MAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Sigh.

I am SO SHIT at actually getting around to blogging and am really only doing this to get me into the mood for the MAMMOTH amount of writing I should be doing over the next 36 hours. You see, I'm applying for an M.A. in Creative Writing and the first app- the one to Trinity College Dublin, my holy grail of universities- needs to be done by Tuesday. I've nearly finished the application, except for writing my personal statement, doing drafts 3,4,5,6,7 and 800 of the short stories I'm submitting, making sure I've got all the right documents, paying for the application (45 Euro!) and, oh, I'm waiting on some references (should be here tomorrow though- cross fingers, legs and anything else you've got). If only I'd listened to the mantras on preparation when I was a Scout. Sadly, the only thing I learnt there was how to smuggle the boys into our tent.

BUT; the problem with the M.A. is that it's a bit of a moot point (Or 'moo point'as I've taken to calling it- thank you Joey). Even if I got in to Trinity (and with only 16 places available that's not likely), then I'm not sure I could afford it, let alone sort out moving to Dublin and finding a job, a place to live etc. It would be a great experience, but I haven't exactly been thinking about the practicalities.

The same goes for my 2nd option University College Dublin, and the third NUI Galway, so we shall gloss over those and move onto the UK-based options, Goldsmiths, Birkbeck and University of East Anglia. UAE has a fantastic reputation for Creative Writing but they split their MA into either prose, poetry or playwriting; you can't mix it up and I rather want to, commitment-phobe that I am. Plus, I'd have to live in Norwich. NORWICH. Look, I know I'm a bitch, but I just don't believe in any English city except London. I'm sure other places are perfectly fine, lovely even, but we all know that unless it's London there's just NO POINT. (I am aware this is a terrible, snotty failing of mine, but I'm afraid I can't hear your criticism over the beeping and shrieking of my beloved urban squalor)

Birkbeck would be ideal, as it's an 'evening university' so I could work full time and incur minimal debt but, compared to misty, twilight evenings crossing the Ha'penny bridge, it all seems a little... sensible. Goldmsiths could work too, and although I was impressed by their post-grad opening evening, I've had some doubts which have lingered with me and made me question the whole M.A. enterprise...

The main problem, regardless of which uni I'd end up in, is that I don't think I'm ready. I'm not being negative here, just realistic. I think it's entirely possible that I could end up doing an M.A. and being a writer one day. ONE DAY. At the moment, my writing is still clumsy and I get frustrated that sometimes I just can't make it do what I want. I need the writer's equivalent of training wheels, or armbands (or that little sprung thing you put on the top of your chopsticks). I can't keep my balance, or be thrown into the deep end, or write without making a mess. YET.

So I think it's extremely likely I won't get into Trinity and possible that I won't get into anywhere. But I'll still be doing the applications because it can't hurt, and it will be good practise for when I reapply. I can do writing courses and up my game, read much more and improve my style and even if I don't end up in Dublin to study, there's nothing to stop me moving there eventually. The Trinity app is not an all-important, life-defining behemoth to be terrified of, but just one option and that will make it less agonising to do!

And whatever happens, I've had great help from friends this week. Caz has lent me her netbook, so I don't get a permanent right-hand cramp from all the frenzied crossing out that usually accompanies redrafting. And Corrine and Maev- both writers themselves- have reminded me that everyone who writes finds themselves staring at the screen at 3am sobbing and asking why on earth they put themselves through this horrific torture. Why DO we do it, again...?!

One Goes Mad in Sheffield

Recently I went to Sheffield in what was possibly the world’s first mini-break to the Steel City. It came about due to my desperate urge to run out of London for even just a day and go for a little explore somewhere else. My long-term crush on Sean Bean means I’ve always had a soft spot for Sheffield (That accent! Last time I was up there a guy giving me change said ‘There you go, lass’ and I nearly came in my pants!) and when I heard Othello was on at the Crucible with Dominic West as Iago, well, how could I resist that kind of lure? With tickets booked and hotel sorted I found a spa to spend the morning in and booked an appointment with them online. Perfect.


Sheffield did me the world of good. I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole time I was there and, inspired by my favourite travel writer, Pete McCarthy (If you’ve not read his Ireland travelogue, McCarthy’s Bar, DO! It once made my weep with laughter on a train and I ended up with the whole carriage to myself), here is my own travelogue below. It’s long but cut into bite-sized chunks that are vaguely amusing. Promise!


Wednesday 28th September 2011

4.15am Awake. Scrubbed self, grabbed stuff and now sitting in my front room taut with exhaustion and fear in case I miss hearing my taxi pull up. Don’t let me miss my taxi! I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks!

5.00am Taxi arrives. The driver (who looks like that pervert lawyer, The Walrus, from Ally McBeal) launches into a diatribe against all his customers, particularly ‘them Africans’. I’m snoozing and drooling against the back of the passenger seat but he’s unconcerned by my lack of response and I occasionally jolt awake to hear a choice nugget of vitriol. Just when I’m thinking he must have been a cert for attendance at that EDL demo in Eltham he comes out with; “And I said to ‘im, I said, how can I be racist? My wife’s black”.

Pause.

“My wife’s not black”.

5.45am Merciful arrival at St. Pancras. a station that for me is full of happy memories of visiting my grandparents when I was wee and our school history trip to Derby when I was 16. And the architecture! It’s so gorgeous; the first thing that struck me when I returned to London from Hong Kong was seeing all the amazing buildings that look like glorious Victorian gothic gateaux or pure white Georgian wedding cakes.
Speaking of cake- BREAKFAST NEEDED. Pop into AMT for coffee and a pain au choc. One staff member listlessly stocks the sandwich chiller and the other who serves me looks grey with exhaustion and on the verge of tears. Shudder with horror remembering my own stint in an early morning catering job. Thank God those days are gone.
Sip my coffee (Oh, energising blood of life!) and look at the destination boards, buzzing with that feeling you get when you’re at a station or an airport- I’m going somewhere! Anything could happen! This is LIFE! Off to a new life, even just for a day. Is it tragic that I’m feeling this excited about Sheffield?!

6.10am Train pulls out of St Pancras, the city is still dark but as the journey continues, dawn starts to creep up in apricot streaks across the horizon. It’s a hazy morning, the fields are cupping the mist and it’s taking a long time to lift. Everything looks impossibly beautiful and the dawn/rebirth/exhaustion/me-time metaphors could be endlessly scattered across here as the universe seems to be providing me with all the clichés I would need. Instead, I will leave the clichés to my Ipod, whose shuffle seems to have psychically synched with my brain and the morning outside. On comes a mystical Irish reel, Davy Spillane on the flute and thump-thumping feet pulsing in time with the train. Next I get ‘Clair de Lune’ and then “The Day We Caught The Train”. It’s almost as though my Ipod is composing it’s own ‘Exciting Adventure Train Journey’ playlist. Of course I could have made one myself but that takes the joy away when my Ipod surprises me with the perfect track. It’s the little things in life, right?

7.15am As the train gets further north I see and increasing number of fields with sheep and industrial landscapes with power station cooling towers. As a suburbs-dweller these things excite me greatly.

8.56am Pull into Sheffield. It is a BEAUTIFUL day, one of those days where hope is in your soul and the crisp air feels like it’s cleansing you with every breath. The awful estates on the hill above the station which I recall from my previous visit seem to have been modernised. I remember them looking like huge multi-dwelling hobbit houses, carved out of the slate grey hillside with tiny windows and an air of neglect. Now there seems to be some modernisation going on, lots more glass, much more chi-chi looking. Further modernisation is evident once I exit the station (no ticket gates, are people more honest up north?!). There are fountains EVERYWHERE. Shimmering steel walls of water nearly twice my height that wouldn’t shame a medium-sized shopping mall in Hong Kong. And as any of the HK posse will tell you, the Chinese take their mall decorations SERIOUS. All Sheffield needs is a 60ft Hello Kitty and then it might be a contender.

9.00am Like a good girl scout, I have a citymap marked with my first port of call, Spa 1877, a Victorian Turkish bath-style spa on the opposite side of the city centre. After a quick look at the map I decide to navigate using my natural geographic ability. I get lost almost immediately. Navigation decisions such as “I’ll just go that way a bit”, “Anything with a spire must be a cathedral” and “Oooh look! Follow the butterfly” don’t help matters.

9.45am After running across Sheffield rather flustered I find Spa 1877. I am very sweaty on account of my rushing with two heavy bags and being clad in a scarf, coat and jumper, all of which I removed en route due to this bastard hot, beautiful day.
Standing at reception, I gather that customer service in Sheffield is very friendly but not particularly efficient. I stand second in the queue for nearly ten minutes resisting the urge to shout “Me! ME! Stop being helpful and PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!!!!!!!”

10.00am So begins the spa experience. Slut my way round all the facilities, using the aromatherapy steam room (until I figure the oil in here is citrus, probably containing evil orange so leg it out quickly), ice cave, eucalyptus steam room (let’s see if I can shift this freaking viral bronchitis) and freezing cold plunge pool. Pop into the sauna briefly but leave after 5. Dry heat BAD.
Surrounded by people talking Sheffieldian but sadly they are all women. Have yet to hear a Sheffield man speak. No one has called me “lass” either. Most sad.

11.00am Lime and ginger body scrub and massage. Words cannot describe this HEAVEN. Feels very self-indulgent but I am important and deserve this me-time. Yes I do! Fuck it, I do!

12.30pm Lunch. Wolf down every scrap of my delish spinach, beetroot, goats cheese and pomegranate seed salad and all the free apple juice, tea and lemon water I can.

12.30pm- 1.30pm Almost continuous peeing.

1.30pm Facial- BLISSFUL, though if you’d said the words ‘facial’ and ‘Sheffield’ to me in my 20s, this is definately not what I would have imagined.

2.30pm Continued use of spa facilities. Sitting in the red-lit eucalyptus soup of the steam room. I have nothing to do today but enjoy these facilities, go for a yummy veggie dinner and go to the theatre. This is UTTER heaven. Another plunge in the 4 degree cold pool, taking my number of plunges up to 11. I am HARDCORE spa-ing now.

3.30pm MEN! Sheffield men! Ruling out the possibility that they are gay, I do the shagabilty equation which is hotness rating plus two points for the sexy accent minus my level of sobriety. These men end up scoring 8 which is perfectly acceptable but what is the etiquette for hitting on someone in a plunge pool? Or should I just grope them in the anonymous mists of the steam room?

4.00pm Decide I better leave the spa before I turn into a prune (and a pervert) but it is with great reluctance that I leave this little patch of heaven. It’s done me the world of good. Once I am showered, hair dried and straightened and make-up done I am looking HOT. Not Angelina Jolie hot, obviously (if the spa was capable of that I’d be moving in!) but as hot as it is possible for me to look which is all we can ask. Good work Spa 1887.

4.30pm Pounding the streets of Sheffield. Head for Division Street, a studenty area full of bars and boutiques. There’s a streetpark with skaters down one end and lots of little alleys leading off to more intriguing bars and shops. Down one of these turnings is Bang Bang Vintage, the shop I am hunting for.

4.35pm LOVE Bang Bang Vintage. For a start, all the gorgeous vintage clothes are about half the price they’d be in London. I end up buying a cool white ruffled blouse and a cameo ring. The girl behind the counter asks if I’ve got my NUS card for a discount. I reply that I haven’t, as though I’ve left it in my other bag or something. Love Bang Bang Vintage even more now and love Spa 1887 too as they seem to have taken 9 years off me.

4.50pm Cross through Sheffield city centre, lots of Victorian buildings and clattering supertrams. Pass ‘Embrace- Sheffield’s premier nightclub’. It looks like a 1980s Sainsbury’s crossed with a multi-storey carpark. Embrace- who are they kidding? Just go ahead and call it ‘Foreplay’.

5.00pm Check into my hotel, which is only the Premier Inn, nothing posh. It gains points for being central but loses them again for being above a pound shop. Also for having the kind of security measures that wouldn’t shame Guantanamo Bay. Room key has to be swiped in order to call the lift, again to get into the corridor leading to your room and again at your door. Make the journey to my room looking warily over my shoulder for crack-addicted zombie muggers.

5.05pm Make use of the free tea and coffee-making facilities because I am BRITISH and this is what we do. The day they put an end to free tea and coffee-making facilities in hotels is the day civilisation collapses.

5.10pm Slump on hotel bed watching Coach Trip and Come Dine With Me. Some things are sacred.

6.00pm Head out to the Blue Moon Cafe, a veggie restaurant allegedly by the cathedral. I seem to be getting eyed-up by lots of men. I do look pretty good, but then I also look very different to everyone else around here, in my red dress with tribal design, raspberry kimono cardigan, leggings and cameo ring. It’s all VERY boho chic (or at least that’s how we’d describe it if this was 2006) which is basically a euphemism for ‘4.15am dive for whatever clean clothes I could find in the half-light’. My make-up is full on smoky-eyed 1950s vamp with scarlet lipgloss as thick as tar and maybe it’s that attracting the attention. Sadly, none of these men look like they’d like to wine me, dine me and call me “Lass”. They look more like they’re eyeing me up for use in some kind of gang initiation.

6.05pm Where in name of arse is the bloody Blue Moon? As per my usual geographical philosophy I didn’t write the address of the cafe down, instead absorbing the essential clue ‘near the cathedral’. This may be annoying right now but will make it so much more rewarding when I do find it.

6.10pm Hate to stereotype but I see some hippie-esque sorts hanging round on the corner of a lane. All headscarves, batik and flaring linen trews that smell of dog and tabacco. Instinct tells me that this is the exact demographic group you’d expect to find outside a veggie restaurant. Head towards them- SUCCESS!

6.11pm Comparing my outfit with the dress of the Blue Moon clientele I realise I am finally amongst my own people. Order broccoli and cauliflower cheese which comes with two salads in a portion so large I may well miss my train tomorrow, never mind the play tonight. The girl behind the counter asks what I want to drink. Consider water as all that massage and steaming is quite dehydrating. Order a large glass of Chardonnay.

6.15pm Ploughing away at my dinner and occasionally scribbling in here. The restaurant is a large, airy Victorian room with a high white and blue ceiling. It looks like a grand station waiting room or an antechamber in the Brighton Pavilion. There are moon windchimes, paintings and stained glass dotted about and four clocks set to the times in Sheffield, Doncaster, Rotherham and Barnsley. I like a place with a theme and a sense of humour. Things get more amusing when I examine the long noticeboard that covers one wall. Posters and leaflets include “Buddhist Barn Dance”, “Save Steve Irwin”, “Being Hip- exercise classes for those recovering from hip injury” (one wonders if they saw that magazine created on The Apprentice, Hip Replacement?) and the poignant “Have you seen my polecat?”. I realise I have wandered into a quirky world where rules of normality seem not to apply. I like it.

6.35pm Halfway through my plate of food, a cold glass of white wine on the table, a view of the cathedral courtyard in the evening sun and an the expectation of a great evening ahead. Perfect little moment.

6.50pm Othello starts in 25 mins so I better get a freaking move on. Start touching up my makeup at the table whilst eating, drinking the wine and writing. Strewn across the table are my powder compact, leopardprint powder puff, wine glass with red lipgloss print, plate of veggies in cheese sauce and notepad and pen. These are pretty much the primary elements of my life. If I ever get a coat of arms, this is what will be on it.

7.05pm Having legged it to the theatre on a very full stomach I’ve managed to get here in time and join the queue to pick up my tickets. Once again, Sheffield’s pleasant but SLOW customer service gets me agitated. The box office assistant seems to be intent on treating the couple in front of me as human beings! WASTE OF MY TIME!

7.14pm Take my seat for Othello, relishing that pre-show buzz of excitement that always runs around a theatre. Realise I’m slap bang in the middle of a school group. The 16 year old boy I’m next to sneaks a sideways peek at me and looks terrified. It’s that lipgloss.

7.15pm THE PLAY; Octagonal set design, thrust stage, heavy oak doors- interesting but you cannot establish something as a door throughout the entire play and then have it open magically as though it is not there later on- this gets a laugh from the audience at what should have been a serious moment.. I’m undecided as to whether Dominic West’s shaved head makes him look like a hottie or a nits-infested simpleton. Or a hot, nits-infested simpleton. His Iago isn’t convincing me he has the capacity for true evil but his looks to Emilia are full of unspoken menace. Clarke Peters’ Othello seems to be American which is jarring when Iago is doing Yorkshire with a hint of West Country. Desdemona is screechy and annoying.

9.00pm Interval. Lucozade and a bag of minstrels is a fiver. Nice to see that even though spas, vintage clothing and theatre tickets are much cheaper up north, interval food still remains ri-COCK-ulously expensive.

9.30pm Second half. I think the Globe has ruined other theatres for me. There are so many sound and light effects in this production I find myself longing for stillness and silence. Just let the words and the actors do the work, stop undercutting dramatic tension by flashing a sodding light!

10.00pm Totally gratuitous shirt-removing scene as Iago whips it off and uses it to bind Cassio’s wounds. I don’t remember Tim MacInnerny doing this at the Globe. The schoolgirls ‘Ooooh’ at this flash of West chest and really, I’m not complaining either.

10.10pm Othello finally strangles Desdemona and shuts her up. Thank God for that.

10.25pm Hmmm. All over. It’d give it a C plus overall; enjoyable but could do better. The schoolgirls give Dominic West a standing ovation but I’m sorry Westie, you have to do better than that to get me on my feet. The evilness of Iago usually gives me a total wide-on but tonight my pants are barely dampened.

10.30pm Had planned on having a drink at the Crucible bar but it’s all open-plan and very 70s. Head into the square outside and but don’t see any bars here either. Remember the cute cafe bar by my hotel but when I get there I find that’s closed too! At 10.30pm! Next door there’s a Wetherspoons open. Briefly consider it but drinking at a near-empty Wetherspoons at 10.30pm on a Wednesday in a town where no one knows you seems to be the first step on a path that leads to working in animal porn to pay off a meth addiction. NO NO NO.

10.35pm Safely back in my room at Guantanamo, having cleared customs, retina scan and body cavity search (I wish!). I reckon I can take advantage of the fact the Wetherspoons opens at 7am and go and have a dirty cheap breakfast tomorrow, then hop on a supertram to the huge Meadowhall Shopping Centre and go to the fish spa, head back for a walk along the River Don, then lunch in the cafe bar before catching my train at ten past 2. Set alarm for 6.30am. Sorted.

The thrills of day two to follow... later...

Writing, Meditation and and Fire Extinguishers...

*Sigh*

I'm all in a hotch potch so cannot promise any wise, profound insight today. (Because obviously that is what this blog usually offers, as opposed to a vaguely amusing, occasionally unsettling window into my tattered soul). So the reason I am writing is an attempt to entertain or even inform (HA!) but simply because I MUST. I must write, have to have to have to.

This is the conclusion I am reaching the further into my'Psychology and Spirituality' course I am get. The last two lectures were on meditation and my notebook is scribbled with references to WRITING and how WRITING is basically the same thing. Focusing on one thing entirely that calms me? Writing. That brings order and the ability to notice everything in more detail? Writing. That gives my mind space to be creative? Writing writing writing. It's the same for us all; meditation can be anything- art, running, dance... so if it is so positive why does the thought of a 10 hour meditation retreat chill me to the bone? (not that I'm planning on doing one you understand!)Can you imagine it? I think I'd go crazy, wouldn't you?!!!

It's the same with writing. Why, when I attempt to write and 'be a writer' and say 'I write' do I find it SO FRICKING HARD TO WRITE?!!!! It's not the actual experience of writing, this bit is fun and easy. It's the anticipation, thinking 'Oh, I should sit down and write' and then a shot of prickley fear followed by the thought, "Oh, but don't I have some pants that need ironing?". Basically, I'll do anything to get out of it.

But why? I think one thing is that writing needs a certain degree of arrogance. You need to think that you have something worthwhile to say, that people will want to read. Now don't get me wrong, it's obvious to all of us that I'm a fabulous human being with a rack that could kill and an ass that won't quit... but writing...? Sure I can spin something amusing but the eternal dilemma is CAN I WRITE ANYTHING WORTHWHILE?!!

Which brings me to the second point; I can never think of anything I want to write about. That's actually a lie or a trick of the mind. Funnily enough, when I do meditate, then my mind decides it wants to give me ideas. But when I try to clutch at them and follow through the idea wafts away like smoke and I'm left with a disappointing smell that stinks like FAILURE. Whatever, it must have been a crap idea anyway, because what could I possibly have to say? (See point one)

And to write well, about something serious (which I can't do!) is to put a little part of you out there to be surrounded and stabbed by a sneering critics. So it requires bravery and dedication and belief and all that bollocks. And that brings us to the final point. IF I want to write but don't write I still can have the belief that I COULD be a writer. But if I start to write and can't follow through with it and am crap then I'll DEFINATELY never be a writer.

Did that make sense? Told you I was hotch-potchy. So is it better to have the untested belief that I am a writer but never fulfil it? Or to try and FAIL. And I know, I know, from that Disney/Hollywood perspective it's always better to TRY (Image: Brave girl standing on mountain top with arms aloft and wind whipping through her hair). But in the real world? Maybe sometimes it's better to take the safe option...

THING THAT HAS AMUSED ME THIS WEEK: In the lifts at Covent Garden and Russell Square stations there are fire extinguishers labelled "Suitable for wood and paper fires. Not suitable for metal and electic fires"

Erm, are they expecting forest fires in a lift?!! Presumabley, at various points throughout our National parks there are fire extinguishers labelled 'For electrical fires only"???!

MORONS.

Maybe I LIKE the misery of making tea...

Well, hello world! I’m back in you it would seem. What with my new job(s) and courses and shit. No longer am I sitting on my ass feeling left out of everything. Here’s a sneaky update...

So, I have a job on the catering team at a dinky hospital in London. A friend’s dad basically got me the job and it’s only till the end of April (which I’m quite glad about as it’s KILLING me!). The catering team apparently have a lot of holidays that need covering and I’m the one that’s covering them. I’m serving in the hospital cafeteria (simple!), doing the ward round for the fourth floor (complicated!) and this week, oh joy of joys, I shall be training on the 2nd floor big wards and ICU. Just when I thought ‘I can handle this, I can get the 4th floor ward round DOWN’ they are bloody training me on the most complicated thing! Everyone warned me about 2nd floor when I started, wincing sceptically as they saw me manhandling the massive food trolleys ‘Just make sure they don’t train you on second floor’ they hissed, sucking air in through their teeth ‘Oooh, you don’t want to do second floor’. WAAAAAGH! Basically, if I wasn’t there they’d be getting an agency member of staff in so I am there to get basic training, keep them under budget and hopefully not kill any patients. PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL ANY PATIENTS!!!!

I actually enjoy the work when I’m there, even though it’s quite hard going and I’m having to wake up at 5.30am which as you know, to a snoozy lazybones like me is torture! I’m very slow on my ward rounds as I’ve not got my pace up yet but also because I stop to have a gossip with the patients. And of course I have my favourites. There are two who are exactly like Catherine Tate as Nana; one who was discharged last week whose daughter used to bring her in pie and mash (Kelly Ryan, I’ve seen your future) and another who told me ‘I’ll bring the tray out to the trolley luv, otherwise you’ll be in and out like a fart in a colander. Oooh, I’m a saucy cow, me!” She’s my absolute favourite, I always smuggle her more cake! She’s in for a heart valve op tomorrow and another favourite patient, who’s from Garryowen in Limerick, just like my dad, is in for an op to remove tumours on his lungs. I don’t know how the doctors and nurses, let alone the patients do it. Sometimes I feel like crying into the chicken and leek mornay and I have such minimal involvement with them. But what good does that do? Nothing. There’s no point being an oversensitive wuss and getting upset as though I have any right to when I barely know anyone there. The best thing I can do is be smiley, cheery and smuggle extra cake and biscuits to those who need it (although I would probably get the sack for that so maybe I should keep quiet!)

I do just have to add that I love doing the thrice-daily tea rounds and have been much complemented on my tea-making skills. As my mum says, ‘Ooooh Mel, you make a lovely cup!’ and as we British know, nothing soothes in times of crisis like tea!

So, IN OTHER NEWS: I have a second job! One that will hopefully continue after my first job finishes in April. As of March 6th, I will be training to be a tour guide at my old home, the Globe! As you may know, I have been a little dithery about going back to the Globe, just because it is like going back home and as I don’t expect to live with my mother for another 10 years I don’t think sheltering in the cosiness of the Globe till I’m about 40 would be a good plan, especially for a gal who’s one thing in life is going to new places and doing new things. BUT guiding is flexible (you put in the dates you want to do each month) so it can fit around my current job, plus any interning/volunteering /courses I may need to do for my MA. Yes, the MA plan is back in the loop and if I’ve got to be in the country for the next couple of years to apply for it, why not spend those years in the comforting bosom of la Globule? The only thing is I have to memorise all the stuff for a tour and train and gaaaaaagh! I’m a little terrified!

On top of the jobs, I’m doing two evening classes; Intro to freelance journalism, which I’m halfway through and Social Psychology which starts tomorrow. Ah, how I love to keep my brain going! And I’ve booked my trip to Hong Kong- yay! So that takes me up to mid-May, after that, who knows? I am attempting to do a year plan, as a blog I’m following suggests
http://chrisguillebeau.com/3x5/how-to-conduct-your-own-annual-review/ but I hate spreadsheets and anyway, who has the time?!

Finally, I had thought recently how I might like to get me one of those boyfriend things but instead I’ve developed an obsession with Mitchell off Being Human. Fantasy boyfriends do have the disadvantage of, y’know, not being real, but then they don’t talk back, don’t lie and cheat and they fit very convineintly round a busy schedule.

Maybe after May? Line me up some cute guys...

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up...?

Greetings all,

So I've been away with the fairies for a little while and not posted, mainly because there was nothing to say. It's all been dull, dull, unemployment, dull, dull, occasional rescue by a kind friend who's taken me boozing, dull, dull, etc etc. As I mentioned to one friend, I’ve been as much fun as a yeast infection of late. And no one wants to read a blog by a yeast infection, do they?

BUT things are finally on the move. I'm so impatient, I always want everything to happen RIGHT NOW, but this is not how the Universe works, is it? Bide your time, learn your lessons. Thankfully, my time has now been bided (?!!), and I have a job (temporary and not very exciting but it's work), I am doing courses (freelance journalism on Monday nights, social psychology will start on Tuesdays in a couple of weeks time). There are mega cheap rates for the unemployed so I'm making lemonade out of those lemons!

Anyway, I will elaborate on all the above at some point, (how lucky for you!?!) but that's not the reason for me posting. The reason I'm posting is that my mum found some of my old schoolwork, including an infamous piece I remember writing in my last year at primary school. It was entitled 'When I Grow Up' and illustrated with possible pictures of me, as a grown-up, in the future. You will see I already thought of myself as a fabulous multi-tasker; oh for the confidence we all had at 10! Here's the text, complete with spelling mistakes below:

"When I grow up I would like to be a clothes designer and an author. If I chose a sporting career I will proberbly be a dancer, an ice-skater or a show-jumper. If I choose a more glamorus career I will be a model or a Actress, Also if I become a sports person I wouldn't mind being a Tennis player."

Isn't it funny how, when we were little, none of us ever said "I want to work in middle-management in a large corporation" or, indeed "I want to be a mid-weight front-end developer". I suppose some of us grow out of childish dreams, some of us give up on them and some of us make compromises as other things become more important. But I think our 10 year old selves, and the hopes we had, have a kind of truth to them. We knew what we wanted and were confident it would happen. That is before we got scared we couldn't do it, or wouldn't earn enough money doing it, or that everyone would laugh at us because we were too crap.

This little glimpse of my past is especially important to me now that I've finally decided to try and make writing my career. Writing is really all I've ever wanted to do but I’ve always been far too scared to go for it or to define myself as ‘a writer’ in case someone spits in my face and says “No you’re fucking not you LOSER!”. Then I would have to run away crying and live out the rest of my life hiding in London’s sewerage system.

Obviously it’s not right for all of us to follow the dreams we scribbled down as snotty school kids. Then the world would have far too many astronauts or cowgirls or dinosaurs. But I think little 10 year old Mel was right. I knew what I wanted back then and even if it takes me till I’m 60 to get there I'm going to try and stick with it.

The writing that is. I don’t think I’m likely to become a model anytime soon.

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!!!!