perhaps my happy-ever-after fantasy should have been binned there and then but it takes more than a minor burning and a bit of associate mental infidelity to erase a lifetime of Disney conditioning, I suspect the key is just steering clear of  Prince Indiscriminately Charming.

EXCITING, I have my first non-duty bound reader (hello Rodger!) who has undoubtedly just fire walled me senseless but it was beautiful while it lasted. Managed a half hearted trip to the gym this morning, piety dampened slightly by the sole other occupant, an eye wateringly ripped runner, who thought my signals to ask if I could substitute This Morning for TMF were a signed date request (in hindsight I was wearing an ‘I love You’ T-shirt, pointing at an ad of a couple brushing their teeth in nauseating synchrony and smiling encouragingly). Needless to say he swiftly broke eye contact and began sprinting like a man possessed.

Getting worrying puppy cravings again (to own, not eat) there’s just something so appealing about unconditional love which fits into a handbag. Equally I have the attention span of a three year old and know from bitter experience no amount of bonios can make up for the guilt of an accidental two day stint outside Sainsburys.

nightMar-iah

Today, I can’t decide if I’m in love with Will Self or Reggie Yates, amazing, even my crushes are (bi)polar!

I love the press for their pseudo anorexia witch-hunt, exposed for the farce it is with their vitriolic mauling of Mariah Carey for daring to combine curves and confidence on a recent beach shoot.   Had she been spotted sobbing under three sarongs hanging off Nick’s ankles begging him to stick by her through thick and not-so-thin then she might have escaped vilification but having the gall to look happy….celebrity suicide.

On that note the cultivation of my raging exercise addiction is proving painfully slow.  The Pashley has become a quirky coat rack, my gym is now a glorified spray-tanning booth and my park runs have become gentle power(cut) walks through soggy leaves. I blame Mariah.

Bit of a blogging binge given recent negligence but I’m going to indulge the roll.  Current thought process; is it just me or is Piers Morgan looking worryingly un-unappealing?  Must new flatmate be quite so pretty?  Was it really necessary to eat current flatmates birthday present?  Just googled new therapist and it appears she specializes in sex addiction, which at £2 a minute seems an expensive irony.  Why when hot footballer whistled at me did I have to drop my nano and then walk into a tree?  Why do old people make me want to cry?  Yup, not so much thoughts as potentially sectionable lunacy…it’s good to be back.