Calling International Rescue...

All week. ALL WEEK I have been trying to write this blog but have had nothing to write. I’ve gone into a bit of a St. Mary (or ‘hibernation’ as my old flatmate Clare used to call it) and it’s been all I could do to pick up the phone and send a text. Oh, quel dommage, woe is me! Etc etc. Of course, now I absolutely have to do my Underbelly blog or risk disembowelment I suddenly find inspiration to write this one instead. This is not positive

Truth is I’m suffering from the most serious and dreaded of my mental ailments; lack of fabulousness. I can cope with most things, but feeling non-fabulous stuffs me every time. Ugh. I have been home all week in order to save my money (am off to Cornwall on the 14th to see Ra, Mark and little Tek so need to save money for this which will, mercifully, be fabulous) and being home all week, in Welling, is recognised as the foremost cause of the fabulousness draining out of you. Welling is like the dementor for fabulousness. In addition, the fact it’s snowing has kept me confined to base, or at least out of central London. In Hong Kong, when there’s a typhoon 8, you can still get across the water on the MTR (though you do have to wait at least 15 minutes) but in the London ‘burbs you can’t get a few miles up the road as the buses are jammed in traffic and the trains point blank refuse to run when there’s ‘the wrong kind of snow on the line’. Terrorists take note; bombs do not slow our transport system, believe me; I remember getting home with hardly any hassle on 7/7. You’d do better off to hide our gritter vans.

So I am whinging, I know. Whinging is no fun and I am the first to kick ass when people whinge. I bellow that the opportunities are there and you’ve just got to get OUT THERE etc. Oh, but Welling dents your belief. I’m having dreams about the Hong Kong skyline, any skyline actually. The tall buildings stretching into the horizon seem to be my brain’s go-to symbol when representing all that is fabulous. And I miss it. I miss those tall buildings, those lights and all the people scurrying in between them. All that action and activity and opportunity. Though reasonably large and impressive, the new Tescos in Welling just doesn’t make the heart soar in the same way.

A small mention for my Pa here. Although my mother and I are the spitting image of each other, we are completely different in personality. She wants me settle down and knock out sprogs soon with, Oh God, anyone. I literally think she’s on the verge of selling me to the first man who walks up to the door. After my dad and I did the shopping this week we popped into The Furze Wren for a bevvie and actually had a conversation. My father is a taciturn man, not given to chatting but I think we had the longest, most in depth conversation we ever had. I always knew he was more adventurous than my mum but I never realised how alike we are. And he’s on my side! And he’s confident everything will work out fine for me, not that I will ruin my life by foolishly refusing to settle down and breed. What with the wanderlust and moodiness I’m very proud to say I’m my father’s daughter alright. It’s nice to have one parent onside.

And now onto friends; I apologise as I’m not particularly useful right now. I keep leaving my phone around the house, or letting it run out of juice or not waking up till 5pm so I sleepily read texts sent in the morning before forgetting all about them when I awake later. And I’m not texting generally with my usual ferocity as I can’t afford to come out and hate to say that I can’t and anyway, if I could I doubt I’d be any fun. I need to get my shit together but the days seem to be sliding by so quickly and easily and well, I can do it tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow, no rush, it’s not like there’s anything exciting waiting...

Gaaagh, but there is! I remember there is. I used to have a LIFE. With a JOB and BURLESQUE and TRAVEL and FUN! But getting back to normal levels of cheeriness seems insurmountable right now; it’s just so much easier to watch endless ‘Come Dine With Me’ in my dressing gown. ALL DAY.

So I need help. And everyone has already been helping LOADS but, greedily, I need even more. HELP. HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP! Milly needs her fabulousness back. In the wise words of the Bee Gees “‘what you doing on your back? You should be dancing”

I should be dancing. HELP ME!!!!

What I like today: That I finally did my Underbelly blog, Wearing Sharron’s multi-coloured swirly skirt and heels to try to aid fabulousness, drinking the remnants of last week’s ‘Emerald Aisle’ cocktail, deliberately spelling ‘Emerald Aisle’ incorrectly, that I'm meeting Annie at the airport in 8 hours.

What I don’t like today: The dementors that stole my life and fabulousness and the energy to get my fabulousness back.

If I Write It, The Career Will Come...

I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRTIER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITET I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO THERE!!!!! :op

MWOO HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately there’s nothing new or interesting to report, I haven’t suddenly been given my dream job by The Guardian or Wanderlust magazine (or indeed Lust magazine). Instead I am just practising saying “I am a writer” as how the hell is anyone supposed to think of me as one if I just say “Oooh, yeah, well, um, I write a bit and y’know, not much and... oooh, look WINE!”. Ridiculous. I’ve got to believe I am a writer if I want other people to believe it too. Although I am taking some convincing.

With that in mind, I have joined Twitter (Ugh! I know! But Suzie at Underbelly advised me to in order to promote my theatre blog so please ‘follow’ me if you’re on there http://twitter.com/#!/noisymilly It is with some horror that I paste that link in). When my next theatre blog is up (should be in the next couple of days) I will then promote it on Twitter. HORROR. But how does one get lots of followers? Advice please. How much further do I have to debase myself to promote me as a writer?!!

In other exciting news, I still have no job. But I have jobseekers’ allowance, The Apprentice, champagne and two Colin Farrell DVDs on order from Play.com so really, how bad can life be? I have been stressing A LOT recently though. The only time I get really stressed is when I question myself and the decisions I make. I find myself asking, ‘Should I settle down to some sort of career?’, ‘Should I be with someone?’, ‘Should I listen to all the people who sneer “Back to reality” at me, as though I’ve spent the last two and a half years in a pool full of cock and thousand dollar notes’? Because some people seem to live their lives as though they are a burden, they believe life isn’t ‘real’ unless it’s dull, repetitive and involves all kinds of heavy responsibility that they may or may not enjoy. When I am uncertain of myself and my own choices I start to think they’re right. That they are ‘grown up’ and ‘responsible’ and that I have somehow failed in some way and that I must ‘get real’ and allow my future to involve the discontent that they exhibit on the faces when I meet them in a bar, or at my bank, or when I’m job hunting.

But nah, bollocks to it. Currently the only ambition I have is to run screaming with laughter through the Irish countryside, pursued by a hot Irish man I will later shag and oh, to have adventures, many many adventures. And to write. And to get Stephen Fry to follow me on Twitter. There have to be some advantages, after all. I just can’t settle (whatever that means) now. Don’t get me wrong, if I met a guy right now who wanted to be my partner in crime and head off on adventures with me I’d snap him right up but I am in no way ready for a place of my own in a fixed destination, marriage and (ugh!) kids.

With that in mind, I must thank my dear friend Lola for supporting me a lot this weekend and making me feel better. She basically talked me down out of my scary panic attack. I am lucky as, though I don’t have any bros or sisters, Lola is one of the family I got to choose. And the best of it is, we are completely different and yet totally supportive of each other. She is very much a settle down gal, she met her lovely Derrick and now they have a lovely home and are getting married next year (YAY!). I on the other hand am a horrible cynic and the thought of anything commitment-y (marriage, mortgage, staying in the same job/place for more than 3 years) panics the shit out of me. But Lola and I support each other. She’s not me and I’m not her but that doesn’t stop me from being so happy that she’s getting married that I’m going to cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE CEREMONY and doesn’t stop her supporting all my wayward and often foolish decisions. So BLESS HER for telling me that I know what’s right for me and to just keep going and not to panic. I shall remember this next time I see sodding Baz at the recruitment consultancy.

So then, the phase I’m going through now is like a chrysalis. Yes, there is little happening, but I can feel things starting to pick up again. I feel ready to get back out there, chat, schmooze, do stuff, get involved. I DESPARATELY need a job, it’s true but I just have to keep trying on that one. Normal Mel service will be resumed soon. In the meantime, I am going to continue drinking champagne, get my haircut tomorrow and hope that the Postie brings my Colin Farrell DVDS soon!

What I like today: Blogging, Twitter (I know!), champagne, The Apprentice (in particular, Stella!), Lola, the increase in Lola's wedding plans.

What I don't like today; That I have no job or indeed career, that I'm starting to like Twitter.

Writing, not writing, job-hunting, Irishmen...

I am supposed to be writing a blog. But not this blog. The blog I should be writing is for my new gig and that's my number one new piece of news to tell you.

Firstly, I should state that I still don't have a proper job. Sorry, didn't mean to get you all excited there. Instead, I am the official theatre blogger for London Underbelly (you may, should you fancy, check out my first blog here ( http://www.londonunderbelly.com/ ) It's unpaid but, y'know, it's experience. And a good chance to make contacts etcetera. Except making contacts, networking and all that jazz is my least favourite thing to do. I just want to get pissed with cool people who don’t judge instead of worrying if they are useful/important/impressed by me.

But as my wise friend Simon pointed out last night (At least I think he did, I was a little drunk and the music in the bar was noisy) if I want to get into this sort of work then a-schmoozing I will have to get. Writing is, after all, all about contacts. People have to like you to publish you and have to know you to like you. But supposing they don't like you? Why wouldn't they? BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, minor nervous breakdown. Well Suzie, the very cool head of London Underbelly was complimentary about my first blog so that boosted my confidence for approx 5 mins before it once again plummeted, dropped out my ass onto the floor and slithered down the nearest drain. So I've spent the last 7 hours procrastinating about my second blog (even though it's only about 500 words). I thought if I wrote this one instead it might at least kick my writer's block (more like writer's paralysis) into gear.

Onto the next update: The job-hunt continues. I signed on for the first time last week. I'd expected a dismal queue in a cold grey room with bump-and-grinding men as depicted in the Full Monty and was somewhat sad to be allocated a comfy seat in an overheated room opposite a guy who looked a bit like your pervy uncle. I badgered him into sorting me an appointment at a recruitment consultancy and to be fair, I was in there for a good hour while Unc went above and beyond to sort it all out for me. And the next day off I went. My recruitment consultant's name was Baz. He had a Hoxton fin. To be fair to Baz, he has since sent me some useful links and an action plan but I did have the feeling that our meeting was more about how great he was at his job rather than finding one for me. At one point, he told me he was a very creative person and had, on his wall, an Andy Warhol quote on how “being good in business was the best kind of art”. A little bit of me died there and then. And when looking at charity/arts-based jobs for me he exclaimed 'I don't know how you work for these people. They don't pay very much, do they?' GRRRRRRRRRR. I fear we will never see eye to eye, but then maybe that's what I need to kick my ass.

Piece of news number three is that the drought is over! Whilst out dressed as a broken doll for Halloween I hooked me a guy. We were at a pub in Peckham Rye and he came over, slightly pissed and said ‘Can I just say, you have the best boobs on the Rye?’ Well, it was much more charming than the usual ‘UGGGGGHHH NICE TITS!’ I must confess, I didn’t get an instant fanny gallop when he approached but he did look like a good manly man... and then I realised- he was Irish! From Donegal! And you know how that works on me. So we had a nice chat, yeah yeah yeah, you can fill in the blanks there but all I’m saying is it was similar to that whole Rugby Sevens/Afro French man/Spicy Fingers incident...

So I arranged to meet yer man on Monday. We went out for cocktails and had an excellent drunken time. As the old joke goes- Irish first date? Get drunk and have sex. Ladylike decorum prevents me from telling you whether we did or not though (Oh, take a guess!)

The next day, as I staggered through M&S at London Bridge with debilitating hangover, I didn’t glimpse déjà vu so much as was whacked repeatedly over the head with it. After all, this was exactly how I spent my mid-twenties. Too much drinking? Celtic men? Bruises in sensitive places? Shouldn’t I be over this by now?! The worrying continued; will I still be doing this when I’m nearing 40? And then I thought- is that such a bad thing?!!

Yesterday was spent recovering, drinking again and then watching a great play at The Rose and that is what I am now supposed to be writing about. I still can’t take myself seriously as ‘A WRITER’ though. I just feel so embarrassed talking to people about WRITING and WRITING this blog like they’re going to look me up and down with disdain, hissing softly while I admit, actually, that I cannot write; that in fact, I’m a grand eejit with no talents and should spend the rest of my life in my room, under my duvet, slowly festering until I die because that is all I am good at.

Harsh. But writing matters to me so I paralyse myself with fear that I can’t do it. I think, along with my terror of networking, I may have to get over that.

What I like today: not having a hangover, green tea, The Apprentice, the word ‘eejit’.

What I don’t like today: not having a job, writer’s terror (which I do not get because I am not a writer

This is hell and I am in it

Hello all.

I've just been drinking with my gay husband John in the local we have been frequenting since we were 17. They ID-ed me in there which I was very proud of (I've been being ID-ed fairy regularly since I've been back, it's my Asian haircut- SCORE!) Still, it's hard for me to raise a positive mood. I'm just out for dinner with my friend Claire in approx 10 mins so may have more alcohol to improve my mood, I never released just how drunk one had to be to cope with Welling. No wonder I didn't have to drink so much in HK.

Having said that though, on the way to the New Cross Turnpike to meet John I passed the Embassy Court building site and there was a workman there of such fitness my entire lower body contracted then released. What was that phrase Lola uses? Fanny gallop. PHWOAAAAAAR! Was he fit! Not that I'd know what to do anymore. Having been in HK for so long I think I can only communicate with gay men, women or children. Hot men who may or may not fancy me are beyond my experience.

PAH! I will write more coherantly when I sober up, I promise but for now, please try to imagine my life, sexual and general frustration. I NEED A JOB! I NEED SOME FUN! I'M RUNNING OUT OF MONEY AND ALL THE PUBS SMELL OF STALE BEER AND OLD MEN!

I am taking the green tea my mum profers then fucking off to Pizza Express with Claire. More ranting anon.

Horribly Ever After

I’ve just finished watching an episode of ‘Don’t Tell the Bride’ on BBC3. I clicked it on merely for some background noise while I was pissing about on the net, then I got sucked in by the potential for a bride vs. groom bust-up; he picked a plain dress and it turned out she wanted something more chavvy. However, by the end of it I had a little tear in my eye. Not because I had any particular affection for the over-tanned bottle blonde bride or her slightly effeminate-looking dented David Beckham-esque groom, no it’s merely because I’d been thinking about weddings a little recently, what with friends who are soon to marry, friends who’ve been married while I’ve been away and one friend who just celebrated her 9th wedding anniversary!

And though I can look at these friends and seen obviously, plainly that their marriages work, and that they work so well together, for me, it’s like watching life occurring on another planet. I KNOW they are happy and I KNOW they are all made for each other but despite this glaring evidence in favour of the institution of marriage my subconscious refuses to believe it works. It’s like when I try to explain to my mother that no one can see her through the toilet window unless A) they are on a ladder one floor up and peering in deliberately or B) what Mr. Stelling taught me in physics was completely wrong and light can in fact bend round corners.

But it makes no difference, she still pees with the light off and I still, when seeing people in happy relationships fail to register that this is reality. Over and over I can witness these relationships working but the message that speeds from my eyes seems to make no impact on the section of my brain marked ‘Love, Relationships and Happiness Therein’. That section is occupied by lots of skinny, black-clad chain smokers, who have desultory hate-sex with each other while ‘Closer’ plays on a continuous loop in the background. If a fluffy bunny hops in with good news from the outside world they bludgeon it.

And on those wedding programmes, they’re always crying at the appropriate moments, sappy music tinkling away in the background. And so comes the pressure to make real life the same, as though everyone lives in some frigging rom-com. Well movie moments don’t work for me. As I’ve learnt this year, the moments you should cry, you won’t cry. The moments you should feel, you won’t feel. And why feel anything if it’s just going to set you up for a fall? Because the second you start believing in that sort of shit is the second it starts creeping up behind you to bite you on the ass.

I know, I’m a cynic. A black-hearted, mean, dead-on-the-inside cynic. But you know what really, really pisses cynics off? When some arsehole, some total, unoriginal, dickweed bumwipe simpers “Oh, when you meet that right man, you’ll fall in love and then you’ll feel different”

NO! No, I will not Pollyanna! This is all my own mental fuck-up, thank you very much. I am the one who needs to sort myself out, via dating, or therapy or by smacking my head repeatedly in a car door. It’s not about meeting some Prince Charming who can suddenly blast away my cynicism and melt my cruel, cold heart. He’d need a nuclear fucking bomb, not a diamond ring.

I’m a free woman on a great adventure and therefore in control of my own destiny. So I’m the one who has to sort things out, and risk getting hurt and yadda yadda yadda. A usually unwise suitor of mine once said that, with relationships, it’s better to risk getting hurt than to never know. He may have had a point on that one. But damn, doesn’t that sound like it sucks?

1 Week Today...

I have been very naughty with this blogging. Obviously, Jakarta and my flying visit to HK (where my laptop had a sad nervous breakdown) were my excuse for not writing everyday but now I’m back in England and have sod all else to do there’s plenty of time for typing up my inane stream of consciousness. You may get two today in order to make up for lost time or, equally likely, I may not post and instead lose the will to live sometime round Diagnosis Murder this afternoon.

I am being a little harsh on myself. I have only been back not quite a week and I am impatient to get my London life started once more. I was the same when I made it to Hong Kong; by day 5 I was annoyed at myself for not being a social queen with thriving hobbies and a packed diary. Instead I was eating supernoodles in my jammies and watching bizarre imported programmes on ATV, including Thomas the Tank Engine and a documentary narrated by Alan Titchmarsh.

Here of course I’m a bit luckier. I already have friends made in the classrooms, lecture halls and burlesque venues of London and had a lovely ‘Welcome Home’ dinner with some on Saturday. Caz cooked an all British menu (yummy soup, veggie bangers, mash, mushy peas and baked beans and treacle pudding and custard... I ate like a beast) which we washed down with copious glasses of Pimms. One fantastic thing about England is my capacity for boozing seems to be slowly returning. No migraines yet- hurrah!

Trouble is, though I am dying to get out and socialise the main problem is MONEY. I have very little, only the remnants of my HK bank account and it’s already diminishing. And, perhaps unwisely, I’m applying for an unpaid internship (thanks for putting me onto that one Debbie) which is AWESOME but, y’know, unpaid. They do give you your expenses, obviously but if I did get it- oh, and I want it!- I wouldn’t be doing much partying over the next 3 months. Ideally I’d pick up a little something on a weekend to keep me in pocket money but we’ll see. Hmmm, maybe it is time to start up that dominatrix business I’ve always wanted. But I fear I am not ready. I’m still too nice sometimes and too evil at others so my clients would either end up huddled under a blanket with a cup of tea or huddled under a blanket dead.

I’m also going to be applying for a whole lot of other stuff too- all with an eye as to what looks good when I apply for my M.Phil within the next year or so. I need to get back in gear, get to the gym, start Alexander technique classes (to stop my chest fucking with my posture), oooh and I need decent bras, I want to start lindyhop, I need to catch up with everyone, must save some money... Dammit, I hate life being on pause!

As I final note I should just say that when I was coming to the end of my time in HK, and then in Jakarta, I couldn’t wait to get home for some relaxation time. Ah, nothing to do. But now, AAAAAAGH NOTHING TO DO!

Today I am: Loving the smell of toast- toast not cooked in a sieve over a hob!, waiting for the CV Centre to send me back my CV- come on bastards you’ve had it for 11 hours, drinking green tea, looking forward to dinner with Claire on Thursday as it’s the one social event I can afford this week.

I know what’s good for you; I know you’re dying to...

It was when I was in Singapore airport that I thought I’d finally cracked the point of boyfriends. As a resolutely single girl for almost all of my twenties I had things neatly divided. Fun, emotional support, someone to hang out with and relieve loneliness, depression or boredom, well this is what friends are for. Sex, now there’s where men can be useful. But any of the other stuff? Nah. As I always say, why go out on a date with some stranger when you can have dinner with people you actually know and like and then go have sex with some random eejit afterwards?

But... as you know a slow change in my attitudes has happened over the past few years. I think I just reached my own personal saturation point when it came to shagging eejits and now think it would be quite nice to have sex with someone I actually respect and like as a human being. Could be waiting for a while on that one though.

And of course, my twenties weren’t entirely emotion-free. There was a relationship at the beginning that was perfectly lovely, if doomed, and of course there have been my random deep, dark obsessions. These were ideal for me, full as they were of exquisite pain that made me feel I was in Wuthering Heights instead of just pissing my life away in the cheap dives of London, with their sticky floors and musty aromas of stale beer. Surely if there was all this agony and drama it must all be frightfully important? Life or death, true love or madness? But no. Like Titania, I was just falling for asses.

Which brings me back to Singapore. I had a 6 hour stop-off, it was 1am and I was bored and sleepy but couldn’t get comfortable on the stupid metal chairs, bolted far enough apart so that bits of my anatomy kept falling between the gaps. Then the drilling started. At night, they dismantle all of Singapore airport and rebuild it again just for fun and the hammering keeps frequency with the heartbeat pounding through the veins in your head. I tried pulling my blankie up over my ears (Yes, I am 29 and have a blankie, I’m not ashamed) but every gnaw of the drill made it through to stab me in the temple. And then I got it; a boyfriend would make this situation so much better! He could distract me by whispering dirty things in my ears and I wouldn’t even hear the drill! He’d be warmer than the blanket and I could concentrate on the sexy lips, messy hair, someone who made me laugh. Yeah, I get it.

Then I found the fish spa and forgot the boyfriend.

That could be one blog in itself but I’m not quite done yet, sorry. There’s a postscript.

I was having a sort through of some of my old stuff today. I found some old diaries and sat down to read. Mostly they were stupid, and I could laugh at myself as we always can at our past incarnations who were obviously much more clueless than our oh-so-smart present selves. I was reliving all the deep, dark obsessions, the confusion, bewilderment, the crying, the wondering why. Even though it hurt so much can I really leave that behaviour behind for, what? Someone who loves and respects me and wants to stay in with wine and DVDs. Where’s the edge? No bittersweetness. No scratch of brick against my back. If it’s not hurting it’s not working.

Shit, I always get like this when there’s nothing going on in my life. Get me a job, a purpose and something to do quick, or avert my eyes from the asses.

Filming, Phlegm, Food Obsessions, Imminent Flights!

Ah, Jakarta. Less than a week to go and still you continue to play your amusing tricks. A USB drive that sighs and gives up functioning, a microphone that has a strange rattle, miscommunication about stuff we need to film, a traffic jam so horrific it doubles the cost of the taxi... you mischievous urban sprawl, you!

The love/hate relationship with this cheeky city continues. This week, while doing the washing up after breakfast, listening to some indie guitar-y, violin-y music, both the front door and the back door of the house open and a cool breeze blowing through, I couldn’t quite remember why I wanted to leave. But I know this can’t last. I’ve learnt not to trust tricksy ol’ Jakarta. Today or tomorrow there’s bound to be a technical failure, or a behemoth of a traffic jam, or a small bout of food poisoning. So I shall enjoy this nugget of peace and happiness while I can.

Experience wise, I cannot fault what we’re actually doing one bit. On Tuesday we went to the Indonesian House of Representatives to meet an MP in her offices. The MP, Eva Sundani, works in women’s rights and migrant workers’ rights and has just got an award from the UN for ethical conduct. She’s the kind of woman I want to be when I grow up. My favourite part of the interview was when we had to pause because of noise her assistants were making in the outer office and she got up and said ‘I’ll just go and tell the boys to be quiet’! The boys! Ha ha ha! They shut up pretty sharpish too!

This week we’ve also interviewed a mother whose son disappeared twelve years ago. We got to the very basic house where she lives to discover it was his birthday. As you can imagine, that made for a pretty emotional interview. All the parents still have hope that their sons are alive, even though it was so long ago that they went missing. But they’re are getting old and frail and no one’s giving them any answers. The current president has the power to find out, and served on the Council of Military Ethics that heard the details of the case back in the late 90s. He could make the details public, but a lot of his support comes from the powerful members of the military who are implicated in the case so everything is stuck. The government is finally working out financial compensation for the victims but they don’t want financial compensation, they want to know if they’re sons are alive, held by the military somewhere or buried in some mass unmarked grave.

We have a security guy here, he’s an old guy and he does the night shift, from about 7pm till 7am. We were told he’s a little bonkers and yeah, he is a few anchovies short of a pizza. He’s very helpful though, and always wants to chat even though we only speak English and he only speaks Bahasa. Sometimes he’ll be a little creepy too; apparently he comes in and stares at me when Dani and I are working, although weirdly he never does it when I’m in the room on my own. Sometimes he’ll come in and do odd little dances and gestures; Dani and I used to get a bit annoyed as we were trying to work but he’s harmless enough I suppose.

Dani was editing a few nights ago, some footage of an activist called Mugi who was kidnapped with the other victims 12 years ago but was returned. His interview was in English and mentioned a man who was held with him named Gwun Li. Old security guy was in the room with us at the time and started going mental, rushing over to the computer repeating “Gwun Li! Gwun Li! Mugi” and started frantically pointing at the screen then himself. Turns out that crazy old guy IS Gwun Li. He was held in prison for 6 months, during which time he smuggled messages between Mugi and the other prisoners. He wants his picture in the documentary, captioned with “Gwun Li is another victim of the Suharto regime”. How could we refuse? Mugi was beaten, tortured with electric shocks and repeatedly told he would be killed while he was held. Is it any wonder the old guy’s a little crazy if he’s been through similar? Oh, and he’s never been married, apparently due to his craziness. Instead he comes and does a 12 hour shift here every night except for the weekends, when he does… who knows? Makes you sad to think.

Enough of the serious stuff, I will fill you in more on the fun stuff another time. For now, Dani and I are about to head out with a Hong Kong friend, David for dinner. Indonesian food… Oh God, I’m such a bulé; all I want is pizza!

Today I like; Red Bull, lots and lots of Red Bull, my new scarf from Borneo courtesy of our friend Reza, that I managed to spell phlegm correctly without Word flagging it up as misspelt, that I will soon be back in Hong Kong!

Today I don’t like: The fact I seem to have permanent low-level illness, currently wisdom tooth issues and nasty phlegm, that being back in HK soon means I will be back in London soon without any idea of what I’m doing with my life- GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!

Whenever, Wherever... Shakira Provides Indonesia’s National Anthem

Jakarta has got a little better. At first, I HATED IT. “Jakarta is something to be endured, not enjoyed” I would snarl into my regular breakfast of rice and noodles as the mosquitoes had their own feast on any of part my uncovered flesh. Nothing seemed to run right. Taxi drivers were out to rip us, driving round and round as we screamed “We know it doesn’t cost 48,000 rupiah to get from Tebet to Menteng!” Then they would get out to ‘ask directions’ for the 3rd time. Rice for breakfast everyday at our hotel (and then again at work for lunch) was a minor annoyance. Far more frustrating was the lack of urgency when things went wrong, which led to something I will only describe as ‘the leggings incident’ and one of the most spectacular applications of the ‘slam and flounce’ move I have ever been privileged to witness.

In addition to the leisurely pace, more than a few people in Jakarta seem to be on the take. If money is going begging, it would seem the best plan is to try and get as much of it as you can. Who knows when it may come around again? People are paid to attend meetings here, and I’m not talking about recreational meetings, I mean meetings they actually need to attend for work. But why show up if my transport isn’t covered? And when claiming for transport, why not triple it and add the first number you think of? Then I’ll show up alright.

I think after 21 days (14 to go!) I’m getting the hang of it a bit more. Our friend Reza explained the concept of ‘rubber time’ to me, which is the force that rules Jakarta, causing people to turn up for the event you scheduled at 4pm at maybe at 5pm or 5.30pm. Or 6pm. Here, the traffic, the weather and our vulnerability to the whims of the fates have created a very relaxed attitude about timekeeping. And if you are trying to make a film, or run a workshop, or host a film screening, or indeed, find the leggings that your hotel laundered, well, there’s no rush. It’s not my specific responsibility, someone will sort it out. Maybe. Whenever.

Yesterday gave us an excellent example of a useful application of ‘rubber time’. Me, Dani and our friends Yu Yuen and Markus got trapped in Kemang when the road flooded after hours of pissing rain. It was all the way across the road, up to the knee. Dirty and brown and none of us much fancied crossing it. The guy in Starbucks (where we sought shelter) calmly explained that this happens every time there’s heavy rain. Just one of those things, nothing we can do. Everyone was standing at their respective edges of the floods, shrugging. One man decided to make the most of it by taking his dog for a walk through the water, waving around his sodden flip-flop for the dog to chase as another filmed it on his phone, laughing. Brave (or stupid) young men were ferrying their girlfriends across on their mopeds, stopping once they’d crossed the flood to blow the water out of their exhausts. The general mood was merry. No one seemed to be fretting about the delays to their schedule. Probably because they didn’t have a schedule. After all, anyone they may have arranged to meet knows it would be foolish to expect them at the actual time they said. No rush or worries about getting anywhere, we can just meet up... whenever.

And during the floods, the motto ‘on the take’ took a more enterprising slant. Rain brought a chance to make a little cash; one old man carrying a well-heeled lady across the water in his rubbish cart, others donning their rain macs and frenziedly blowing whistles to direct traffic to safe parking places. A hooker was helping 2 stranded bulé (gweilo) guys by steering their BMW while they pushed it to higher ground. She then held her hand out for some cash, and when she’d got it they negotiated another deal and all went off together. Happy endings all round.
So rule of Jakarta seems to be; when God throws you lemons, don’t just make lemonade, water it down and sell it as liqueur to the stupidest looking bulé you can find. Or just wait around for someone else to make it. It may seem to the casual observer that everything moves slow and everyone’s trying to screw you. But that is part of Jakarta’s playful nature. When your taxi driver looks at you slyly and tries to keep all your change, just smile as slyly back and shake your head. Keep a pleasant demeanour about this good-natured scamming and it won’t get you down. And for fuck’s sake, throw out your schedule and develop the patience of a saint.

Things I like today: Scrambled eggs, toast and baked beans, orange flavoured hot chocolate (I’m scratching myself to death from mozzie bites anyway so I may as well eat yummy stuff I’m allergic to!), flooding, hazelnut hot chocolate, cheesy pasta... notice how much more important food is becoming now what I like to eat is scarce?!!!

Things I don’t like: Finding that even the oddest of people can have someone hot fall for them. And who fancies me...?!!!! I give up!!!!!

Only 21 days to Hong Kong...!

When staring at the calendar, noting I’m here for 3 more weeks it’s hard to believe I will ever leave. I can no longer imagine walking down the arrivals tunnel at Chek Lap Kok, a jaunty spring in my step, revelling in the knowledge that I’ll be home within an hour, hour and a half tops and that the MTR, buses and taxis are all there to help me. Jakarta is a dark nightmare.

Of course, I’m exaggerating in true drama queen style. Mercifully, the thing I have come here to do, work on the WISE project has been interesting, amusing and educational. We have the premiere of the girls’ film tomorrow (as I type, frantic, last-minute editing is taking place)which is going to be a proud moment. Some of the footage they’ve shot is incredibly moving; there was silence all round when we watched a drug user nonchalantly sticking a needle in her leg then calmly smoking, looking off into the distance and an interview with a HIV positive woman had more than a few people in tears.

Our girls are themselves a mix of ex drug-users, sex workers, transgendered woman and HIV positive women. As such, when the project first started there was a ‘car-crash’ moment for me pretty much every day. By this I mean a moment where I get KAPOWED! and all I can do is shrug and be very British about things, saying ‘Oh!’ or perhaps ‘Oh! That’s nice!’ For example, one our gals mentioned she had ‘many boyfriends’. “She means clients” hissed another. Oh! Or the time when of our transgendered women (who’s in her 30s) mentioned she has a boyfriend who is still in high school! Oh! That’s nice! Another asked me if I was sleepy one morning and when I replied ‘Yes! Coffee, coffee, coffee!’ she responded ‘Me too! Methadone, methadone, methadone!’ Lovely! Whatever works! I’ve got quite used to things now though; when some of the gals who are going through withdrawal are a bit edgy or when I actually saw a pic of the high school boyfriend (YIKES!). Just rolling with it is, I think, the most important lesson I’ve learnt.

Another thing I’m remembering is a lesson I’m calling ‘When you’re in charge, take charge!’ although I must say I’m learning it from Dani rather than doing it so much myself! Before Vixening I’d never really been in charge of anything and I’m still very far from being a ‘take charge’ kinda gal. Take charge of my own life, yes, but of other people? Nah! I’ve done a teeny bit here though, as on Tuesday I took the games for the morning which was fun but slightly nerve-wracking (especially when, halfway through the 3rd game we played, I completely forgot the point of doing it!) The first game was my fave though- we did a blindfold obstacle course where the girls took it in turns to be blindfolded while the others shouted instructions to guide them round. Trust and team work being the purpose of course and Dani and I were not exempt from playing (which meant we learnt the Bahasa for ‘left’, ‘right’ and ‘straight on’ pretty quick). Then we went outside for more games (led by me!) and things went fairly smoothly. The trouble is, when I’m in even the tiniest position of authority I imagine someone will say ‘And why the fuck are you in charge, what can YOU do?’ which is of course my own negative inner monologue. But when you ASSUME authority, you HAVE authority. It does help if you know what the hell you’re talking about I suppose but when called upon I’m reasonably good at faking it.Enough to make it through alive anyway!

And I’ve learnt another thing. I like cities with well organised public transport networks. I cannot even tell you the number of times our taxi drivers have ‘got lost’, even on the way to our office which is ten minutes from our hotel! They seem to see a white face and think we don’t know where we are going and we have lots of money they can screw out of us. When every journey ends in an argument you tend to get a bit stressed. Add to that banking difficulties and illnesses for both me and Dani and some general unhelpfulness and the result is that everything in Jakarta is FUCKING FRUSTRATING!!!!!!!! Next week Dani and I are moving into a ‘crack den’ (kidding, it’s a house owned by a charity we are working with and it’s not that bad, though our mattresses are on the floor) and will be working on our own film on enforced disappearances in the 1990s. It’s going to be interesting for sure, but I have no doubt that our frustrations are not at an end! Stay tuned for more swearing, rants of hatred and bowel updates!

What I like today: Our taxi driver only getting lost 3 times today, Tiger Balm, Dani ordering pizza for all of us for dinner- yes! No rice!

What I don’t like today: Tummy troubles, weird blocked ear troubles, impending financial issues, that the project ends tomorrow and it’s been the only thing keeping me sane!

Meetings, Metal Dectectors, Martinis

I feel like I'm being bitten all over and not in a good way. In the coffee shop once more and there are mosquitoes in my hair, on my arms, down my pants, nibbling my eyes. Disease-spreading motherfuckers.

I'm calling this Jakarta Day Two as though I've been here since... Thursday? I'd not really done anything much till yesterday. The evil pooing and all. Today's pooing has been less traumatic and I have been able to face the future with something resembling hope. Hope that the world won't fall out my arse.

We had a 'meeting' today with some of the team we will be working with/who will be helping us. As always, the term 'meeting' turns my blood to ice. I don't know why. I suppose it's the assumption that I'll have to talk seriously about serious things and use terms like 'fiscal' and 'blue-sky' and nod wisely and not crack knob jokes. Dani asked what I plan on doing when, one day I have a serious job. I'm don't exactly know. I'm pretty sure I'll have to run into the Ladies and scream 'BUM!' at random intervals just to get through the day.

As it turns out, everyone at this 'meeting' was pretty cool. They're all about our age, and you could go for a bevvie with any one of them. It's certainly calmed me down about what tomorrow brings. I have no specific role in this project, I'm just along for the ride and hopefully to be useful at some point. One of the guys, Micheal, offered his assistance as a tea-maker or general gopher. I smiled politely but my brain screamed 'Back off dude, that's my gig!'

We were going to head home after the meeting but saw the lights of the Marriot hotel ahead and asked the taxi to make a quick detour. Dani was gagging for a pint after two weeks in Pakistan and I wasn't about to say no to a fortifying cocktail. You take your joy where you can when staying in a Sharia hotel with no bar. As our taxi pulled up, a team of Marriot staff opened the doors. Not to help us out, to check for bombs. They're pretty thorough too. Then, on the way in, we had to put our things through an X-ray scanner and walk through a metal detector. Bombs again. The Marriot was one of the hotels that was bombed here back in 2009 and I guess they've not let their security up since then. Slightly scary, though I guess now it's one of the safer places to be. The Martinis and Carlsberg were well worth the security measures though.

And so to bed. In the morning, an early start and the first of or 10 or so days with the women. Please pray to your respective deities that I don't do/say anything inappropriate and that I manage to be, in some small way, vaguely useful.

Today I like; Cocktails, non-scary meetings, the fact my stomach appears to be returning to normal.

Jakarta... piss and blood!

Ok, so I know I haven't blogged in a while and have completely broken my blog-a-day rule. In my defence, I've been packing up my flat and then travelling to Jakarta (complete with 6 hour stop off in Singapore). All the while dealing with the virus from, if not hell, then at least the lower reaches of limbo. Put it this way- nothing solid has gone through my system in a week. I've definately lost weight, I just wish I had enough energy to remember where I was...

Oh yeah, Jakarta. That's where I am. Dani arrived this afternoon and we are now in the coffee shop of the hotel doing our respective internetting. The promised internet within the rooms turned out to be a myth but at least we can get wifi here. So far I like Jakarta, I feel like it's got the potential to be a kick-ass city. I just need to get a grip on what I'm doing here. That begins with a meeting with all the people involved in the project tomorrow and then the project itself on Monday. We are working with women with HIV- ex drug-users, sex-workers and transgendered sex workers and will be helping them make a film about issues that affect them. My role in all this is basically Dani's gimp (we've joked before that I'll be holding the boom), I'll be aiding and supporting in anyway possible. Then, the final 3 weeks we are here we're attempting to make a film though the people who are supposed to be helping with this leg of the project haven't been so helpful. We'll just have to see what happens.

If I'm honest, I'm not really feeling up to all the challenges the next few weeks will throw at me. I'm sure it's just because I'm ill and miserable- you know how bowel interferance depresses me. I just need to get this bug out the way and I'll be ass-kicking and supersexy fabulous again. Such will be the relief to be back to normal I know I'll feel like I can take on the world. I'm just having trouble getting my excitement levels up right now.

Anyway, to bed soon. It's only 8pm but I feel knackered! Tomorrow we have the meeting and I've got to go over what I'm doing with Dani in the morning. Need to have my serious, professional head on. No time to think about poo.

Today I have: Been very glad to see Dani, enjoyed pasta, watched far too much Discovery channel.

An ideal weekend...

The perfect Hong Kong weekend should contain several things. It needs at least one long boozy brunch/lunch somewhere fabulous. It needs at least one long boozy evening with friends. It needs an utterly random activity and some time for a nice snooze. Some would say it needs hiking or a junk trip. Neither of those are really my bag. I do not hike. I amble. And as for junk trips, well it is nice to be on a boat all day but I'm a pretty weak swimmer, have no desire to get on a wakeboard or a banana boat and can no longer hack the drinking. If I'm gonna be surrounded by pissheads all day I'd rather do it on dry land. That way I can fuck off and go shopping when my sobriety gets too frustrating.

If we apply my own definition to this weekend then there's no denying it's been a great one. Yesterday I had the random thing (Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry!!!!) and the leisurely drinks with friends on the Fringe rooftop. I also had a great lunch. Today, I had the boozier version though. My darling friend Nimmi, who is letting me stay in her beautiful apartment when I'm back here in September took me to Zuma in the Manderin Landmark for brunch. It's posh, uber-posh. I don't really go anywhere posh. I feel intimidated by classy restaurants and designer shops, like I'm going to get to the door and bounce out like an uninvited vampire, unable to pass over the threshold while the immaculately groomed staff blast me with their withering disdain. (Incidentally, I also get like this in sports shops. The last time I bought trainers, my discomfort led me to grab a cute addidas pair with silver flowers on within ten seconds rather than face the air-pump-max-nike-running-power-surge-shock-absorber-gel-breathable-mesh gauntlet. Also I always fear the staff will look at me and snort 'You don't do sport' and snigger openly till I leave their lithe, atheletically-dressed presence.)

Anyway, Zuma is on the 6th floor of the Landmark and we were sat on the outside terrace. It was a warm day, but thankfully not so hot that eating and moving were unbearable. The tall buildings all around provided a nice bit of shade and even though we were right on Queen's Road we were high up enough that the honking horns, beeping road crossings and the general noisy surge were all softened by distance and drowned out by the chill-out music coming through the speakers. Unfortunatly, being a posh venue there were the usual Brit expats braying into their champagne, the girls on their iphones tossing their artfully styled highlights, the guys in deck shorts, leaning back in their chairs guffawing, replete with the all the confidence and obnoxiousness too much money can bring. All the guys uniformly had Edward Cullen/Jedward hair. I'm mildly alarmed. Is this look on trend now? Will I get home to find all the previously hot men have coaxed their hair upwards to look like electricution victims? How do you have sex with someone whose gel-hardened hair is apt to poke you in the eye when you change positions? People of Britain, please tell me this is only a fashion among the posh boys? If the sparks, chippies and brickies are at it when I get back I'll be weeping.

As ever, I digress: Despite the fact Nim is only over in Mid-levels and has been here since October we've probably seen each other in the flesh under 10 times. She works for Standard Chartered and they keep her nose the the grindstone and what with teaching and burlesque and writing... well, life gets in the way. So when I do get to sit down and see her it's like my everyday life is on pause. For a few hours I don't have to do anything, just catch up, laugh and gossip. There can be few nicer feelings than sitting with one of your oldest friends, sipping a cool Bellini with the warm air on your skin.

After too many Bellinis and a lot of sushi I came home and napped. And snoozed. And dreamt. For about 5 hours until my flatmate Becca woke me up as I'd promised to print off some documents for her. She is now staying in HK with our company and, weirdly, my old flatmate Clare is coming back to HK to work with our old company. And the way the flat-sharing works, they'll probably be living together. The randomess of life. I'm looking forward to coming to visit them in Metro Harbour when I return in September.

September... ah, it seems like a long awaited holiday. But first there is all the hard work of Jakarta. Fly out Wednesday evening. Not even 3 days to tie up all my loose ends and attempt not to sob as I take off. Wish me luck.

Today I like: Wonderful Nimmi, veggie sushi, Bellinis, snoozing.

The incomparable wonder of Sharron Fast...

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I've got half an hour before I run out the house for a few drinkies this evening so I thought, better blog NOW or end up with pissed rantings later.

Today is basically an ode to my dear friend Sharron, who has given me many beautiful clothes, shoes and handbags, including some still with the tags on and a fake Balenciaga which someone mistook for a real one. Seeing as I'm unsure of even how to spell Balenciaga I am impressed by this.

Today, Sharron also took me and our friend Ramesh to a talk at the uni where she works entitled 'What, Why and How Writers Write'. The four panallists included the lovely Stephen Fry who signed autographs and posed for pictures and who laughed heartily at a quip I made about shoes. I am more pleased with this than I would have been had the talk been on 'What, Why and How Irishmen shag' and the panellist Colin Farrell (who would then subsequently admire my shoes and demand I walk over his back in them). That's just how I roll these days.

Anyway, the wonderous Mr. Fry was very inspirational on writing. Frederick Forsyth, who was also on the panal, said he wrote for the money, would stop writing once he amassed enough money and didn't get writer's block because he was doing a job and being paid for it. Hmmmmmm. Stephen on the other hand was much more artsy fartsy and mentioned P.G. Wodehouse's cure for writers block which is apparently to swear a lot. That's what I like to do myself so this pleased me. Obviously screaming 'FUCKSTICKS!!!' at the top of your voice (while trying to find Ghanan things to do in Hong Kong) is what writers do. He also stated his belief that writer's wrote 'because they have to', and that the two main things a writer needs is to overcome their self-conciousness and to be willing to put in the labour needed to produce writing. I definately agree with him on those two, not so sure if I 'need' to write. I'd love to be that artistic and dramatic but I think the only need I have for writing is as a valve to my brain; otherwise the thoughts all jam up in there and drive me mad. (Oh God, that makes me sound psychotic...)

Incidentally, there were two other panallists. The first being discussion chair, Sir David Tang of 'Shanghai Tang' fame (a sort of Chinese Laura Ashley, a lot more upmarket and expensive but similar in terms in the way they market conservative clothes that attempt to reflect the national identites of their countries but end up being something a posh mum would wear). Sir David was a fierce chairperson, telling people with poorly thought-out questions that they were stupid and offering a potted description of anyone who put their hand up; 'Yes, you the man with the weird moustache', 'Yes, the chubby boy'. Needless to say my hand stayed down as I found him rather terrifying but I did conclude that the BBC's Question Time would be a lot more fun with him as a presenter.

The final panallist was an historical biographer, Andrew Roberts who looked like a dry Conservative pary back bencher but was actually very witty and engaging, particularly when telling how he had received two death threats. The first time, the police dusted for fingerprints on his letterbox and were only able to ascertain that his cleaning lady wore rubber gloves. The second time, he received a threat stating 'death to the Jew Andrew Roberts'. The man had kindly left his name and address on the letter so Andrew turned it into the police, not before pondering whether to write back a note to the man patiently explaining that he wasn't in fact Jewish.

Anyway, then we went for a yummy lunch at Life, the organic vegan cafe where I had eggs bendict and Sharron the most delicious veggie burger in the world. The humble veggie burger is usually the desperate choice of herbivores everywhere as in a lot of restaurants it's only thing us non-meat eaters can have. Consquentially, when you go to an actual, yummy, we-can-have-everything-on-the-menu veggie restaurant you avoid the veggie burger. Been there done that. Boring! But I can only say this was the most delicious, tongue teasing veggie burger I have ever had. Light yet filling, moist not soggy. I have no idea what was in it but I'll be back for one of those in September... To top it all off, while I was in the loo, Sharron did that sneaky thing your mum and her best friend do and paid the bill while I was having a wee as this was 'my going away lunch'. I am spoilt!

Finally, she's taking a suitcase full of my crap back to the UK for me at Christmas, which has saved my ass because, as I type this very blog, I still have too much stuff and not enough time to get it the hell out of my flat!

Basically, it's been a brilliant day. Thanks Fasty.

Today I like; The inspiring Stephen Fry, veggie food, my new 1950s style dress courtesy of Sharron, listening to my ipod on he MTR, ignoring my shit everywhere by going for a drinkie with friends at The Fringe.

Today I don't like; All the things I still have to do before I go to Jakarta- aaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!

I'm not going to do one of those countdowns but...

...four fricking days till I leave the flat. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!

Today has been a better day. I got loads of organisation done and now have things packed into blue case (coming home), dark blue case (going to Jakarta), white box (posting back to England) and red bag (erm... in another box?!). My orignal amibiton to send nothing home has been thwarted due to my vast clothing collection. I never knew I had this much?!!! I've already got rid of seven bags to the clothing bin and two bags to friends. But I still have outfits I need for work, burlesque, casual times... pretty dresses! So many pretty dresses and we all know it's impossible to throw those out, even if you only wear them once a year. I knew I should never have gone to Sharron's swap party. But she has so many great clothes! And now they are mine, mine MINE and will hopefully arrive on my doorstep in England within 3 months... it'll be an early Christmas!

Speaking of Sharron, I really must go to bed as I'm meeting her early tomorrow to go to a talk on 'What, Why and How writer's write'. An ideal topic for me right now, and even more ideally one of the panallists is Stephen Fry!!!! I think I may collapse in the presence of so much fabulousness! He's super smart! And tall! And I loved him in Jeeves and Wooster when I watched it with my Auntie Patty! And QI! AND HE'S GENERAL MELCHETT! BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Damn, I must sort out all this shit I own though, posting home the HUGE box of clothes is (if I've worked out the post office rates correctly) going to cost me about £150. And I may have to send another home... and I'm really worried my cases are overweight. That's OK for going home (erm... another box?!!!) but for Jakarta I'm having to take 3 laptops, 3 camera's and my clothes for the trip. I'm not taking too much but even so, my case feels like an elephant's coffin.

And where is all this money coming from to pay for the overweight cases and the boxes home you ask? Simple. That magic wand known as the credit card. So I will be entering the country with no money and credit card debt but soon I will have fabulous clothes. Fabulous, fabulous clothes.

Today I have: Tidied and made a terrifying list of things still to do before I go to Jakarta, had random panic attacks with Becca about how much stuff we have left to do (she leaves on Monday), watched 'Date Movie' (it was on TV!) and 3 episodes of Sex & the City while frenzidly cramming my life into boxes.

Having a St. Mary...

It has been another bad day.

Today I have been the very defination of the term highly strung. I'm worried about everything, leaving Hong Kong, all the things I have to do before I go, getting to Jakarta, working in Jakarta, coming back to Hong Kong, going home. And when I am worried like this I fixate on unlikely and terrifying scenarios which distract me from dealing with the everyday horrors at hand and instead leave me curled up in a foetal position on my bed. Scenarios in which I forget one little thing and it leads to my total downfall/imprisonment/death by my own stupidity. And even if I manage to fall asleep I will have stressed-out nightmares. I want to go home. I want my mum.

In the cavern between Grant and Phil there is now a huge nervy knot and the huge nervy knot sends worries to my brain, tightens my chest which makes it impossible to breath calmly and makes my skin itch. You know how stress (and tomatoes, and oranges, and feathers) makes my skin play up. And it's so comforting and such a relief to SCRATCH even if it does leave my wrists and hands a little bloodied. There's a certain satisfcation in seeing them all scratched up also, like I deserve it for being so crazy over nothing (I think there's actual science behind this, right? Stress releases histamine, histamine makes you itch, scratching relieves the itch/stress?). That's probably as close as I'd ever come to self-harming, considering my almost comedic fear of inflicting pain on myself.

Outside my window, I can see the warm lights of a passing minibus and all the people tucked up in there cosy against the rain seem a million miles away from me and my crazy crazy stressness. It doesn't help that I've been trapped at home today by the black rain and not seen a soul. Or indeed that the rain has given Hong Kong such a doomed, apocalyptic air which hasn't aided my fevered imaginings. I have spent too long inside my head today.

But although I may sound like a nutbag I have solutions. Firstly, I have sleeping pills which I know of old are one of the few things that will calm me. There is no point trying to sleep naturally when I'm like this. Secondly, I have many meditations on my ipod. Sadly one of them has a man who sounds like a scary pedophile on it; the first time I listenined to that one I got the shock of my life when his voice kicked in after the initial plinky plonky relaxation music. Especially as he first gave a few deep breaths which made it sound less like a meditation exercise and more like an obscene phone call. (HA! I am feeling better, I made a joke!) Thirdly, I have writing and thoughts are so much less scary when you can put them on the screen, they diminish in size when they're not circling around and around in my brain like so many psychotic vultures.

When I was at uni (the first time!) I felt like this approximately... oooh, every 15 minutes. And I didn't really tell anyone I was having all these bonkers stresses and that made it this big, dark, shameful secret, like I couldn't cope with everything because I was a useless gimp and that was BAD BAD BAD. Now I know, it's OK to feel like you can't cope sometimes. And to admit it is to chase the stupid monster away with it's tail between it's legs. BOO! I am not scared of feeling bonkers any more. And just admiting to feeling a little bonkers, makes me feel... well, less bonkers. It's ok, deep breath, I'm just being a little daft because there is a lot of scary change happening and I have spent too much time on my own today.

Tomorrow is another day and this time it WILL BE. I have far too much to do to be anything other than organised and capable. It's get your shit together time.

Shit. Bugger. Blog. Forgot.

It has not been a good day.

For no particular reason. Actually I had a great stroke of luck today but I ended up spending most of it asleep for some reason. And too much time on my own which always leads to crazy spiralling and worries. There is lots to organise at the moment and that's something that always brings out the worrier in me. Expecially since I've just wasted a day sleeping and having nightmares.

Of course a day like today brings about the perfect conditions for my bi-yearly 'Maybe it'd be nice to have a man in my life' feeling. It comes from just feeling a bit empty but also stressy and in need of a hug. Then I remind myself there are plenty of people in my life to hug, ones who are far less likely to try and take my life over, or control me, or to leave me for someone more attentive and less bonkers.

So there we go. Boyfriend, no. Hugs, yes please. Tomorrow is another day.

Extracts from the diary, 2008

Rummaging through my room, I just found my 2008 diary. Entries stop abruptly after March, proving the saying 'good girls keep diaries, bad girls just don't have the time'. Ha! I've decided to type up the entires below. One because they are my first few days in HK and very important to me, it was great to rediscover them again. And two, beacuse writing is all about being open; opening up your heart and being brave enough to say what's in there and not hiding and cringing and thinking everyone will hate you if they see the real you.

One more thing. There are rare occasions when I think it might be nice to have a boyfriend. Usually when I'm feeling crap about myself and need someone to tell me I'm not a useless mutant. As a terminal singleton I have a saying for these times; Be your own cheerleader. This is the function the diary has. I write down the good things I have done to remind myself I am capable and OK, so if it sounds a bit like a wanky self-help book that is why!

Thursday March 27th 2008

Dear Diary,

This is such a stupid time to be awake stressing. Still, it's a good time to text home but I feel like if I tell anyone my anxieties then I'm not living up to being 'adventurous' and I'll be letting everyone down by being so crap so early on. I don't feel very fabulous and let's face it, being fabulous is going to be hard to sustain the whole 16 months!

Honestly, I need to calm the fuck down and be more open and accept that it is ok not the be the Queen of Hong Kong- I've only been here 4 days!!! I put too much pressure on myself. Must remember to step back and take a deep breath:

If one person does not like me it doesn't mean I am friendless and unlovable.

If I have a bad day at school it doesn't mean I am a crap teacher, ergo a crap human being.

I am loveable, I am fine just as I am.

Getting upset and missing home doesn't mean I can't cope!

Other people's success at work and socially doesn't make me shit. It's not a competition, stop comparing yourself.

It's early days. Feel crap but do positive things too. e.g. There's another English-speaker coming to the gym induction, befriend them!

Remember, you have stripped on a stage in roomful of people and everyone had a great time, you've completed a really tough TEFL, you've opened your heart to people, loved them and been hurt and still lived, you've left uni with no damn degree AND been accused of stealing on the same day and you've got through it to become valued and trusted, you finally got your damn degree. YOU CAN DO THIS!

Plans: Go to Fringe club.
Go onto internet; look up meditation classes and Time Out HK

It may sound proper naff but... ACCEPT YOURSELF.


Friday 28th March 2008

Dear Diary,

I have had a GREAT day. I didn't get up till late but FORCED myself kicking and screaming out the apartment. I got the 12B to Mong Kok and did my first trip on the MTR- yay! Wandered round central, found the Fringe club,had a cool glass of white wine on the terrace, looking up at all the MASSIVE buildings (they're everywhere?!!!) and called Ad and Bethan for chats. Then I got lost, went on the internet in Pacific Coffee and went back to the Fringe and saw The Pillowman. Awesome and I proper fancied the lead actor in it (Irish!). On the way back I got completly lost between the Fringe and the MTR and ended up looping round and round lots of noisy bars and chaos. A little frustrating, but I managed to get the MTR back to Mong Kok and I got the 12B home- NOT a cab!

Back at the flat, I met Kristine's fella Brett (Brent?) who promised to take ups Irish bar-hopping. Kristine is going to try and get me Sevens tickets (would be SO cool if she could!) Going to see The Vagina Monologues at the Fringe on Sat then out drinking with Bethan and Jess. This is all good and positive!

Things to do tomorrow:

Buy towel, bug spray, purple t-shirt, top up mobile, shave legs

Internet: look up performing arts in HK, look at expat websites, meditation/yoga, British/Irish embassy; social and events stuff to explore?

Look in HK mag for more stuff.

Must go to bed, Kristine's got Brett staying over so maybe I need find my earplugs?! ;o)


Much love, 2008 Mel xxx:o)!

The Salivary Excretions of the Swiftlet

In between drinking, napping and churning out shit blogs I have been a-pondering. The blog on crying (or lack there of, instead opting to remain an emotionless void) and various comments on it got me thinking. And there was something else that got me thinking too. But then I forgot it. So instead of phillosphising,I shall just tell you the events of my day. Then phillosophise about them.

Basically today consisted of sleeping, then getting my ass in gear to go meet the teachers from my kindergarten for a posh buffet dinner in a hotel in Hung Hom. I managed to get a little lost in Hung Hom station- well it's BIG for Hong Kong!- but luckily some of the teachers had waited to greet a sweaty, panting and flustered Melly as she skidded towards them on the tiled floor at rate of knots. The resturant had a great view of the Hong Kong skyline. Sadly, most of Hung Hom was in the way but wisely they had built the resturant high enough so that when you were seated you couldn't see the boxy concrete buildings below, only the dazzling skyline of the island. The buildings snaking up towards The Peak looked precariously perched from that angle, one false move and they'd all clatter into the harbour like dominoes. Not that you could see the harbourfront, so I suppose a couple might have gone that way and we'd never have noticed.

It' a funny thing, but at school-related occasions the teachers, headmistress and principal sit at one table and the teaching assistants and the sum sums at another. (The sum sums are our 'aunties'. They cook, clean,fix stuff, take the kids to the toilet... pretty much do everything except perform nuclear fisson). It's not like they don't get along, obviously each class teacher spends more time with their assistant than they do with any of the other teachers and everyone loves our sum sums. I suppose it must be a heirachy thing, and though it may seem a bit daft to extend to a casual night out, in HK everyone knows their place. Mine was to teach English; teach and not point out any obvious problems, merely to let them occur and play dumb. To do anything as radical as to bring a problem to the attention of the higher-ups would be frowned upon because you were pointing out a mistake they had made and so highlighting their imperfection which as a mere pleb you had no right to do. Also, you were causing them hassle. Hassle they had to fix. It is far better to let something quietly go a little wrong than make a noisy fuss to get it perfect.

Anyway, as the token white chick (and occasional loveable bufoon) I got a place of honour next to Miss Ma, my principal. She's always referred to herself as my 'Hong Kong mother' but now I'm no longer under her employ I'm allowed to call her 'Kimmy Mummy'. In her role as my adopted mother over the past two and a half years she has seen to it that I've eaten a lot of cake, lent me her umbrella many times over as I always seem to forget mine when the universe schedules a pissdown, and told me I am fat. Miss Ma: 'Miss Melissa, your legs very thin' Me: 'Thank you Miss Ma' Miss Ma: 'But your stomach very fat! Ha ha ha!'. This is just the Chinese way, and it's done with love, just a part of the Asian mother repetoire so you must take it with good humour. Over-sensitive types, do not move to Hong Kong.

I digress slighly. So the buffet was magnificent and included many yummy western veggie things like mozzerella, olives, chips etc. It also included some of my new Asian favourites like inari and vegeteble tempura. Our teachers were damned if they were going to quit early and disobey the instruction to eat any less than all they could. Most of them demolished 3 plates of seafood, a bit of salad, a plate of mini-cakes and some ice cream while my Buddha belly struggled to cope with a plate and a half of yummies followed by a scoop of mango sorbet. How do they do it? They are all so skinny and beautiful and despite the fact they are my age or older they all look as fresh faced as the recent school-leavers who were celebrating their graduation out on the balcony. There must be something in the DNA. So why has no one found out what it is and started marketing it? They'd make a fortune!

I did manage to force down some Bird's Nest Soup for the first time this evening. For those not in the know, this isn't a cute name for something innocuous, it's actually made of, y'know, bird's nest. Or rather, it's made by taking the nest of the bird (the cave swift usually), which has been stuck together by gooey spit and dissolving it in water, giving it what Wikipedia describes as a 'unique texture' and I would describe as perfectly bearable as long as you forget what it is you are drinking. No birds are harmed in the making of this soup by the way (unless you have the soup with the blood mixed in- euwwww), the spit is just a by-product like milk. Even so, I'm not sure I'll be knocking it back too often. For one its terribly, painfully sweet. For the other, it is a ludicriously expensive delicacy, a kilogram of white nest costing up to 2000 US dollars (Wiki again). Two grand for bird gob!

Lucky little me then had lots of pressies given to her. Kimmy Mummy got me some green tea. Quote: 'I go to Shenzen to buy. Chinese green tea very expensive in Hong Kong, much cheaper in Shenzen'. (There's that Hong Kong honesty again!) My friend Katherine (Miss Ho) got me a very cool notebook with 'Shoeaholic' on it and seven facemasks, one a day for a week. Just enough time to do those before Jakarta rolls round. Wing (Miss Lam) and Tracy (Miss Ho) got me my name in Chinese characters painted calligraphy style- how cool is that?!! My Chinese name is Ma Lai Shan incidentally, although the first syllable is where my Chinese surname should go. I'm not sure you could pimp Coghlan Chinese-style though, or condense it into one syllable, besides Ma is Kimmy Mummy's surname so adopting it for my Chinese surname makes me part of her family.

Chris (Miss Cheong) who is probably the teacher I'm closest to bought me a very cool wallet and keyring from a funky design shop called G.O.D (Goods of Desire). The pattern on them is called Ya Ma Tei, named after the neighbourhood near me and depicts the old-school flats about shops, with their peeling white paintwork and laundry on bamboo sticks. I'd already purchased the pillowcases in that pattern as a souvenir so was made up to have further accessories. She also gave me a mobile phone holder, which was designed to look like a bustier dress, very burlesque. Odd she should get it so spot on, maybe burlesque leaks out my pores no matter how hard I try to hide it.

I think one of the reasons Chris and I are friendly is because we are the only unmarried teachers on the staff. I have no idea how she's managed to survive the constant 'Have you got a boyfriend, get nice boyfriend, MARRY' enslaught, when I've only had it for two years, not a whole lifetime and already I'm pig sick of it. Funny thing is though, she HAS got a boyfriend. She'd been mentioning 'a friend' who lives in London recently then told me at dinner today that he was her boyfriend but to keep it a secret. Why? Apparently he's in accounting, I'm betting he'd be earning more dollar than guys on the same level here which would mean he was an excellent catch by HK standards. Even if he's Quasimodo it's far better to have any boyfriend at all than to be single (Hong Kong is much like how my mother describes the late 1950s/early 60s) I don't know, we shouldn't mock, she must have her reasons for this secrecy. Maybe there's something really wrong with him. Maybe he won't buy her Louis Vuitton.

Finally, this being HK, I had to pose for an endless series of pictures with the teachers and all that smiling and giggling gave my jaws a happy ache. In our final group shot, everyone crammed in and Katherine ended up hugging me with her head on my chest. 'Very soft' she proclaimed. Then Miss Chan jokingly pulled her top down a little to mirror my cleavage, so I did the same. 'Oh Melissa!' Katherine exclaimed 'You are so open!', neatly veryfing my decision to run two facebook profiles as correct. If only she knew exactly HOW open, eh?

Today I have: Remembered with amusement my friend Ben's suggested deadpan response to the next guy who tries to chat me up by boasting he's a banker: "How unique". Invented my own new adage: "Love is like syphillis- you catch it via sex and both are apt to send you mad eventually"

BAH.

For a girl who can't drink anymore I seem to be starting many blogs with 'ugh I'm tired and I've had a drink so I can't write and... zzzzzzzz...' and here is yet another one. I've eaten a lot today. I had four cocktails which, nowadays is about all I can take without passing out into a coma.

Stream of conciousness: Last night I had torturous dreams about getting rid of our sofa, then as soon as I got rid of it another one appeared. And a dining table. And lamps! I had all this furnaiture I couldn't get rid of- why why why why WHYYYYYYY?!

I have to make a big long list of all the things I have to do. I have ten days until I leave for Jakarta. I have packing and research and life to organinse.

This is less a blog, more just pointless. I have to sleep now. Goodnight!

Today I like: Creamy pasta, lots of pudding, cocktails, floating resturants.

Today I dislike: Massive boats with posh people on them.

Today's Life Lessons

Things I have learnt, things I have been reminded of, the wisdom of Zoolander.

1) There is no age-appropriate filter on my mothers worry levels. Repeating 'I KNOW, I'm 29!!!!' over and over is just more pissing into the wind.

2) My favourite chess piece is the cow.

3) If Sharron's getting rid of her clothes, you will definately need to send a box of stuff back to the UK.

4) I want to be Milla Jovovich.

5) Half of the world's population is water and the other 96% is wheat.

6)The spare key to Sharron's flat is like Zoolander. It's blue steel and it can't turn to the left.

7)Even the funniest film can be reduced to monotony when narrated by Ben Stiller.

8)Liz makes excellent guccamole.

9) I cannot spell gwuk-a-mole-ey.

10)It doesn't matter if you napped for four hours in the afternoon and then just hung out with the girls in the evening, you will still be too tired to come home and write a decent blog.

Today I have: Done a lot of tidying and a lot of laundry, gained beautiful new clothes including nine west shoes, a Missoni dress and a John Galliano top, watched Zoolander for the 57th time.

Funny in my tummy...

I didn't get homesick when I came to Hong Kong. At least not in the way I expected. When I left, my friends Ad and Caz came to the airport with me. They gave me two envelopes. A yellow one to read on the plane and a blue one, to open 'in case of a blue day'. The yellow one was, bless them, full of words of love and encouragement. And I'm pretty sure Ad called me poohead at one point. As the plane took off, London got smaller and smaller until it was obliterated by the usual blanket of low-lying cloud. I shed one tear only, swigged down two anti-histmines with some wine in lieu of a sleeping pill and slipped into a coma.

I'd assumed that I would open the blue envelope on a day when I was particularly homesick, but homesickness never happened in the way I expeceted. I thought it would
involve violently sobbing into my pillow wailing to any poor sods listening that I wanted to go home and that life (sob!) was (sob!) SO UNFAIR! (sob, sob, sob!). Then I'd reach for the envelope, read Ad and Caz's soothing words and emerge from my bed chamber a tear-dampened phoenix, ready to embark on another round of shots in at the Fringe club, play rehearsals and educating small persons.

Instead, sometimes I'd feel a bit funny. Very small and like I wanted to hide away, grumpy and disconnected from my surroundings. One time I was ranting about the diabolical girl/guy situation over here and realised, wait a minute, THIS is homesickness. Homesickness is not about regretting being here, or snotting all over your pillow. It's nothing so dramatic. It's about having a five minute muh when you get off the phone with someone from home then popping on the kettle for some calming green tea. Or bitching about stupid litle things, like the eggs here tasting gross compared with the ones in the UK and the lack of decent hummus. I was never going to wail that I was unhappy here; anytime I have been unhappy it's just been, y'know, life. It's not Hong Kong's fault. I've always known that coming to here was the best damn idea(and deatour) I've had.

Remember how I mentioned I didn't cry when I left school? Yesterday, some of the other teachers and I said goodbye to our friends Sara Beth and Liza who fly out of HK for good today. Then today us Vixens gathered for lunch to say goodbye to our Jen, who's going home for the summer. And now the funny feeling is starting to kick in. This is the first round of goodbyes and there are going to be more. From other people who are leaving, from me when I leave for Jakarta in July and BIG ONE when I come home to the UK in September. I hate this bit. It was the same when I left the UK. If I have to get going, I just want to BE GONE. And avoid the difficult weeks of feeling sad and small and smooshy.

I think my subconious has got used to all the goodbyes and the comings and goings over my time in Hong Kong and has developed ever more sneaky coping strategies. The old one used to be just sleeping though anything that made me feel sad or uncomfortable (otherwise known as the St. Mary's years). I think this time though, in order to keep me going through packing up and Jakarta and saying all those goodbyes my brain and emotions have decided to'check out' in advance. So I've got no tears to cry, but I have got that funny empty feeling. That 'I want to be a hermit' feeling (beacuse to go out and be social means acknowleding that it might be one of the last times I see someone and that means I'm going and gaggggggh!)I suppose it's just the grown-up version of sticking my fingers in my ears and going la la la la.

So I imagine what's going to happen is this; I will remain curiously emotionless as I do the rounds of goodbyes. This is odd, for me, a girl who cried every five minutes during the first Sex & The City movie, and had to turn off Charlotte's Web right at the beginning as I think something bad happens to the piggies?! But I will accept the deadened empty feeling and recognise it as a coping strategy that is out of my hands. So if I don't cry when I say goodbye to you, please don't be offended. And please don't punch me in the flange to bring the required tears to my eyes. Rest assured, when as the plane leaves the HK tarmac and the tough face is no longer needed I'll be bawling and hiccuping like a small child. And then it's time to reach for the blue envelope.

Today I have: enjoyed the rain break but come on, only typhoon one? LAME. Washed all my pretty dresses. I am now waiting for them to dry so I can wear one tonight or else I'm going out in my jammies.

Sleepiness and Funny Friends...

Yup, still snoozy. Got home after my last day at school today and fell into the deepest sleep until it was time to wake up and stagger to sushi like a zombie. I didn't have to teach today but all the smiling I did as I posed with teachers, children and their parents exhausted my jaw (out of practice...) and I think that may have spread over the rest of my body. It's strange. I haven't cried at all when I said goodbye to my kids. AND I WILL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN. I didn't cry as I left my room even though I WILL NEVER TEACH IN THERE AGAIN. I'm not sure whether this is a healthy acceptance of change (as befits my new grown-up attitude) or if I'm in severe denial and will snap at some point soon, wandering round the city in my PJs, sobbing everytime I see a small child. I can't wander round in my work uniform as I've already thrown it in the clothes recycling bin. Harsh or what?!!

Anyway, this evening my friend Leeann told me of a great saying an ex of her's coined. He once said to her 'you're not arm candy, you're dick candy'. Dick candy, I like that. So here below (beacuse I am too lazy to be properly creative this evening) is a list of my favourite phrases, as coined by various friends and aquaintences:

1) 'Jilling off': My friend Katie's term for female masturbation, in contrast to 'Jacking off'

2) 'Morning Dew': Again from Katie. In contrast to 'Morning Wood'

3) 'He'll come to a sticky end': Obviously not inveneted by my friend Rose but she put a different interpretation on it (think about it)

4) 'All mouth and no trousers': Another different interpretation to the traditional one, and sounds about perfect to me.

5) 'I'm having bacon today, bacon's good for you': BGSers will recgonise this classic Mr. Geale quote, said apropros of nothing in the canteen queue.

6) 'Drink your wine, there's sober kids in Africa': And there are. So drink up you inhumane bastard!

7)'You know where you are with a bastard' My motto for my love life. And yeah, that's served me really well!

Ah, I can only make it as far as lucky seven. MUST SLEEP! PLease add more/remind me!

Today I have: remained surprisingly dry-eyed as I said goodbye to my kids, eaten more pizza than is safely reccomended, SLEPT!

Coming out the closet...

Well howdy doo!

Remember the other day I said I'd come to an important love life decision? Well now I'm having an early night and am not too knackered to go into detail I shall spill. As you may know, over the years I have cultivated a bit of a cheeky image. I won't say all out-slutty. More tart-with-a-heart. Like Kat Slater but without Shane Ritchie (there are some depths to which even I would not sink). It used to be that if there was a hot guy on the periphery I'd be shagging him. Or working out a way to shag him. Or at least luring him into one of my many lairs (also know as the alleyways of Southwark, Bexley and more recently, Wan Chai). Sex has always been an important part of my personality. I favour the kinky. I make the double entendres. I wear the slutty clothing.

But not anymore. My sex life has sort of... tapered off. I get less ball action than an England player. If I keep on at this rate, I'll be able to raise some dollar by selling my virginity on Ebay. However... I can't say this lack of sex has all been down to accident. After all, while I am no Megan Fox (and even Megan Fox isn't Megan Fox without the lighting, airbrushing etc) I'm not total gargoyle. If I was going out looking for it every weekend I'd get a poke once in a while. So tht leads to the explanation and following important announcment. After years of playing the saucy minx I am coming out of the closet to say:

I DON'T CARE ABOUT SEX ANYMORE!!!!!

HA! I've said it. And I'll say more 'THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE THAN SEX!!!!'

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So there we go. I have come out the former-minx closet. No really, not bothered. Hot guy? Pah! Keep him, I've got some Indonesia research to do. Colin Farrel covered in hummus? Sorry Colin, you can't tempt me. And this is why;

1) I am really run down and lack energy at the mo and so the va va voom has drooped.
2) The guys here are very much in demand, often by girls who are willing to look constantly beautiful and say and do anything to please them. In that environment, even the nicest guys turn into assholes. Assholes I don not want to have sex with.
3) Plus the assholes are less likely to go for a gal in a plaid shirt, jeans and ballet pumps when they can have a Hong Kong doll. And for me, that just makes it easier to drop out the competition. Hey, I know I'm fabulous and so I compete for no one. Their loss.
4) The older I get, the more confident I am about what I want in bed. And what I want in bed is a little... varied. To put it delicately (and to give but one minor example), there are some areas into which a one night stand does not get access. Only guys who get regular access earn the VIP pass.
5) But on the other hand, I'm not really ready for a relationship either. There's lots of stuff I need to do before I settle on a firm direction for my life and I suppose I can't really expect a guy to trail around forlornly after me while I work out what I'm doing.

For me, it's a shameful thing to admit. Especially nowadays when everyone's bisexual (it would seem you can't even get onto Big Brother now unless they think you're up for some same sex action), trysexual, transexual, pansexual. We're happy to talk about anal, femal ejactularion, dildos and butt plugs. Chirpy light-hearted comedy dramas are made about posh girls becoming prostitutes (much to my horror and disdain). But the last great sexual taboo? Acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, sex isn't that important to you. That yes, it is possible to go without some for bloody ages and look! I'm still the same person. I am as sexy or non-sexy as I was before. I can still string a sentence together. I have not grown a ladybeard. LIFE IS JUST THE SAME!

Actually I take that back: Sex IS important to me. Bloody important. And I am now old enough to say 'Sod it if people think I'm a weirdo for not getting any but I am holding out for QUALITY not quantity!'

I am not going to have sex with anyone UNTIL I find someone I know is a guarenteed good shag. It doesn't have to be love or a relationship. What it has to be is respectful and a guy I can trust so I can get back to doing all those dispicable, disgusting things that make me so happy.

Today I have: Said goodbye to my N1s, K1s and K2s and felt strangely alright about it leading me to believe I have no soul, been pondering what play I will write for a friends theatre company showcase; Do I do the monologue with the 70 year old Southern Belle with a nasty secret, of the story of a man in love with a dolphin. Votes in...