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.

Miss Musing's Guide to Dealing with the Events of 2010...and Surviving the Events of 2011

Am sat in post-Christmas slump, having post-Christmas mulled-wine-fuelled rants with Lovemenot and listening to post-Christmas thrash-indie, namely The Backhanded Compliments and old-school Incubus (When I’m not loving Take That’s new one – brilliant)!  Am considering the events of the past year, my my what a whirlwind.  And whilst I am much looking forward to the trials and tribulations of 2011 (if 2010 is anything to go by, who knows what we’re in store for), I am also sat on the precipice being all poetic and thinking that something has to change.  So far I have a list of 32 New Year ‘challenges’ (I’m not sure they can all go under resolutions – actions such as ‘see a ghost’ are not really in my control). 

So, after much careful consideration, and a series of discussion points and general ‘whittling’ down of the 32 original resolutions outlined by myself and Lovemenot; I have compiled a list of both things to give up and things to take up…followed by a list of ten ‘com-muse-ments’ to see me through 2011.  Have a read, have a laugh…let me know how long you think I’ll last.

Miss Musing’s List of Things to Give Up

1)      Things bad for my temple of a body (a little vague…but there’s too much to go into here)

2)      Drinking (for one month)

3)      Bad boys (unless heavily convinced otherwise/it’s a good idea at the time…have talked myself in and out of that one in a matter of seconds-willpower, zero)

4)      Toms (with one or two exceptions…ok just one)

5)      Battery-swapping the remotes – just buy more batteries, for God’s sake, lazy.

6)      Whinging (unless for entertainment blogging purposes)

Miss Musing’s List of Things to Take Up

1)      Positivity (apparently it’s life altering)

2)      Running (I mean it this time)

3)      Study of paganism or witchcraft (just to add to the spiritual mystique of it all)

4)      More tattoos…more more more

5)      Actually being more upfront and open about potential feelings – towards those the feelings actually involve (have tried the 8-month-fawning-period-only-to-find-twas-massive-waste-of-time method – sooo 2010.  Sadface).

6)      Evening class to further potential creative career opportunity

7)      Singing in public, again.  This may be good therapy…hopefully for those listening as well.

8)      Saving money (am conscious of the need to save in this financial climate and also in hope of owning cottage with Cath Kidston kitchen in future.  Am also nowhere near Topshop at time of writing)

Miss Musing’s 10 Com-muse-ments for 2011 and all it may behold

1)      Thou shall not stress when forced to wait a) more than 3 minutes for a tube or b) for flat lift to descend more than one floor.  London hath made thou severely impatient, must find tranquillity in the small stuff.

2)      Thou shall not pick out children’s names before thou has even told prospective love interest how thou feels.  Thou does not want Dream Boy Mk 2 in 2011.  Heart remains numb, but this will change.  Hopefully.

3)      Thou shall not call upon the mystical powers of the Angel cards to give answers on a near daily basis.  Surrender all fear and trust in the promising hand of fate.  Even the Angels are now refusing to answer thou, this should be telling thou something.

4)      Thou shall lose lots of jubbly weight and regain some sort of work/life balance in order to pursue career as international best-selling novelist/make-up artist extraordinaire.

5)      Thou shall read one newspaper per week in order to keep on top of world current affairs.  Perhaps indulge in Guardian (Media – on a Monday) or Times (Style – on a Saturday)

6)      Thou shall resist all temptation from TO and other such inappropriate friends as thou knows this certainly is NOT the way to go and will consequently end up hurting/regretting much.

7)      Thou shall spend more time indulging in one of favourite past-times, knitting.  Starting with thoughtful present from Lovemenot (Knit Your Own Perfect Boyfriend) and culminating with Christmas Fairisle scarves for all.

8)      Thou shall become a tourist in London for day.  Thou shall ride the open-top buses and visit such wondrous sights as the Houses of Parliament, The London Eye and other buildings that simply pale into insignificance, as a citizen.  Thou MUST also take Mum to Lion King this year.

9)      Thou shall not give up hopes and dreams of fairytale romance, one that Emily Bronte would have been proud to have written.  However, must stop mooning around a la Audrey Tautou in Chanel advert, imagining Muse’s Exogenesis Symphony as soundtrack to life; or dreaming of wanderings on moonlit, rain-sodden moors in quest for true love.  Life is not a perfume advert/Disney-inspired concoction.  It is not good for the soul.  So thou has been told.

10)   Thou shall be inspired to save money for planned Interrailing/cycling European trip/festival visiting with Miss Lovemenot in the Summer…thou shall purchase cheap fold-up bike to prepare for such an adventure.

So there we have it…and before I set off to peruse the offerings of my wardrobe ready for a New Year’s Eve to remember at Proud…may I wish you all the Happiest of New Years and hope it may bring all sorts of fun and fabulous adventures to you all.

The Woes of 'Lukin NYC'...and Other Reasons I Have Lost All Hope

Sat here, with Lovemenot, scaring ourselves with Crimewatch’s tales of premeditated gang robberies and other such attacks, I wonder what I am putting myself through. Most of it is going on approximately 80 miles away from us, but one can never be too sure. You see, as it has transpired, I have had quite enough scares for one week…namely my worst fears realised in the form of a social Internet-dating experiment.

I admit to having ‘bespoke’ and ‘interesting’ taste in menfolk. From the ginger-bearded and gnome-like, to the skinny-jeaned and hairy. There are the tattooed, the pierced, the paunched, the Garfield-photofits, the strangely alluring, the increasingly-strangely alluring, the grumpy and the downright shy. All of whom are beautiful. Most of whom could quite happily reside, convincingly, in The Shire. I have become quite accustomed to the looks of bewilderment and shock on the faces of my nearest and dearest when I am drooling over my latest crushes/enamourments, whilst they are trying to work out whether I’m joking or not. I never am. People expect it of me…after all back in the day when everyone was fawning over Dec, I was all about Ant. And his massive forehead.

Though the one trait in yummy menfolk I have always disliked and yet seem to attract , in the midst of usually trying to get the attention of the shy, cute friend, is arrogance. No matter how fluttery-eyelashed and Bambi-like I try to be, it’s always the arrogant or the chancers who approach little old me. Quelle Surprise!

So I decided to test this theory of arrogance. Considering this notion of arrogant chancers approaching me in a social setting, I wanted to investigate the idea that the same would happen in a far less intimate, cyber setting. So, for one week only, I put aside my personal feelings about online dating (in short - fairy tale princesses rarely sign on to the Internet to find their happy-ever-afters – see http://skinnymochamusings.blogspot.com/2010/07/serpents-of-serendipity-rear-their_27.html for more of my drivel), and set up a free profile. All in the name of research you see.

I put together a rather witty profile highlighting a few of my favourite things, tattoos, writing, shopping, a few lesser-known bands to really get the thinking caps ticking and posted a recent photo of myself in The Rose Print Dress (it works). And, amongst playing the new Adele song on Youtube far too much and trying to assemble some Christmas present ideas for friends and family, I waited with baited breath to see what sort of response my little social experiment would bring.

The Pantera-reject was first, with a ‘hilarious’ tale of a Cure concert he went to round about the time I was learning to join my letters together in Reception class. His timeless tale, where he pretended to be blind in order to get to the front, included a wonderful anecdote of him being escorted to the bathroom by a steward. Yup some poor gigging bastard could have been kicked to death, unseen by ill-informed security, during ‘Friday I’m in Love’ just so some long-haired idiot, could fulfil his dream of trying to lick Rob Smith. I would have had to be blind, deaf and dumb to reply to him.

Next up…someone I’ll simply call ‘Mr Illiterate’. The sad truth is he turned out to be one of many. His simple one-line ice-breaker of ‘Hi Lukin NYC’, somewhat baffled me. Was his name Luke? Did he live in New York? Oh no, wait, he’s just thick. Even the Google language translator couldn’t save me this time, so I engaged Lovemenot in some detection. And, much like a Whistles-clad Sherlock and Watson, Lovemenot and I concluded that he was simply trying to type ‘hi, looking nice’. Not the hardest three words in the dictionary is it? It’s even worse than text speak, it’s no speak. So I’m afraid Mr Illiterate, unlike Cheryl Cole, three words will not change your life, unless you learn (and may I add hastily) how to spell. Then and only then can you consider conversing with women, or members of the general public, over the age of three.

Speaking of which, I very much appreciated the compliment from a certain ‘Specialist UK’, more like ‘Special UK’, who simply said I was ‘Beartfuli’. I resisted, but very much felt the urge to reply ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand you, it must be something to do with BEING BORN IN THE 90s?’ For the record Mr ‘damn your cute (apostrophe followed by R and E you retard), fancy a chat hunni’ would also get no response on principle. Since when did it become ok to chat women up like you’re singing a Will Smith song?

There were gig-goers and all that. Men who, I am thankful, had actually bothered to look past the first line of my profile, or the cut of my dress, to try and find some common ground on which to start conversation. Some liked The Black Keys, others were keen to know what the best gig I had ever been to was (Michael Jackson, Wembley Stadium 1996 – Ha). Sadly though, there wasn’t a ginger beard in sight, so the social experiment continued, though full marks to the curly-haired one who spotted the Jimi Hendrix poster in my photo background.

This one interested me, so I thought I would give it a go and reply. The responses were quick and painless. He seemed fairly normal and quite keen to take me out on a date. I threw caution to the wind and gave him my digits. One photo, a few emails and some text messages later, he was suggesting how much he might like to ‘curl up on the sofa with me’. Yup sure, being that you don’t know what I look like in person or what my voice sounds like, I really didn’t feel this is appropriate behaviour. I gave him the benefit of the doubt for a few more days before deciding to cut it off as his texting and neediness, quite frankly, scared me. Am strong, independent woman seeking strong, indie-pendent man, not wet mop.

Some of the responses were shocking. Some of them want to use you. Some of them want to get used by you and some of them just want to get to ‘no you’. Um ‘Know way’ I say (I told you Mr Illiterate was not alone). They were blocked quicker than you can say ‘resign resign resign’. Plus there were a couple of mobile numbers thrown in email numero uno…desperate? A tad!

All in all I felt more and more disheartened by the whole process. By the end of the week I had received something in the region of forty emails, all of them charmers, most of them chancers and more than half wanted nothing more than to strut their ‘manliness’ in a ‘safe, Internet environment’. I believe I proved myself right. Obviously I feel it’s important to add, once again, if the world of Internet dating works for you, then do go forth and prosper. Date to your heart’s content, scroll through the profiles of exciting potentials and enjoy every single minute. But it still left me cold, and devoid of all hope of a Prince Charming on my interests and intellectual level. I concluded the experiment dying for a long, hard talk with someone ambitious, capable of more than one line sentences and who can preferably spell. But maybe that’s asking too much? I prefer to think not, and hope not.

Well in amongst all that harsh talk, I have great festive news fellow musings…after much deliberation between the powers that be at that magical land of ‘Head Office’, my store WILL indeed be closed on Boxing Day, much to the excitement of yours truly who can now OFFICIALLY go home for Christmas! Yes it’s going to be Mince Pies and Crackers all round this year once again as I sit at my rightful place around the dinner table with Christmas Top of the Pops blaring in the background. I can’t wait…though fear my bad side may get the better of me when negotiating the train journey home.

Although my momentary elation of Christmas cheer has been somewhat shattered with the news that Dream Boy, yes the one I have dreamed of and fawned over for the past God-knows-how-long, actually has a girlfriend. And discovered, quite by chance, on a recent fun, Jagerbomb-downing, bar-crawling night out with him and his mates; when one had every intention of making one’s feelings known. It was like taking a bullet, the kind that even a secret hand-squeezing from Lovemenot couldn’t quite retract. I’m surprised I didn’t fall off my chair, instead I gracefully died inside and wore an ear to ear smile whilst shamelessly flirting with The Banned One (TO). Nobody was any the wiser. But, alas, that is life, and if it’s not meant to be then there is nowt can be done. And if you like someone, then you want the best for them, so if he is happy then that really is all that matters. We are friends and that’s nice (trying to muster up some sort of positive mental attitude here), I can’t keep living with my head in the clouds. So long Dream Boy…the dream is over.

Alas, not one to want to ruin anyone else’s festivities I shall simply take the opportunity to wish you all an incredibly Merry Christmas. May we see this year out in truly fabulous fashion with friends, family and frolicking in the snow.

Mwah x

I'm So Wrapped Up In Your Gaze...Hoping This Is Just A Phase

Once again the blogging is lagging but the last few months, suffice to say, have been tough. I am still the one, solitary mug-of-a-keyholder at my store which continues to frustrate and annoy both me and my new Assistant Manager, who is stuck over in her store for various reasons until some magical date I fear has about as much chance of materialising as the dream I had about Serge Pizzorno last night. I came back refreshed from a week off at home to find that absolutely nothing had changed at work and that I was still expected to slave night and day grabbing whatever days off I could. Not only that, but they are now considering opening my tiny shop on Boxing Day, which means no Christmas time at home for me. Which makes me impossibly sad and a bit crazy.

Ever since year nought Christmas has always been about me and my tiny family, hobbiting around together, having a laugh at the TV, opening presents, getting dressed up in our finest for no particular reason and eating far too much. There will usually be a film on in the background that I will spend the evening explaining to Nanny Musing, my cat will rummage through the wrapping paper and emerge looking wide-eyed and cute and we’ll probably try our hand at a game of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Pretty standard really…and bloody perfect. And now, looking more and more unlikely thanks to the greedy, grubby Gods of fashion retail, who have managed to convert this once Christmas Sprite (who can still sometimes be found searching for Narnia in her wardrobe) to Miss Scroogess 2010.

So today, you find me somewhat absent in mind and body and somewhat devoid of Christmas Spirit, which is unknown territory for me. Usually I’m all tinsel and angels and full of Christmas cheer, fellow musers, I can assure you. But the thought that I may not be able to be at home with Mummy Musing and the rest of my family fills me with dread, to the point that I may be forced to cancel all my December plans in the lead up to the festivities and wallow in Scrooge-inspired self pity. With no tinsel. And no tree.

So in true Musing fashion, I have tried my absolute best to pull together events of the last few months to make my ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’ in the vain hope of providing some entertainment and to remind myself that perhaps things really aren’t so bad after all.

Well the first thing I have done recently is shed the dog-hair and am now sporting a new Karen-O/Coco Chanel inspired bob. Much better, less straggle, more chic, better cheekbones. Winner!

Speaking of all things hairy, I have come to the conclusion that there is but one must-have accessory for this cold winter season. Push aside those hiking heels and shearling jackets, the camel coats and the knee length socks. The one thing I want to be snuggling up to by a cosy fireside is a beautiful boy…complete with extensive ginger beard.

Reason To Be Cheerful Numero Uno…Let’s review…and rewind back to the unspoken desires for Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz, the unfathomable crush on Guy Garvey (rugged rugged rugged). Not to mention the distant memories of my first serious boyfriend, Joe, who was an elfin Ginger vision…though consequently a sad wannabe rock star with a hefty weed addiction and a toasty Nine Inch Nails hoody. In the end it seems there really was ‘no love in Rock and Roll’, yes a line he actually once used in one of our sixteen-year-old ridiculous ‘deep’ conversations.

So it seems 2010 has re-established my love of all things ginger (Gingerbread included), and I am beginning to see a pattern emerging in these men who appear so sadly infrequently in my life. Early January brought the lovely Bob to my attention. The man who took my tattoo-virginity and, therefore, became a whole lot sexier under the bobble hat and massive ginger beard whilst penetrating my skin with his magic needle. Throw into the mix his lovely soothing tones to calm my general fear of pain and the cute picture he had of his child on the wall; and he’s transformed from something you’d find fishing at the bottom of your garden into bonafide dream boat and all round hottie. Does anyone else suffer from this?

I’ll skim over the Tattooed One, whose ginger face is always unbearably lovely to nuzzle (much out of view of Dream Boy), the dalliance with Twat Rep, eye-flirting with the Ginger Prince and we are brought right up to the present day where my new crush, Mr Dan Aerbach of The Black Keys wowed me recently at one of their astounding gigs at Brixton. Sexy, bluesy rock, with a hint of Jimi Hendrix and Des Barres-inspired tales of 70’s excess, I’m all over The Black Keys at the moment, so much so that their album needs surgical aid in removal from my player. I’m also all over Dan’s hugely impressive beard, one bushy little number I felt could have taken my eye out right at the back of the stalls where I was stood at Brixton. And take my eye out he most certainly could with all that bristly gorgeousness… ‘his Next Girl, will be nothing like his Ex-Girl’…with any luck she’ll be a British rock and roll vision of Snow White with a penchant for white mochas and an extensive footwear collection. Ah one can dream…

So I guess Reason To Be Cheerful Number 2 should be the wild night out with Miss Lloyd (my ‘one too many’ friend) which culminated in us stripping to our undies and swimming in an indoor swimming pool, within the confines of the Aquarium club in Shoreditch. Miss Lloyd claims this was all my idea, I think I may have had enough G and Ts not to remember. Either way, I strongly recommend experiencing this if you haven’t already, not least because a nice warm Jacuzzi really sobers you up and drowns out the banter you just can’t be arsed to listen to. There is also the fact that you get to experience what it must be like to be one of those domestic, Nemo-style, tropical fishes with everyone staring at you through the tiny windows on either side of the pool (As if we’re mad or something?). I was waiting for them to drop fish flakes through the windows, the fish flakes never came and the walk home was bitterly cold. There was a boy, his name was Andy. He gave me a neon bracelet as a reminder of him, I think I threw it away. Note to self though; be careful not to get water in face or hair during midnight impromptu swim sessions. You may have chosen to go swimming on a night out yes, but that does not give one licence to spend the rest of the evening resembling Frightening Crawling Girl from ‘Ring’.

Reason To Be Cheerful Number 3 – I should mention the hilarious notion of a certain young waiter at a certain chain of Expressive Pizzas; that it generally is A-OK to hit on customers in front of their Mums! There I was, relaxing on a week off from London chaos, revelling in Due South repeats and Mum’s cooking and severe bouts of Cat-Cuddling. Out we went for dinner one evening with Goldie and Mummy Goldie, tucking into some lovely calamari and catching up on everything, it was lovely. I had noticed the waiter hovering around and barely recognised him as the chubby faced boy who I was once in a show with about ten years ago. He remembered me though (but sadly not Mummy Musing, who slaved in the costume department for about 6 years – some people), and conversation was struck up in a friendly manner, only to go downhill as he asked about my plans for the week and hinted at taking me out for a coffee. I was put on the spot, trying to find polite answers that weren’t, ‘but my Mum is sat right opposite me’. Nice guy bless him, and I got a free dessert but ultimately was not so keen. And the number casually slipped into my hands along with the ‘give me a text sometime’ shouted as I left the restaurant only prompted more ‘but my Mum is RIGHT HERE’. Guys…chatting a girl up in front of her Mum is not cool. Ever. One for the Grandchildren though!

Reason to be Cheerful Number 4 – I heart Proud, Proud hearts me. That’s why their New Year’s Eve extravaganza looks to be the best in town with DJs, Live Bands and Burlesque galore. This looks to be a monumental eve on the horizon… or just a mental one.

Reason To Be Cheerful Number 5 has got to be an amalgamation of Lovemenot and Kitty; two fabulous friends who have really picked my spirits up of late. Twas wonderful to see Kitty after a hideous 3 month separation, much falafel was eaten and we randomly browsed a lot of second hand book shops but it was lovely and I would like to thank her for the short amount of time that she brought me back down to earth (let’s face it, it’s never going to be a permanent state is it).

And a big thank you to Miss Lovemenot, who always sees the positive in the most negative of situations. She who takes control of my life when I am so not in the mood/mental state of mind to do so. She who does not write people/situations off as quickly as I do (mostly because she has a brain a bit like a man) and always tries to turn things around with either words of wisdom or harsh words such as, ‘please just try and focus on something else, for my sake if not yours’. Plus I have finally witnessed L going a big gooey-eyed and entering the ‘phone-staring’ phase of dating over a boy called Sam she recently met out. So I feel I have one up on her at the moment! What would I do without her? Answers on a post card please, a pretty one. For the record, the elusive Sam has dropped off the face of the earth (and landed on the Twat Pile I strongly suspect). Nevermind Lovemenot, there’s better out there…and he’ll be back in London soon enough!!

But in all seriousness, thank you L for it all. I’m so glad we have each other when the rest of the world (or just work and silly boys really) goes wrong.

So next time you hear from me, I sincerely hope I have pulled myself out of this pre-Christmas slump and will be, once again, back to the spritely bringer of good tidings and exquisite mince pies I know I can be. Until then, I am preparing to make like a hedgehog and hibernate against both the freezing weather and the continued stream of bad things happening. I am also planning to consume my weight in tea and satsumas Maybe, just maybe, I’ll write an extremely unrealistic list to Father Christmas and hope for the best….Until next time, don’t slip, don’t eat the yellow snow and please boycott any kind of Boxing Day shopping plans.

Come Fly With Me...The James Syndrome Vs The Phe-Tom-enon

I’m in LOVE fellow musers…unconditional, irrevocable, Bella-and-Edward-eat-your-hearts-out love (or necks perhaps…do vampires have hearts)?

The first time I ever saw him, I knew he was the one. Strong, sturdy, timeless and bang on trend. He was just what I wanted, and needed. Something to cosy up to, to keep me warm on those chilly winter nights that are fast drawing in. Allow me to introduce you to the new love of my life…my new Anika Flying Jacket…Courtesy of both Whistles and the continued generosity of an early Christmas present from Mummy Musing.

As much as work is proving to be quite the bane of my fabulous life at the moment, one does have to admit that grinding away in the dizzying heights of fashion retail management has its benefits, namely the discount. It is true that I have been working like an impeccably-dressed donkey over the last few weeks and missing days off in the absence of my new Assistant Manager starting. We’re straight into mid-season sale, I have staff dropping their hours left, right and centre and am now found to be working with the world’s most unruly printer. Times are hard, musers, but the collection is covetable and whilst I am often to be found staring at my new jacket, I have got my eye on the rather gorgeous Freya dress, a new vampy number for the December season I think.

To be honest, one cannot blame me for my obsessive behaviour over my wardrobe when the boys in my life are still acting so stiflingly strange…Shoreditch Boy has disappeared off the planet again. Perhaps he’s still on Majorca time? Or, even worse perhaps he’s still on Shoreditch time which means I’m bound to get a frown-prompting barrage of text messages in about three weeks. I think this one is best left where it is left. Number deleted, cuteness forgotten, the world makes sense again.

But the swift departure of one, as usual, signals the return of another. Tattooed One is back on the scene and looking decidedly hot. He’s up to his usual sweet, cuddly trickery making all kinds of small promises I’m sure he doesn’t intend to keep. I am not fooled boy, not for one second, but have to admit the thought has crossed my mind more than once. Plus he is lovely to have a cuddle with. Please somebody stop me.

Plus, there was the rather unfortunate incident with yet another James, a bar manager, who seemed cute and friendly but after a failed attempt to befriend me in his office, he swiftly landed on the twat pile and I wasted a perfectly good drawing of a telephone on a serviette. Obviously some men have no taste when it comes to artistic qualities in their women. Another James eh? But in true Bradshaw style it has ‘got me thinking’ about what’s in a name…

On reflection, it appears I am quite the stickler for consistency when it comes to names of the men in my life. I worked out that I have had not one but FIVE near misses with Jameses this year. There was Gally (say no more), followed by the Hopeful Affair with Fate on Brick Lane. Not long after that came Shoreditch Boy in all his Elfin beauty and then the sad, much regrettable, lingering with Twat Rep in Greece and finally Mr Rymans and his obsession with his office. Will I ever learn? Should I be paying attention to these names and the all the mischief and confusion they seem to bring? Should I actively avoid these names at all costs in favour of a much happier relationship future?

In fact, the newly-coined James Syndrome has now surpassed my previous name obsession I shall simply call the Phe-Tom-enon. Four bad Toms, four of them in my life which I’ll highlight for you now, at the risk of sounding like I’m naming episodes of Friends…

1) The First One – I was sixteen and vulnerable. He charmed, he cheated, he looked a bit like that chubby singer from Papa Roach.

2) The One Who Got Away – I actually sent him away as I couldn’t stand the ups and downs any longer during my crucial Uni years. It was horrible, psychotic in parts and one cannot help but wonder ‘what if’ from time to time.

3) The One That Never Was – I’m not sure why it never was, but it wasn’t. He was nice, but his jacket was too big for him, so maybe it was no loss.

4) The Electric Ballroom One – The less said about this one the better I believe. Though I was so plastered I kept calling him and his mate ‘Tom and Serge’. I also fell into a bin.

The Phe-Tom-enon doesn’t seem to be letting up either what with endless temptation from such fine specimens as Mr Rowley a mere seventy miles away. So what’s a girl to do? ‘The heart wants what it wants’ as Lovemenot always says and if that is the case, it appears my heart is never more enamoured than in the presence of a James or a Tom. Well my heart and I do not seem to be reading from the same page. I have never really bought the whole idea of ‘coincidence’, so maybe it’s time to address names further afield than these two familiars and see what the wealth of Adams, Dans, Joes, Bens etc have in store?

You’ve got to laugh (trust me, it was either vent it out in a Blog, or be sectioned) in these circumstances. Alternatively I feel it is important to reflect on the ludicrous nature of my lovelife…and try to turn it into a money-making scheme. So have decided to create a sweepstake amongst my nearest and dearest, all of whom are placing bets on what the name of 2011 will be. I have mine all set, ready and ever hopeful and Lovemenot is sticking with the consistency of the Toms. Others, however, are picking total wild cards, many names of which I have yet to be acquainted with, which could prove quite exciting.

Anyway, the weather is turning brisker by the second, the nights are closing in and I’m off for a romantic stroll safe in the leathery arms of my new boyfriend. Place your bets people….

Craziness Reigns at this Carnival Show...

Picture the scene if you will…You’re all trussed up in Breton stripe and red lips, exposing the décolleté to a slightly nippy September evening breeze, chillin’ with your nicotine famished friends. The man almost directly opposite you, the one you’ve really rather fancied for quite some time, the one whose been both subtly and not-so-subtly making eyes at you throughout the evening, is chillin’ with his friends. He’s having a good time looking hot in his tight jeans, the set went well, and he’s laughing away at some private joke. So you decide to seductively slide onto the Evening Standard unit you are casually leaning against to keep up that ‘playful’ image and re-establish the eye-sex…

This is the point you should stop. Or at least I should have…

So I’m back from my Grecian adventure, soaking up the last of September’s sun and slipping back to reality. And my most favourite part of reality is being shunted from pillar to post on an overheated, overcrowded train on my commute from Dalston Kingsland each morning. A train that appears to get more crowded by the day. I’m sorry, I must have missed the newsflash that Dalston was, in fact, the hub of instant human cloning experiments. I keep expecting to bump into none other than myself whilst slowly being asphyxiated between a rather beautiful handbag and a tramp in a hurry.

Now it’s no secret that I like my music much like my men, Northern. I’m also partial to a lead singer with next to no facial expression and a touch of ginger along with some dark songwriting material involving killing, maiming, guilty consciences and all that. Lucky for me, Dead Sons exist.

Dead Sons are the latest musical triumph of the rather gorgeous Thomas Rowley (a man who, it seems, has the sole mission in life of being a member of as many bands in the North East region as humanly possible). Expanded from the ashes of The Backhanded Compliments, Dead Sons are darker, more 70s inspired with a whole load of new equipment and two new members. Plus they were coming to London…So I dragged one of my work friends plus MMH on Tuesday night, the heels were ridiculously high, the skirt a little short and I was ready to rock.

A few stops on the sweat-inducing Victoria Line and a rather annoying wait around for the doors to open, we were there and I was anxious to get in the building and, more importantly, hunt out Rowley and his band of merry men. Anticipation ran high as I spotted drummer Greeny escape the doors of Buffalo for a cheeky cigarette, followed closely by another two. Before I knew it, my heart had skipped several beats and I tried my absolute hardest not to stare as I sat splayed across the pavement.

There they all were, strutting like five hairy highwaymen hell-bent on having their wicked way with you and leaving a trail of messy destruction in their wake (one can dream). If this were the early 1400s, this fair maiden would have ridden away to elope in a flash.  But wait, who was this quiet and unassuming young man with just the right amount of swagger in his skinny-jeaned step, hopping into Buffalo to check out the evening's events?  Sporting a tight black top to compliment the denim topped off with a gorgeous swept hairstyle, the type you immediately want to ruffle as soon as you see it. Or at least I do. Wait, was that a wide-eyed double-take I spotted? Choosing to ignore my work friend’s comparison to Garfield and Cogsworth from Beauty and the Beast, I believed him to be perhaps the most beautiful man on the planet, and that’s a huge statement, one I have previously only dished out for Serge Pizzorno and John Taylor (Mummy Musing is very much in agreement with the latter).  I needed to know who this man was.

It wasn’t until we were inside the bar that the fun really started, there was eye-catching left, right and centre. Deliberate turns in my direction mid-conversation from Mr Delicious, deliberate staring at his arse whilst my friend was finishing off a must-read edition of Glamour not to mention a very deliberate and strategic walk (well, strut) right past him to the Little Girls’ Room only to then miss him by about two seconds as he went to the Mens. Perhaps it was a ‘look but don’t touch night’, and I was informed on my return to my friends that the strut had, in fact, had the desired effect.

The gig was awesome, lots of people turned out to see Dead Sons, including the scary paedo who is forever on the tails of young musicians (I’m a 26 year old girl, I’m allowed). Plus I would like to take this opportunity to thank the demented, drugged up couple and their off-putting PDAs for near enough ruining both my view and enjoyment, there’s always one (or two in this case). Luckily I am far too nice a person and was able to stamp my feet and overlook these gross tongue-flicking acts emanating in front of my face whilst I was innocently trying to sing along with ‘Sun Song’. MMH had an awesome time too. Their music sounded amazing, especially considering how new the material was and the atmosphere of the place really suited them down to the ground. I was all rocked out and, frankly, a little lustful.

So afterwards, outside, we waited patiently for Mr Delicious to make his way out.  This was to no such avail as upon his exit, he was deeply engrossed in conversation with friends of theirs. I was merely a bystander. Something had to be done. So I took it upon myself to make like a diva and slide myself onto the Evening Standard Unit I had been leaning against to try and re-ignite the flames of burning desire between myself and Mr Delicious.

Well it’s safe to say gone are my dancing days of ease and flexibility in high heels. After a false start, rather than slipping onto the Unit like a cheeky, wanton elfin-seductress, I couldn’t get my heel placed high enough, needed a push to keep me steady and the whole event culminated in me doing nothing more than giving the innocent Unit a really poor lap-dance, whilst MMH crumbled in floods of hysterical tears whilst trying to shield me from view of anyone. I can only thank my lucky stars that Mr Delicious’ skinny-jeaned behind stayed permanently facing me throughout my ordeal and live in hope that, one day soon, I will get to rectify this horrible situation.

Back to the present day and you find me, once again, pondering the inner workings of the male mind. You may remember a fleeting mention of a young man I took a fancy to in a Shoreditch bar a few weeks ago? The one I swapped numbers with after a brief encounter only to never hear from him again? Well whilst on a shopping trip for upcoming Birthday treats who should I receive a text from? Yes that’s right, Shoreditch Boy, the world makes sense again! Not only have three weeks flown by since our lovely encounter but I had near enough forgotten what he looked like when he breezes in to tell me things have been a little hectic. It turns out he is currently on holiday in Majorca which adds to the conundrum somewhat. Obviously I am doing what any strong-willed, independent woman would do. I am staring at my phone every five minutes in the hope that we may finally be able to meet up for that drink. Don’t judge me!