Ok, still a bit rage filled today, so you'll have to excuse me. But seriously, what is wrong with some people??
I went to the supermarket yesterday afternoon and always tend to go to the self checkout afterwards... It's quick, it's easy, and no checkout person can judge me for having chocolate, wine and weightwatchers products in the same basket. (I'm just waiting for the day that someone says to me that if I didn't have the chocolate and wine, I wouldn't need the WW stuff). But yesterday, it seemed that the world and his wife all wanted to do it themselves. This is fine, except for the fact that NONE OF THEM COULD WORK OUT HOW TO USE THE EFFING CHECKOUTS. It's not difficult, you scan the barcode, you pack the shopping, you pay. It took me ages to get out, and my patience was at an all time low yesterday (Ignorant Kiwi's fault, there's a surprise), I'm surprised I didn't get kicked out of Asda for beating someone over the head with a packet of prawns.
Then, THEN!!!, this morning, whilst late for work and with only a couple of minutes to get my ticket (Ignorant Kiwi's fault, are you spotting a theme?), I had to queue at the machine. If they handed out Olympic medals for speediness at the ticket machine, I would get gold. I've got it down to less than a minute....unless some fuckwitted eejit can't work out how a) what ticket they need and b) where their card goes in. Tip: It's the big old slot with CARDS written next to it.
Seriously people.... if you can't do it, GET OUT OF MY WAY.
Monday 29 September 2008
Friday 26 September 2008
I am woman, hear me roar.
Absolutely EVERYTHING is irritating me today. It's a superbrillopads combination of lack of sleep, hangover, PMT and stress. All those hormones and chemicals having a great big party in your brain - I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Literally.
Although, I have found a fantastic new hangover cure: Reese's Peanut Buttercups. Obviously not that fantasic if you've got a nut allergy but great otherwise. Give it a whirl next time you decide to abuse your body with the classy combination of beer, cocktails and wine that I treated mine to last night. Particularly if you were caining margaritas.
Mmmmmmmmmmmm Margarita. I'll never learn.
Although, I have found a fantastic new hangover cure: Reese's Peanut Buttercups. Obviously not that fantasic if you've got a nut allergy but great otherwise. Give it a whirl next time you decide to abuse your body with the classy combination of beer, cocktails and wine that I treated mine to last night. Particularly if you were caining margaritas.
Mmmmmmmmmmmm Margarita. I'll never learn.
Wednesday 24 September 2008
I'm a classy Londoner, innit?
There's been an email joke flying around for years that goes something like this...
You Know You're From London When:
- You have never been to The Tower or Madame Tussauds but love Brighton.
- You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherd's Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map.
- You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
- You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.
- You're paying £1,200 a month for a studio the size of a walk-in wardrobe and you think it's a "bargain."
- You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p.
- The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you.
- Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes.
- £50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag.
- You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.
- You don't hear sirens anymore.
The last portion of it is:
- Your cleaner is Russian, your grocer is Korean, your deli man is Israeli, your landlord is Italian, your laundry guy is Chinese, your favourite bartender is Irish, your favourite diner owner is Greek, the watch-seller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was Pakistani, your newsagent is Indian and your favourite falafel guy is Egyptian.
Now, I can't vouch for the grocer, the deli man, the landlord, in fact for any of them past the cleaner, who is an amazing Bulgarian lady who has been looking after me, my flat and my plants for the past 4 years. But as all good things must come to an end, so Dari has found a new job and given me back my keys.
Some may say I'm lazy for even having a cleaner when the flat is the size of a postage stamp, but if you live with other people, then it's the quickest solution to any arguments about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, and when you work all day and often spend your evenings out with clients, then on a precious night off the last thing you want to do is come home to pull hair out of the plughole and mop the floors.
Gay Best Friend and I have been having an ongoing argument about cleaners, as his husband has just employed one for them. GBF is worried that this makes him middle class, when he's spent 35 years toiling under the illusion that he's working class. I say to him, it's not the cleaner that makes you middle class, it's the rich husband, the posh apartment and the fat dog that does it! I've never been able to claim to be working class: I may have spent my teenage years working as a fruit picker but I've also got an A-Level in Latin. So I have no shame in admitting to people (even my mother) that someone comes to clean my home, I'm just fed up that I've got to find a new one. Goodbye Dari, and thanks for everything.
You Know You're From London When:
- You have never been to The Tower or Madame Tussauds but love Brighton.
- You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherd's Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map.
- You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
- You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.
- You're paying £1,200 a month for a studio the size of a walk-in wardrobe and you think it's a "bargain."
- You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p.
- The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you.
- Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes.
- £50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag.
- You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.
- You don't hear sirens anymore.
The last portion of it is:
- Your cleaner is Russian, your grocer is Korean, your deli man is Israeli, your landlord is Italian, your laundry guy is Chinese, your favourite bartender is Irish, your favourite diner owner is Greek, the watch-seller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was Pakistani, your newsagent is Indian and your favourite falafel guy is Egyptian.
Now, I can't vouch for the grocer, the deli man, the landlord, in fact for any of them past the cleaner, who is an amazing Bulgarian lady who has been looking after me, my flat and my plants for the past 4 years. But as all good things must come to an end, so Dari has found a new job and given me back my keys.
Some may say I'm lazy for even having a cleaner when the flat is the size of a postage stamp, but if you live with other people, then it's the quickest solution to any arguments about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, and when you work all day and often spend your evenings out with clients, then on a precious night off the last thing you want to do is come home to pull hair out of the plughole and mop the floors.
Gay Best Friend and I have been having an ongoing argument about cleaners, as his husband has just employed one for them. GBF is worried that this makes him middle class, when he's spent 35 years toiling under the illusion that he's working class. I say to him, it's not the cleaner that makes you middle class, it's the rich husband, the posh apartment and the fat dog that does it! I've never been able to claim to be working class: I may have spent my teenage years working as a fruit picker but I've also got an A-Level in Latin. So I have no shame in admitting to people (even my mother) that someone comes to clean my home, I'm just fed up that I've got to find a new one. Goodbye Dari, and thanks for everything.
Monday 22 September 2008
Welcome to the Twilight Zone
So I'm back in my flat, with the rodents, and the Ignorant Kiwi is back from his travels. Predictably enough, it was an absolute fecking tip when I got in, but I was expecting that. What I wasn't expecting was for him to say he'd organised drinks with all our upstairs neighbours on Sunday afternoon at 5pm... I mean, him, voluntarily choosing to spend time with me around other people? That's just plain weird. The best way to describe our rocky relationship is to liken it to John and Mary on Father Ted - the married couple who, in front of Ted, are loving and happy, but the minute his back is turned start bashing each other over the head with frying pans. When Ignorant Kiwi and I are together in public you'd imagine that not only do we like each other, but we actually get on very well. There's banter, there's in-jokes, we could be the next Morcambe and Wise we're so goddamn funny together.
5pm Sunday rolls around and I start to tart myself up a bit (ie, get out of my pyjamas, make a vague attempt to tame my hair) and head over to the bar, fashionably (almost an hour) late, expecting to see Ignorant Kiwi surrounded by the coterie of adoring females, who all think I'm really lucky to live with him. I figured I'd just have to be sociable and make funny for half an hour or so, so they wouldn't think I was a rodent breeding hermitfreak, then I could slink back to my pit to watch Strictly Come Dancing. So imagine my horror when I walk in and there are no neighbours, just IK nursing a solitary pint. It took all my self control not to run, yelping, back to the safety of the sofa: I'd actually have to sit in public and make conversation with him. Damn.
At the end of the day it turned out ok. We had a couple of drinks and the conversation only paused a couple of times - he even said that when he got back from holiday and neither me nor the rodents were there, he was really worried. After we headed back to the flat we talked for a bit, watched Top Gear together and then I demanded to watch Strictly Come Dancing so he ran away to play on his computer game in his room... but he still came in to say good night like a normal human being.
Oh shit, this doesn't mean we're becoming friends does it?
5pm Sunday rolls around and I start to tart myself up a bit (ie, get out of my pyjamas, make a vague attempt to tame my hair) and head over to the bar, fashionably (almost an hour) late, expecting to see Ignorant Kiwi surrounded by the coterie of adoring females, who all think I'm really lucky to live with him. I figured I'd just have to be sociable and make funny for half an hour or so, so they wouldn't think I was a rodent breeding hermitfreak, then I could slink back to my pit to watch Strictly Come Dancing. So imagine my horror when I walk in and there are no neighbours, just IK nursing a solitary pint. It took all my self control not to run, yelping, back to the safety of the sofa: I'd actually have to sit in public and make conversation with him. Damn.
At the end of the day it turned out ok. We had a couple of drinks and the conversation only paused a couple of times - he even said that when he got back from holiday and neither me nor the rodents were there, he was really worried. After we headed back to the flat we talked for a bit, watched Top Gear together and then I demanded to watch Strictly Come Dancing so he ran away to play on his computer game in his room... but he still came in to say good night like a normal human being.
Oh shit, this doesn't mean we're becoming friends does it?
Friday 19 September 2008
Wednesday 17 September 2008
Friday 12 September 2008
Best advice I've had in ages
The 1st October marks the first anniverary of the Badger and Kiwi business, which we undertook after copious amounts of red wine and a crappy pay review at our old work place. It's been a fun year, but a tough year, and many's the time I've asked "Why on earth did we think this was a good idea??!". I mean, why would anybody in their right mind walk away from a secure, relatively well paid job with a respected company? And not even into another secure, relatively well paid job with a slightly more respected company, but into the wilderness of running your own company, with fuck-all security, minimal wages and only a funky logo to get you any respect? There are hundreds of reasons, none of them terribly interesting to anyone who's not my mum, but reading an industry magazine this morning, I came across an interview with Mark Roalfe, who set up Rainey Kelly Campbell and Roalfe/Y&R (and yes, the receptionist does have to say the whole name every time she answers the phone). He was talking about the first couple of years running RKCR and offering advice to people just setting out in advertising, and his last words seemed to sum up my past year, and the main reason we took that step out on our own:
"The early years were the most exhausting, nervous, sleepless, poverty-stricken and terrifying of my life. Which leads neatly to my final piece of advice: fuck it, you only get one chance."
"The early years were the most exhausting, nervous, sleepless, poverty-stricken and terrifying of my life. Which leads neatly to my final piece of advice: fuck it, you only get one chance."
Thursday 11 September 2008
B*gger
Typical pose for me when I can't put my hands in my pockets is to clasp them and put them under my chin. It's always reminded me of someone else who does that, and I realised last night who it is.
It's my pet rodent. Damn.
It's my pet rodent. Damn.
Go go Glo, or "One Fag and His Hag"
Wembley Arena, last night, the Cuban disco goddess that is Gloria Estefan.
5.30pm - meet up with Gay Best Friend at Baker Street. Drink beer, eat crisps, talk work. So far, so hetero.
6.30pm - jump on tube to Wembley. Discuss our favourite Gloria tracks, try and guess what she's going to sing. Discuss Dolly Parton's hair, and slag off Madonna (but only a little bit, because we love her really). Getting gayer.
7.30pm - walk into the Arena. Baulk slightly at the number of Fag/Hag combinations. So camp you can hardly breath.
8.20pm - Glo gets on stage. The crowd goes mad. The Happiest Man in the World is dancing with his hands in the air down near the front row. She does all the classics, and I'm ashamed to say that I shed a little tear at Anything for You, because it reminds me of being 16 and heartbroken when my first boyfriend dumped me for the girl I sat next to in English.
10.40pm - 2 encores later, and we're out and on our way home. A brilliant night. Gloria, we salute you.
5.30pm - meet up with Gay Best Friend at Baker Street. Drink beer, eat crisps, talk work. So far, so hetero.
6.30pm - jump on tube to Wembley. Discuss our favourite Gloria tracks, try and guess what she's going to sing. Discuss Dolly Parton's hair, and slag off Madonna (but only a little bit, because we love her really). Getting gayer.
7.30pm - walk into the Arena. Baulk slightly at the number of Fag/Hag combinations. So camp you can hardly breath.
8.20pm - Glo gets on stage. The crowd goes mad. The Happiest Man in the World is dancing with his hands in the air down near the front row. She does all the classics, and I'm ashamed to say that I shed a little tear at Anything for You, because it reminds me of being 16 and heartbroken when my first boyfriend dumped me for the girl I sat next to in English.
10.40pm - 2 encores later, and we're out and on our way home. A brilliant night. Gloria, we salute you.
Tuesday 9 September 2008
Solitary Confinement
The Ignorant Kiwi has pissed off on holiday, and by some quirk of fate at the moment I am looking after my workmate's pets. So I'm the only human in a house otherwise inhabited by the lesbian rodents, a juvenile delinquent rabbit and a spoiled and rather tubby cat, who seems to think he's meant to have his breakfast at 6am (he's been disabused of that idea *very* quickly). Am I missing the human contact? Not really. Let's weigh up the pros and cons:
Pros:
1. Not having to make conversation with a man I regularly fantasise about hitting over the head with a blunt object
2. 4 furry companions who don't answer back, who are always pleased to see me and think I'm brilliant, solely because I have opposable thumbs and can open the pet food.
3. Being able to play Bruce Springsteen at 8 am and not getting laughed at. Actually, better make that one being able to play Bruce *at all* and not getting laughed at...
4. Being able to watch whatever I want on the telly and always being in charge of the remote.
5. Not having to make sure I'm fully dressed at all times to save Ignorant Kiwi the embarrassment of having to look at a body that's not the best of friends with the treadmill.
6. Hey, there's always the telephone if I'm desperate to have a conversation (and let's face it by the end of the day do I ever want to do that? Erm.....Not so much)
Cons:
1. Being a hair's breadth away from being a mad catlady who smells of wee.
2. That's it.
To be honest, I know I'll be going a bit stir crazy by the end of the week, and sweeping up rabbit poo really is about as much fun as it sounds, but until then I'm cranking up the Bruce and dancing around in my pants. Brilliant.
Pros:
1. Not having to make conversation with a man I regularly fantasise about hitting over the head with a blunt object
2. 4 furry companions who don't answer back, who are always pleased to see me and think I'm brilliant, solely because I have opposable thumbs and can open the pet food.
3. Being able to play Bruce Springsteen at 8 am and not getting laughed at. Actually, better make that one being able to play Bruce *at all* and not getting laughed at...
4. Being able to watch whatever I want on the telly and always being in charge of the remote.
5. Not having to make sure I'm fully dressed at all times to save Ignorant Kiwi the embarrassment of having to look at a body that's not the best of friends with the treadmill.
6. Hey, there's always the telephone if I'm desperate to have a conversation (and let's face it by the end of the day do I ever want to do that? Erm.....Not so much)
Cons:
1. Being a hair's breadth away from being a mad catlady who smells of wee.
2. That's it.
To be honest, I know I'll be going a bit stir crazy by the end of the week, and sweeping up rabbit poo really is about as much fun as it sounds, but until then I'm cranking up the Bruce and dancing around in my pants. Brilliant.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Dear oh dear oh very dear
NKOTB are back. Straw poll reveals that still finding them attractive isn't the most wrong thing in the world ever. Thank god for that.
Monday 1 September 2008
Thank god for that
August was pretty shitty. As well as being International Month of the Baby (3 christenings and 1 baby shower - not a lot of fun for your slightly single and slightly broody badger) it was Being Broke Month (mainly down to the Kiwi), Get Rained On Month (nothing new there then) and Just Being a Bit Bloody Miserable Month.
So it's with great joy that I welcome the 1st September. As the alarm started squawking at 6.30 this morning I bounced out of bed, hit the ground running, and am now bouncing off the walls in a state of euphoria that's not entirely caffeine induced, motivated, energised, and, well.... happy.
Bring it on!
So it's with great joy that I welcome the 1st September. As the alarm started squawking at 6.30 this morning I bounced out of bed, hit the ground running, and am now bouncing off the walls in a state of euphoria that's not entirely caffeine induced, motivated, energised, and, well.... happy.
Bring it on!
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