Then Came Everest...

To The Evening Standard Unit Sat Outside Highbury and Islington Station,

Back in September, when I was trussed up in my finest, desperately trying to attract the attention of a most beautiful elfin man; you decided (in your metal, littered ignorance), to stop me in my tracks.  

It was awful, MMH was in creases laughing hysterically, a random boy looked on, just about ready to call in the straight-jackets and my bambi feet were caught in the ledge.  Luckily and only luckily, beautiful elfin man remained (and as far as I know remains) oblivious to my blatant and tragic undoing.  Not the kind of seamless seduction I had had in mind.

Well...the tables have turned, unit.  I'm not the woman I used to be and, on Friday evening, after a frighteningly strong Rum and Coke in Soho, I snuck up on you, stilettoed and armed with determination to put an end to this war of ours.  

I must admit, sliding upon your freezing surface with the ease of a gazelle, felt a little like conquering my biggest fear.  There I was, atop your shimmering mountain, I had won!

So next time, when a man of such delicious beauty appears within five foot of us; and I am ready, wide-eyed and loose-tongued, to entice him further with my slippery antics, just work with me, for you will not get the better of me again!

Much Love

Miss Musing

The Summer Of Love...and Learning to Eat Biscuits the Right Way

Dear Mr Jon Richardson (Comedian Extraordinaire and Swindonia-Dweller),

Having watched your impeccably cute and hilarious self on Graham Norton recently; I can’t help but think that we might be a perfect match.  I know you are incredibly hard to please, what with your OCD issues and all.  I know you remain stringent in your beliefs that relationships, no matter how in love you are, will end in hideous, heartbreaking catastrophe.  I even know you live alone in Swindon having spent the last seven years single (how?).  But you see, I too, have a morbid fascination with the tragedies and woes of love and all that comes with it, albeit along with a more hopeful outlook.  I too, have used my rather hilarious heartbreak stories for the literary entertainment of others, another common stepping stone on which we both totter; AND am burying myself in the dark and tragic novel I am currently author-ing, on which I believe you could be heavily influential.

I am meticulously clean and tidy (aside from my office – but that’s really a size issue - I say office, think cupboard), but not to the compulsive levels of your self-diagnosed disorder, therefore, balancing out a future heavenly homelife, complete with alphabeticalised and chronologicalised CDs and DVDs and labelled tins in perpendicular positioning.

There is also the small factor of you being extremely gorgeous, a little bit grumpy and Northern; all of which I have developed quite the penchant for.  In fact, since first setting eyes on your slightly awkward frame and boyish locks Mr Richardson, on an episode of Have I Got News For You; I can oft be found fantasizing about our sweet, but spotless, Yorkshire cottage, in which I am fussing around you and your beer-belly of contentment, pinnied and trussed up in true pin-up housewife style.  There will be your dogs, my cats, our creative and neurotic children, casseroles bubbling in the oven and book deals flying through the letterbox. 

Sounds a little too good to be true, I know.  So what say we stick the finger up at The Big Plan and other such neurosis, and try proving ourselves wrong by making each other happy?!

Let me know your thoughts, or your next available dates in Londinium.  I look forward to hearing from you

Miss Musing

And back to reality…

Am currently sat, in the sun-trap of my parent’s back garden, amidst the wafting smoke of the first BBQs of the season and the persistent leg-brushing of my ADHD-ridden cat – it’s 6pm, tea should be in the bowl, crunchy topping added by now.  For me, there is a calmness around my life at the moment, a sort of enjoyable peace that comes with not being stressed at work and not worrying myself stupid over things that I simply cannot, for the moment at least, control.  The book is happening, the holiday is much in discussion.  And Kopparberg’s Strawberry and Lime cider is in existence.  Life is good.

April is shaping up to be my favourite month of the year so far.  Not only have I been in the presence of the Great Min (see last Blog); I’ve had the pleasure of working with Steffi, my wonderful new ASM for a full three weeks now, gave Lovemenot the bestest Birthday weekend known to man, made a decision to pursue a career as a Burlesque star AND been touched, literally, by the legend that is Thomas Peter Meighan…of Kasabian (best band ever) fame!  It sure is tough being me…

We saw March out with a weekend of celebrations for Lovemenot’s big Two Four.  Of course she was treated to only the finest champagne breakfast and homemade cupcakes, all lovingly put together by yours truly during the day, plus a leisurely jaunt around the hidden trinkets of Angel High Street.  But a night out at Queen of Hoxton, followed by some impromptu salsa dancing at Drunken Monkey, after narrowly escaping a childish brawl between two teenagers in the street, pretty much fitted the bill for our Friday night.  East London sure is fun when the bouncers get chucking.

I was the one in the dusky playsuit with deep purple lipstick and an aversion to old men with backpacks (Lovemenot was being too nice, what with it being her Birthday and all).  You were the boy with the beautiful face and the oversized 8 Mile-inspired clothing, I envisaged a checked shirt and fitted jeans, but you had disappeared before I got a chance to Gok your wardrobe or, in fact, correct your friend on his sideglancing Jessie J comment.  Shame!

The fun didn’t end there, despite a full weekend of work for me.  As usual I managed to drag myself to work, after another 4.30am finish, only to Red Bull it up for another cosy pub night the following evening.  Sunday, we were treated by our lovely friend, to tickets to the highly acclaimed Hurly Burly Burlesque Show.  A contemporary burlesque romp starring the impeccable Miss Polly Rae and directed by William Baker (he’s best friends with Kylie, don’t you know) that, was not only thrilling to watch, but re-ignited my secret desire to learn and perform the art of burlesque under my already devised pseudonym.  Lady Amelie Fatale…coming soon to a run down pub near you?

It was only the week later that on a random lunch break stroll, I got over excited at a Facebook post from Kasabian stating that living legend Tom Meighan was flying back from San Francisco to DJ, for one night only, at Proud 2 (Proud’s little sister venue neatly tucked away at the O2 complex).  Not only that, but the first 25 people to email would get free VIP guestlist places.  I didn’t think it was possible, considering the post was an hour old, that I would be one of the lucky 25, but chance overtook me and I emailed straight away.  Only to get an immediate response confirming that I was on the list and could bring up to 15 friends with me.  In the end there were not 15 of us, there was me and there was Lovemenot and a bunch of lame excuses from everyone else, so screw them, we were off to party with Tom.

After we had got over the architectural marvel that is Proud 2, in all its chandeliered, artistic walled glory; we hit the dance floor to vintage MJ and the likes.  There were checked shirts left, right and centre and an excellent DJ set from Alex of Hot Chip fame.  God he’s miserable.

There was a boy.  He had all the usual trappings to send me off in a whirlwind of uncontrollable lust.  Slightly short and elfin in appearance, he was slumped over the bar when Lovemenot and I left the dancefloor, and the empty stares of Alex from Hot Chip, to refuel with water.  I should have seen it coming when he asked Lucy if he knew her – here we had a wasted little player, perhaps one to steer clear of.  But no, he had to open his mouth and tell me I was ‘beautiful in a Pulp Fiction sort of way’…in a Northern accent.  Cut to Lovemenot trying to drag me back on to the dancefloor in anticipation of Tom’s arrival.  He was James, he was 23 and he was barely coherent.  We kissed, he slurred, I was unsure what was going on but he was very very cute and I was very very keen to talk to him some more.  Lovemenot was near enough tapping her feet, having been abandoned for a short while, so we had another cheeky kiss and went our separate ways, I was hopeful of spotting him again in the crowd.

Just a few minutes later…the crowd was surging (or perhaps Serge-ing!) forward, the lights were low and I spotted a familiar wasted face in the crowd…drunk James…he was back….and had no recollection of who I was WHATSOEVER.  So much so, that he was chatting Lovemenot up right in front of me, and when she waived his advances, he immediately turned his attentions to the poor girl directly in front of us.  One can only assume that under his poor Rowley-imitation looks, he had little to no personality and perhaps a psychological need to be wanted by everyone (short men often have this problem, I find).  Another one smacked straight onto the Twat Pile.

Of course I couldn’t possibly finish this Blog without mentioning the arrival of Mr Meighan himself.  The lights had dimmed, a random DJ man was building the crowd up and there were scores of screaming men and women.  Then he appeared, beautiful as ever and probably on something.  Having been front row at a Kasabian gig before, I was in full anticipation of Tom’s charismatic stage presence and unrivalled sex appeal.  I was not disappointed as he Jaggered it up next to his DJ friend sending out heart shapes to the crowd and dancing like a mad man.  Divinity derives from Leicester my friends. 

Cut to nearly the end of the evening, the world literally slowed down as the delectable Mr Meighan, having nearly wrecked half the equipment, stepped out from the behind the decks.  He was mincing towards the front of the stage, where I was swooning next to Lovemenot, hands outstretched.  Lo and behold, as if in a dream, Meighan’s hands grabbed both of mine.  In that moment, much like 2009 when general lyrics were thrown in my direction, we were connected.  Sad as it seems, these moments all still mean a lot to me.  Thank you Tom, thank you.

As I sit finishing off this rather rambling entry, the sunshine is still streaming through the clouds, prompting a need to be lying, outstretched in a park, probably dodging footballs whilst listening to acoustic Nirvana.  So it seems, for now, that Summer is well and truly upon us.  Which can mean only one thing; the ongoing emotional battle between me and the lower half of my body increases to panicking, epic new levels,

Top Half: ‘Why can’t you just look half decent in a bikini or a pair of shorts fair arse of mine?’

Bottom Half: ‘Because we love the finer things in life like mochas…and cheesecake…and wine.  Plus you lie about going running.’

Top Half: ‘Don’t start with that, I was told this was down to genetics.’

Bottom Half: ‘People lie, a bit like you about the running.  White mocha for the journey is it? Best make it skinny.’

All this inner turmoil, whilst trying elegantly to prise half of my maxi dress away from my handbag straps which are, currently, trapping so much fabric and leaving half my bra exposed.  It is not easy trying to look flawless in the summer.  Actually.

I am a fan of Summer, Mojito-soaked evenings in beer gardens in particular.  What I am not a fan of, however, is elongated journeys spent on London public transport plus heat.  Everyone gets hot and bothered, the seats get sweaty and sticky with I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what, prompting rather hilarious en-route arguments between people who, in another life, would probably either completely ignore each other or smile quaintly in the streets of an afternoon.  One example of this exhaustive behaviour, on a Number 30 last Thursday eve, was enough to put me off ever bearing and raising children in London. 

Having already negotiated my way round a lanky schoolchild trying to push in front of me in the bus queue, I was sat, watching a young couple struggle onto the partially filled bus with a pram; the young Dad of the couple having alighted the bus to courteously ask three old ladies (probably tipsy on sherry and high on gardening tips) to move from the designated buggy area.  Of course, with it being hot and everyone being irritable, the young Dad’s politeness didn’t quite have the desired effect as the couple were eyeballed by the Geriatric Loose Women as they nestled their new-born into place for the journey.  Yes that’s right, Mrs Hip Replacement, there are other, more important people, than you and your ‘Ladies that Lunch Bunch’ despite what people might say about the youth of today etc.  If you can’t handle it, cram into a taxi and be on your merry way.  I swore, from that point on, I would never be eyeballed whilst alighting a bus in sweaty Londinium with a Baby Musing staring helplessly out of a Cath Kidston pram.  Never.

Well that’s about it from me.  With all this Bank Holiday sun - and a disappointing Easter Sunday at work – Lovemenot and I are off to explore Brick Lane, drink mojitos and chase ginger beards in the dazzling sunshine!

Enjoy the Royal Wedding!

Mwah

‘I’m Fierce and I’m Feeling Mighty…I’m a Golden Girl..I’m An Aphrodite..Alright’

If I don’t accomplish anything else this year, I can be safe in the knowledge that I have made one, very overdue, life-long achievement a reality.  I have finally seen the wonder that is Kylie Minogue live on her Aphrodite Les Folies tour…

The thing with Kylie, is that she is an absolute icon…love her or hate her.  I personally love her.  On reflection she has, in some way, always been an integral part of my life.  I loved her as a four year old, watching her finally walk down the aisle with Scott Robinson on lunch time Neighbours episodes.  I loved her early Scott, Aitken and Waterman years and would oft be found dancing around to ‘I Should Be So Lucky’ in my living room.  I loved her Indie-fuelled lost paradise years.  I love that ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ was an anthem during my first year at Uni.  I even love that my first tooth fell out, aged six and munching on a pink iced bun, whilst enviously watching The Great Min teach two lucky children The Loco-Motion dance on Jim’ll Fix It.  She means a lot to me, and a lot to my best buddy Kitty, which is why we always promised we would book tickets to see her perform, it was Never Too Late….(more Min puns to follow, stay with me)!

Alas…back in October, whilst I was basking in my holiday tan and writing about embarrassing incidents with Evening Standard Units, I received a text from Kitty Dearest…Aphrodite Les Folies tour was opening another night, there were tickets left…should we go for it?  Without hesitation, I put my shopping bags down and simply typed YES back to her.  The moment had arrived.  The Great Min was coming back to London, and we were going to be there to Step Back In Time! 

Cut to a day of April showers and misty windows; I was practically pacing the floor (when I wasn’t hoovering it) in anticipation of Kitty and our friend Liz’s arrival and of what our evening with Australia’s finest female export would bring.  I had Min Music from all the eras blasting out and three playsuits lined up to choose from.  I had purposefully not read anything about the tour, for fear it would ruin some trick Min had up her sleeve.  Even Mummy Musing knew about her entrance, not a Kylie fan herself, she was inflicted with it when I was a young child…but then I was inflicted with Michael Bolton as a youngster, and some people would call that musical abuse.

4pm came and off I trotted to meet Kitty and Liz at Victoria station.  Note to self: when picking people up from said coach station, one should be advised that it is likely you will get lost, allow plenty of time for this sort of kerfuffle!  A quick catch up and a decision on the playsuit (dusty pink with waistband – I thought Min would appreciate something girly), we were off to the O2, stopping off for something to eat whilst watching the sunset over Canary Wharf.  Of course I couldn’t throw my Yaki Soba down my neck fast enough at the overpriced Wagamama’s situated directly opposite the Dome, sunset schmunset. 

As a rule, the O2 is not my favourite venue.  This is mostly due to an incident on my Birthday a few years ago, at a Duran Duran concert, during which I discovered the extent of Mummy Musing’s fear of heights.  Luckily she made it through the evening, and managed to stay standing for half of it.  The truth is it’s not the most homely of venues; having been designed as its own little all-you-could-ever-need universe within the snug Dome environment.  It’s amazing just how many eateries, clubs and people dressed as Angels offering directions (?!) they can cram into one place.  Having said all that, it really is highly unlikely that someone of Kylie’s status would be rocking up to The Garage to play in intimate surroundings, to an audience of 6 drinking warm beer, so obviously I just needed to get over myself and dive into the crowd of, what seemed like, 97% gay couples in homemade Greek headdress.

I’ll skim over the support act, The Ultragirls, simply because the name says it all and as soon as I saw one wearing bunny ears, I had to hold back an extreme urge to hurl the contents of my water bottle on stage.  As far as I see, support acts for huge stars are never there to be enjoyed, unless you are at Kasabian and the guitarist is ridiculously hot….sorry, just slipped off there a little.  Still, good luck to them!  Nonetheless, I used the time waiting for Kylie with total efficiency - to test out the many picture/lighting options on my camera as the 9 p.m start time drew ever closer.

The lights dimmed, the screens were lit, near-naked male dancers were depicted swimming about underwater to a soundtrack of plinky fairy-tale magic, before the familiar voice of Min filled the room and the beat of Aphrodite’s title track started thumping.  One elaborate clam shell opening later, there she was, resplendent, in Greek-style costume looking all smiley and extremely small.  I shed a small tear at the sight of the pint-sized Goddess, unable to believe that my years of adoration had brought me to this point, I felt just like that envious 6 year old, with one iced bun and one less tooth, all over again.

Cue two hours of performance perfection.  There were flying horses, flying angels, acrobats on ropes, more near-naked male dancers than I could shake a Stickels at, and an extended platform on which The Great Min rode her chariot of glory meaning that, at one point, she was less than ten metres away from me.  There was a rocked-up ‘Can’t Get You…’, a dressed-down ‘Slow’, a Brazilian carnival of colour and a sincere thank you from the lady herself as she confessed to having ‘the best view in the house as we all looked amazing’.  Thanks Min, you don’t look so bad yourself in your D&G get up.  In truth, even as a severely heterosexual woman, one cannot help but gaze at THE BUM.  42 years old and it is the very model of a perfect posterior…how does she do it?

Two hours and 15 minutes seemed to fly by and, just when we thought all was over, Kylie reappeared in a vintage swimsuit-inspired outfit for an encore, beginning with ‘On A Night Like This’ and ending with ‘All The Lovers’.  As if we needed any more choreographic fantasy to feast our eyes on, fountains of water began spraying out along the extended platform, leading to the show’s climax of Kylie, suspended above two tiers of dancers, creating a ‘human fountain’ formation.  Not only that, but at each chorus, four ropes each with two dancers hanging from it, were suspended above the formation for yet more acrobatics.  It’s a wonder I didn’t wake up with horrendous neck ache the following morning.

In short, Aphrodite Les Folies, was as much about fashion and style as it was music and performance.  It was innovative, fun and pure magic, a complete triumph.  Never in my life, have I been so awestruck by a stage set or by endless magical costume design.  Every twist and turn was so perfectly portrayed, every song so brilliantly executed (and all live, of course) and even the impromptu a capella Loco Motion was note perfect.

So here I am now, enjoying taking some time back and completely unable to stop listening to my vast Kylie collection on the Ipod.  It’s funny how her simple lyrics always seem to resonate though – it’s like every song from ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ to ‘Got To Be Certain’ right through to my latest favourite ‘Cupid Boy’ draws from a personal feeling or memory.  I think that’s part of her appeal though, underneath the glamour and fame she’s just like the rest of us.  Rihanna may have the thighs, Beyonce may have voice and Lady Gaga may have the controversy…but there will never be anyone quite like our Kylie – a fierce, fighting, timeless, beautiful Aphrodite.

‘When people say, ‘She’s got everything’, I’ve got one answer – I haven’t had tomorrow’. Elizabeth Taylor – 1932 - 2011

It feels sad to be writing this rather long overdue blog, on the day our darling Elizabeth Taylor left this good Earth to join those other stars in that great awards ceremony in the sky.  But, alas, today is as good a day as any…and perhaps our Liz can throw a bit of inspiration my rather tired way.  For starters, I have abandoned my initial song-lyric title (sorry Magnetic Man – maybe next time) in favour of a rather inspiring quote from the first lady of the silver screen herself; in the hope that I too will be able to look forward in such a positive and mesmerising way.

I am currently sat, in the high-tech carriage of a First Great Western train, conscious of the man in high-visibility jacket trying to peer through the seat behind me to see what epic tales I am weaving (http://skinnymochamusings.blogspot.com/ - that’s for you High-Vis - nothing wrong with a highlighted bit of self-promotion during transit is there?)   I have just enjoyed another peaceful few days away from the Big Smoke and all its wonder, trials, tribulations and ghastly commutes, at home with Mummy Musing, Step-Dad Musing and Duffle Musing (that’s my cat).  I’ve been enjoying the silence of the near-enough countryside where the Musings dwell, taking long walks along Portishead considering a much brighter future.  Not to mention air-saxophoning along to One Night Only with Duran Duran which aired on Sunday night – JT, you’ve still got it you beautiful, beautiful man.  It’s been a tough few months you know, but things are starting to look up, my head is finally coming down from the all-consuming, curly cloud on which I have been clawing away and… MY ASSISTANT MANAGER STARTS IN MY STORE ON APRIL 3^RD…Which, roughly translated, means I GET MY LIFE BACK!

February flew by in a gust of change following my Valentine’s bashing.  How was your evening?  Mine was really rather good in the end.  Lovemenot’s on-off-on-again-off-again-bloke didn’t come up in the end, therefore, leaving us no choice but to polish off the cheesecake she had considerately purchased for him, whilst blubbering away to our film of choice, Becoming Jane.  He called her Jane, he is my hero, why oh why didn’t they eff the lot of them and elope?!  For the record, there were, unfortunately, no cards or gestures of romance from secret admirers or, incidentally, insane banging on my shop door as the love of my life crumbles to his feet at the realisation that it is I, in fact, whom he should be with.  But alas… I forgot momentarily that I don’t care about any of that anymore.  Onwards and upwards from now on my friends.

And as any ordinary 26 year old, slightly neurotic, fantasist would; I decided to mark this turning point in my life with…yes you guessed it…Tattoo number three.  Indeed fellow musers, on February 15^th I transformed from a girl with a couple of pretty cool tattoos into a walking Angelique Houtcamp-esque Inked Woman! 

It started with a phrase that once jumped out at me in a perusal of Glamour mag.  Those four words, Live Joyfully Without Apology, seemed to have been imprinted on my mindset from birth, a mindset that had become so lost in the great whirlwind of turning 26, that I felt like I had completely forgotten who I was.  That phrase became a design in italics with a bit of turquoise shading.  That design was then envisioned and, subsequently booked, on the back of my neck.  Then Ginger Bob Done got involved and, at approximately 2.15pm one cold but sunny afternoon, I was traipsing along Brighton front with lovely Anna, having had that very phrase emblazoned from one shoulder blade to the other.  Now that is some statement.  Mummy Musing was shocked, my friends were in both uproar and applause, not to mention worried about Mummy Musing.  I, however, was elated and on top of the world.  It felt like shedding a skin, and gaining a new one, and I vowed that from that day forward, I would learn to Live Joyfully Without Apology again.  And though there have been slip-ups since, I am slowly coming back to life.  It’s funny what a branding on the skin can do, you sort of feel a moral responsibility to live through that, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

Well, at last, Spring is well and truly in the air people.  I know this because the other day, I ventured out on a Crumpet-run to Sainsburys in my Nude Ballet Pumps!  The last time they saw the light of day was pretty much under the rays of Kalymakis I think.  Naturally I spent most of the 10 minute walk back thinking how much prettier my bare feet would look with, say, roses tattooed on the insteps.  Of course, being of the mid-twenties age range and having still not mastered the art of packing for a few days at home; I chose this weekend to crack out the navy duffle coat and Uggs in a bid to chill out and ‘be comfortable’.  Comfortable I was.  Dying of sweat I also was, not a good look – imagine the separated fringe.

Still, with Spring in the air we have felt the need to blow the cobwebs away, and with the swift departure of our old housemate (the one we didn’t really like anyway), came a new Godsend in the form of Stickels…a Lady Gaga obsessive and would-be Big Brother contestant with a taste for veggie burgers, beer and grubby Dalston bars.  He fitted straight in, like foot to sock, with our commotion.  The great thing about Stickels is that he loves to talk about men as much as Lovemenot and I.  He also loves mental dancing in the kitchen – he’s on the right track baby, he was born this way!  He has certainly brightened up our evenings both in and out and has also promised to teach us the whole ‘Telephone’ dance ready to wow the unsuspecting crowds on another Shoreditch night out.  We Heart Him!

And with all this shedding skin and leaving things in the past, there almost had to be a new man involved somewhere along the line…however brief it eventually was.  It was just another night out at the legendary Water Rats in Kings Cross to support our friend’s band Leila and I.  Upon entry, I was struck by the amount of check-shirted cuties lining up ordering their Becks and whatnot, I had never been so pleased to have stowed the Lace LBD in my handbag in case of being caught short at work (I was caught extremely short with a long-awaited visit from Regional Manager who, consequently, I don’t want to string up quite as much now as I have over the last six months). 

Anyway…back to the evening.  We grabbed our wines, chatted with Conwaaaahh (singer and guitarist with Leila and I) and then followed through to check out the action.  And from that point on, the action mostly involved a long-haired, gorgeous man in skinny jeans and almost edible facial hair, hunched behind a merchandise table, looking my way.  There was edging closer to the table, turning up of the eye-flirting to the Buffalo Bar eye-sex standards of yesteryear (as in…last year) and a dazzling smile from the Hottie.  This led to a decision the Miss Musing of old would have challenged herself on…I decided to act the pale and interesting stranger who marches up to said skinny-jeaned Hottie simply to remark on his hotness, only to disappear into the crowd and leave him wanting more.  Lucky for me, said Hottie approached Lovemenot and I just as I was preparing to strut, armed with flyers and an ear to ear smile; a simple merchandise man he was not my friends…no no…turns out he’s the lead singer of the headlining act (don’t pull that face - it’s not like I have radar or something).  Fresh from Scotland (he is now living in London, I checked) Jakil have a sort of Incubus-inspired angsty rock feel about them, and also about 5000 followers on Facebook, quite successful then really.  He encouraged us to stick around to have a listen and gave us a flyer.  I, in my new found bid to Live Joyfully Without Apology, promptly scribbled my digits on the back of the flyer and waited, with baited breath whilst Jakil did their thing, and commanded quite a crowd it has to be said.

Much later, the Hottie was wandering around, clipboard in hand, taking down email addresses and mobile numbers for newsletter purposes, whilst I was mingling, hand on hip, flyer in hand.  The Hottie made a point of coming over to us, we chatted for a bit, I discovered he’s on the Victoria line (handy) and I got a free CD.  There was an invite for drinks afterwards, but we declined as Lovemenot had work the next day.  Plus I was still looking to be the aloof and interesting stranger. Cue Lovemenot’s swift exit, I was thanked for coming by the Hottie with a hopeful invite to another gig in the coming weeks.  I think, to be honest, I caught him off guard as I thrust the digit-inscribed flyer his way with a swift ‘this is for you…personally…if you fancy it’.  And with that, Miss Musing was out the door and running up the street feeling freer than I have in months.  Unfortunately the Hottie didn’t get in contact, probably shocked I should think.  But, the interest was there and it was something I needed to do, put myself back out there.  Plus, there is the possibility of bumping into him again at some point in the future and the hope that in some small way, I left a good impression with the Hottie.

So right now, my only need to whinge lies in the new Maybelline mascara that I purchased at the beginning of payday.  I decided to move away from my old ‘Make Up of Make Up Artists’ faithful, and try the new Lash Accelerator; partly because in the eyelash department, I am most certainly not born with it and, partly, because Zooey Deschanel has such beautiful eyes – ultimately still a mug for advertising then.  I’ve tried musers, God knows I have tried to stick with it and not splash the hard-earned cash on a replacement, but there is only so much crumbling and lack-of-highlighting I can handle when it comes to my daily make-up essentials.  I have managed to persevere, and will continue to do so until 31^st March when the pay hits the account again.  But take this as a word of warning, it’s not as much a Lash Accelerator as a Lash Killer.  And if you succumb to the glowing, dewy stare of Zooey as I did, rest assured there will be black bits dangling from your lower lids from the moment you leave the house.  Grrrr!

Well we’re now coming towards the end of March and my weekend looks set to be fun-filled with Miss Lovemenot’s Birthday celebrations.  I promised a vocal Birthday present in the form of some karaoke so you’ll have to tune in next time to find out if that challenge was quite so eloquently executed. 

I’m off to enjoy the sunshine and prepare Birthday treats for that curly-locked girl I hang about with, and look forward to a bright and exciting tomorrow, in memory of lovely Liz.

You Still Love Him...But She Does Too...She'll Take Him Far Away From You...

Collins Dictionary Definition of Valentine: (person to whom one sends) a romantic card on St Valentine’s Day

NB: no mention of the following words – Red, Pink, Chocolate, Teddy, Overpriced Meal in Restaurant with Nervous and Repressed Atmosphere.

Miss Musing’s Definition of Valentine: A most pointless homage to a rather horrendous and tragic tale of one man and his overbearing love for some floozy… Irritatingly in-your-face if single and irritatingly pressure-laden if you are in a relationship.  Why not introduce St Heathcliff’s Day if we’re so into celebrating tragic, lost lovers?

So February has fallen upon us quicker than you can say ‘cold snap’.  The scent of garage-purchased roses hangs heavy in the air.  The price of House Wine in any given restaurant/gastro pub rockets before our very eyes.  If you so happen to be out for an evening with a male friend; no sooner have you laid your coat upon the back of your chair then you spy a presumptuous waiter rushing over to romance your table with mood-setting candles.  It must be Valentines Day fellow musers!

Before we go on, I feel I must mention that, in keeping with my traditional song lyric-inspired Blog titles, I have chosen a slightly ‘lovey’ rock and roll line inspired by White Lies, my recent rediscovered addiction.  Under no circumstances does this represent any kind of yearning for any certain Boy of Dreams and the undoubtedly wonderful and romantic Val Day he may or may not be planning for his lucky GF.  Absolutely not.  Definitely not.  Awkward silence…

Now I’m not one to rain on the parades of the mass Valentine’s revellers.  I know many of my nearest and dearest simply see Val Day as an excuse to treat their partner and make them feel special/make sure their partner treats them and makes them feel special.  Mummy Musing is one of these people, she may be intent on money-saving this year, but she is all over the flowers and teddy bears.  And that’s awesome if you’re reading this Mother Dearest, I judge not.  I on the other hand prefer to simply pass the day by with no thoughts or nods to any of it.  This is most notably because I have experienced quite the catalogue of Valentine’s Day disasters in my past love-lives; thus leading me to believe Val Day is, in fact, best spent either alone, with friends and wine or dancing/marketing your arse off at The Place (my favourite Val memory).  But upon reading the origins of this celebration, the alleged secret marriages, healing miracles by pain of death, the unrequited love (not to mention all that terrible business with Al Capone)…now that kind of tragedy, I can get on board with.  But I suppose that’s the side of me that thinks hung dead roses and wax-drenched Black Tower bottles are really rather gorgeous bedroom decorations. 

I must admit, this year I am mostly looking forward to not having to stand, staring like a bewildered mental in the middle of Paperchase, trying to decide on a card for someone who is not quite my boyfriend, but I have had some sort of romantic relations with.  This is after the tormented week I had spent chewing MMH’s ear off about whether to purchase said card or not if said romantic relation is not my boyfriend,

‘It’s just a card,’ said MMH

‘It’s NEVER just a card,’ I replied, both rather bewildered and mental. 

The scene was set; the Michelin-starred Japanese feast was being very much enjoyed by both myself and my no-necked date (yes, him).  Conversation was (sort of) flowing and a trip to a Comedy Club in Central followed, including a stint from Tom Deacon (that twat off of the 519 show on Radio 1).  A short walk through Trafalgar square dodging the rose-shoving tramps hoping for a couple of quid in the name of love, and the evening ended with a rather abrupt kiss at Embankment and the exchange of a stupid card with a glittery gingerbread man motif.  In exchange for no card back as it happens.  In fact the short-lived affair pretty much ended just around the time Val day did.  I have always wondered if the card had anything to do with it.  I suspect it was probably more my poor attempts at hiding my waning interest in No-Neck, but I still maintain it is NEVER just a card.  Either way, Gally was there just three days later to swiftly pick up the pieces, only to drop them casually into a million little pieces all-too-soon after.  Don’t choke on those imported Peacock-feathers you have no use for now Gally will you?!

Of course, Val Day simply wouldn’t be Val Day if I weren’t to mention my most disastrous memoir concerning my last long-termer we shall simply call Gormless.  Hopefully by the end of this, you might have laughed, you will have pulled either a sad or confused face.  But mostly, you will probably understand why I have chosen to erase this person from my life since our split 3 years ago.

As a naïve young 23 year old at the time I wasn’t aware of many things.  I wasn’t aware that my homemade Cheetara costume wasn’t particularly flattering or, in fact well put together.  I also wasn’t aware that blondes actually don’t always have more fun, or that it probably isn’t a great sign for you to suggest a dramatically styled ‘break’ a mere 6 months into a relationship.  Nonetheless, there was me and there was Gormless and we fitted together a bit like the worst-crafted jigsaw puzzle of all time.  He had pursued me for a while; I had finally given in after realising I probably wasn’t going to get his friend after all (please dear God let me NOT do this again), and here we were 4 months on, watching the Eastenders omnibus (I HATE soaps) with me trying to work out the potential negatives in Gormless’ decision to move back to the Westcountry due to his appalling lack of financial management.

I had decided to use Valentines, on this one occasion, as a way of injecting a bit of spontaneous romance back into our relationship (or should I say, into our relationship).  I had recalled a dear ex of mine who had teased me all week during the Uni-years saying he wasn’t prepared to celebrate the ‘commercial piece of shit that was Valentine’s Day’; only to turn up at my door unexpectedly with a rose and a wonderful home-made card, followed by a spontaneous moment of passion on the freezer.  Good times.  I felt these special moments (minus the freezer) could be recreated with my cardboard-cut-out of a new boyfriend.  Like I said, I was naïve.  So, knowing that on this particular year, the big V would fall on Gormless’ scheduled Wednesday off, I booked the day off myself and started fantasising about romantic strolls and candle-lit sweet nothings.

Cut to Val day and my morning make-up routine is rudely interrupted by a phone call.  I was insane enough to think Gormless was probably too excited to hold it all in for another hour as his name flashed up on my phone at 9am.  This is what I remember of the conversation.

Gormless: ‘Hi tiny, you OK?’ 

Miss Musing: ‘Hi, yeah I’m cool what time you coming round?’

Gormless: ‘OK, so I’ve been a dickhead and you probably will be really mad but, like, I have no clothes to wear so I’ve got to stay here and do some washing.’

Miss Musing (not so cool now): ‘*@$£%$%:$%£::*^:*%’

Gormless: ‘I know, I’m sorry, but I can’t come round till I have washed and dried my clothes.’

Miss Musing: ‘But what if your clothes aren’t even dry by tonight?  What if they never dry?  Will I never see you again?’

Gormless: ‘They will be.  I’ve got a card and everything.’

Miss Musing: ‘Can I not come over to yours?’

Gormless: ‘Um, I would come and get you, but like, I have no clothes to wear in the car.  I reckon I’ll be over by 4 is that OK?’

Miss Musing: ‘Fine, whatever, see you later’.

There was more to it than that I’m sure but yes, the long and short of it was, that my Val day plans were scuppered by my idiot boyfriend’s inability to organise his washing loads.  Never before, or since, have I been so cruelly shoved downwards on the priority list for the sake of household duties.  Is it any wonder my tastes lean towards dwellers of The Shire these days?  If they were stuck for garments, they could simply improvise with a potato sack and some rope.  No need for shoes even. 

Needless to say Val day was never quite the same after that.  For starters, Gormless actually turned up nearer 5.30pm that evening, then preceded to actually believe that a pathetic card made up for the washing incident.  Still, the Chinese was lovely, almost as lovely as Jason Orange at The Brits that we all sat watching, cosily.  

I will I could tell you that our affair ended about as abruptly as my libido/general interest in my other half that evening.  But alas, I stupidly stuck with Gormless and his, ahem, Bold ambitions for a further misery-packed ten months with nowt but an intense crush on Lee Mead to get me through the dark times.  Brilliant, that’s a year of being 23 I’ll never see again.  He, of course, has moved on and moved in with a girlfriend of about 2 years now from what I hear.  I hope she’s a dab hand with the washing machine if nothing else. 

Right, rant over.  And hopefully you smiled, and understood! 

I guess really it is unhuman of me to be so cold about Val Day when there really does seem to be a lot of love in the air at the moment and I am finally starting to feel marginally like my old self again.  Just today, I cried a little at the end of Pocahontas knowing, full well, that wild horses could not have stopped me from getting on that boat with John Smith.  Plus there has been a second glimpse of Fit Ginge On A Train, leading me to hope our paths will cross again soon, for just long enough for me to be brave, learn from my previous procrastinations and make that move. 

Not to mention the ‘Curious Incident of the Chav in the Daytime’, who followed me along the road in his bashed-up car on the way to work yesterday morning shouting ‘Cleopatra, Cleopatra, you’ve got one chance on this planet.’

Yes, that’s right, one chance on this planet to refrain from putting one foot in your pikey car, tempting as it is I think I’ll pass thank you very much.  Also, curb-crawling borders on harassment you absolute lame excuse for a man.  One chance?  Thank God for my belief in Reincarnation then!  And if that is my only chance indeed, I think I’d rather be enjoying a meal far away from you, mostly featuring my own pancreas.  Twat.

I suppose there isn’t much more for me to say other than to break my rule and acknowledge the Big V by wishing you all a Very Happy Valentines Day wherever you are (especially you).  Whether it’s a candy-striped, chocolate-guzzling day of love or a hideous excuse to stick the fingers up to relationships and get on the dance floor, may we all be thankful for the love we have and be hopeful for the love we deserve.

I’ve Acquired A Kind of Madness…Daylight Fills My Heart With Sadness

So how is 2011 panning out for you all so far?  I suppose it is no coincidence I am completing my first Blog Entry on what is more commonly known as Blue Monday (more than just a classic New Order song, apparently).  I am blue, it’s the January blues, the work blues, the stuck in my flat with no money blues…so I feel I should admit to a few things….not things I want to dwell on…but things nonetheless.

The first is that my resolution to whinge less was the first to go out the window.  I blame work.  Specifically the fact that I had to open the shop on New Year’s Day for a pointless four and a half hours.  In which time, I saw practically three people and whinged about it for four and a half hours, in between trying on some exquisite vintage-inspired tea dresses, all of which are on my Uniform wishlist.  Nice one, work.

The second, and this is harder to break, is that try as I may (and that’s really really trying) I cannot get the Boy of Dreams out of my head and this is much worse than I anticipated.  Yes, he has a face like a biscuit (Hobnobs have never been so sexually appealing).  Yes, he actually isn’t that nice to me when we see each other (a punch on the arm does not a greeting make – especially when the puncher is clearly not aware of their own strength).  But the heart still wants what it wants, and the unmentionable revelation of last month seems to have done nothing other than make me pine even more.  I’m sure I wasn’t always this masochistic.  I seem to have acquired an ability to fall faster and harder, the older I get.  This must be stopped in its tracks.  What an epic resolution FAIL.

It hasn’t all been doom and gloom these past few weeks though fellow musers.  No no no.  I supposed I should be starting the ‘Year of Change’ (as I have coined it) on a high with reasons to be cheerful, and look forwards, rather than forever longing backwards.  There were, after all, wonderful New Year’s celebrations with Lovemenot and her sister hosted by my most favourite club in the world Proud, including Burlesque beauties, band-hotties, dancing until our feet were on fire and a cheeky kiss with a lovely young man whose name escapes me (I think this is because I didn’t ask him).  There was also midnight chomping courtesy of Maccy D’s, even the refined young women of Dalston need to eat at 3a.m sometimes you know.

I’ve been at it with the eye-sex again.  Eye-sex with sandy Gingers too (stickler for standards).  This was a particularly quiet overground to Dalston Junction one Saturday after a hectic day at work.  I was extremely tired from sober over-exertion at Koko the night before, he was sat looking charming and seductive in drool-worthy uniform of checked shirt and leather jacket.  I would like to point out the word ‘sober’ again, as my month-long drinking ban is about the only resolution that is proving to be effective at the moment!  Those eyes, that beard with a tinge of ginge, the hair, the guttural laugh.  Perhaps it’s time to enlist the old-school opportunist confidence I once possessed? 

Yes indeed there have been incidents at bus stops in my past and phone numbers scribbled on receipts thrust into unsuspecting hands of Saturday boys in shops.  I miss those carefree days, these days I seem to be more concerned with whether or not a crow’s foot just appeared under my eye or whether I have done enough in my little old life to warrant turning the unspeakable age that I will be turning this year (though I have it on good authority I look no older than 22 – I could sleep with this person for saying that, but I won’t - because it’s TO and he is BANNED).  Nevertheless, the confidence was not installed; and off this new beautiful man popped at Shoreditch High Street leaving behind a trail of ‘what could have beens’ and a sincere hope that I see him (with ‘carefree spirit’ fully intact) again.

Plus there is the slightly wonderful news that I have been selected for free tickets to the MASSIVE ‘In New Music We Trust’ gig in Kentish Town this Thursday.  Featuring sets from the awesome White Lies, Jamie Woon, Funeral Party, Sleigh Bells and a DJ set from Nero, should be a good night.  Am very excited about prospective free night out, especially as White Lies have all but excelled themselves with their new album ‘Ritual’.  In fact I feel so elated about the whole thing it feels as if hyper-monkey Zane Lowe himself picked my little old name out of a hat and screamed it at the top of his over-excitable lungs.  That’s how I roll, and I make no apology for it.

So it seems the world and it’s Mother (gosh…what a pun) is pregnant.  Posh is knocked up again (and who can blame her, being married to Mr ‘The More Years I Have On Me, The Better I Look’ Beckham after all) as is Natalie Portman, Marion Cotillard and all sorts of other beautiful celebrity types.  One can only wish one looks that svelte and glowing when it becomes her turn to bear Baby-Musings.  Did we predict a baby boom year in 2011?

The one that surprised me most is Kate Hudson, who is considering a move to Devon to be with part-Musical Genius, part Long-Lost-Brother-of-Skeletor Matt Bellamy.  I can recommend some good farm shops in the area should she be interested; plus Mummy Musing would probably make herself available for babysitting duties should Matt offer an acoustic ‘Unintended’ or ‘Knights of Cydonia’ as payment in kind.  But don’t think you can kid everyone with the ‘it wasn’t at all planned but we’re very excited’ revelation guys.  Any man who can write a Doctor Who-inspired rock-orgasm called ‘Exogenesis Symphony’ knows exactly what he is doing, and that ‘lack of condom may lead to baby’.  Honestly, Hudson you’re fooling no-one.  Grrr, even celebrity news about perfectly nice celebrities (no Jordan, I still don’t care) is making me whinge.

It is usually at this time of year I am much excitable about the previews for Spring/Summer trends.  I don't know why, I don't know what kind of earth-shattering Catwalk revelation I'm expecting year upon year.  This year, however, such pleasure is not to be had as I am constantly attacked photographically with ugly reminders, from otherwise sane Fashion Journalists, that Neon is on its way back.  I can’t help but wonder whose idea it has become, once again, to encourage the general public to dress like liquorice allsorts.  As an employee of the fashion industry, I for one am boycotting it, I refuse to traipse around in the heat (or monsoon) of a Londinium Summer looking like a missing member of Matthew Bourne’s Nutcracker crew, based on the fact that DVF (or whoever) has decided that everything bad about the 80s is, in fact, cool again. 

I see the groundbreaking ‘Urban Nomad’ trend is back citing a cross between city cool and bloody safari-inspired prints.  Every year it shoots up, every year we are told to stack hideous bangles on top of each other to ‘embrace our inner tribal sister’, and every year the same boring trend is disguised under another crap name.  Ladies and gentlemen I give you the Safari Jungle of 2006, the Global Nomad of 2008 and now the Urban Nomad (this in no way makes women’s Chinos in, in my humble and slightly gothic, opinion).  Let’s just call it what it is shall we?  The ‘Dickheads who can’t afford to take a sabbatical, so wear a bit of zebra print to make up for the fact they are more likely to be surfing Amazon.co.uk than chilling in the Amazon’ trend for 2011.  Next year I want to see something radical.  But not Neon.  Or Dickhead-inspired.  This Summer I believe I’ll be going for my ‘Rock and Roll Gothic Librarian Geek-Chic Meets Romance with Nude Lace’.  And definitely no Chinos…

Ah, Happy New Year one and all…here's to looking forwards

The Skinny Mocha Musings Glossary of Terms 2011

Right, let’s start the year off as we mean to go on….for those of you new to the musings/those of you who may need a little reminder, I have compiled a little glossary of terms for you….enjoy….hope January is treating you all well

Mwah xx

Miss Musing: ME!  Mid-twenties girl about town who enjoys making her daily musings/gripes public for entertainment purposes.  Likes: Tattoos, Music, Gingers, Assorted Arts and Crafts, Assorted Pretty Boys with Guitars, Most Things That Are Bad For Her.  Dislikes: Being told those things are bad for her.

Mummy Musing – An obvious name this one, but it’s my Mum and all her weird and wonderful ways.  There’s only one thing to say about my Mum, everyone loves her.

Gally – Impeccably dressed, evil ex-boyfriend who once broke heart and have not heard from since.  Likes: Fashion, Food and F*cking people over.  Dislikes: People Questioning Aforementioned F*cking Over.  May well have come out of the closet since last spoke (if he can get past the pile of French Vogues).

MMH – AKA Mr Must Have – Bestest friend made in previous Hell-Hole job, now gay-husband and eternal life coach.  Accompanies me to gigs and other social outings, doesn’t like people touching my bum, apparently.

Lovemenot – A little bit like my left hip – if my hip came intact with wicked sense of humour and creativity and had an immense blonde mop of curly hair.  We have arts and crafts time, a business proposal and a whole list of films to watch in our Dalston Film Club.  Likes: Boys In Checked Shirts, Fringes and Vintage Markets.  Dislikes: Showing Waist Unless Forcibly Encouraged.

Goldie/Goldfinger – Oldest and Dearest friend of the last 22 years, named after the Ash song, shares many opinions and hits me if I say anything negative about myself.  Hardly anyone knows me better.

The Marrieds – Affectionate term for my two surrogate sisters who are married/close to being married.  Grounded, awesome and my voices of reason. 

Dream Boy – Northern, cute , undeniably talented singer.  Want to be on him.  Please.

Shoreditch Boy – Chance encounter lead to practically nothing but phone staring. beautiful eyes.  Feel he should be mentioned as I am, of all things, a stickler for standards and will probably go gooey-eyed over another Shoreditch Boy before long.

Tattooed One – All you really need to know is that I shouldn’t.  EVER

Mr All-Seeing and All Knowing – Old housemate, once claimed to have been clubbing with Reverend and the Makers during his heyday Uni years at Sheffield, despite most of them being practically half his age.  Enough said.

Serge-A-Likes – Gorgeous Shoreditch/Camden Indie boy types who look as if they have styled themselves using nothing but the contents of a discarded NME magazine.  Named after the impeccably beautiful Mr Pizzorno.

The Hell-Hole – Previous job, first one in London.  Surprised I didn’t hang myself on a cheaply made necklace in the stockroom.  Mentioned rarely to never.