'They're Stepping Lightly...Hanging Each Night In..Rapture'

I woke up on this, my first day, of a nine-day stretch away from the confines of work, with one thought…I hate my Other Housemate’s boyfriend!

She is a sweet and conscientious student, whom I simply call The Other One because we don’t socialise together.  We have, however, had some intellectual and fun conversations in the kitchen and she makes lovely homemade hummus.  HE is an arrogant twat with a sizeable, and therefore, unavoidable mole on the side of his face; plus an even more sizeable ‘up your own arse because you go to Cambridge’ attitude.  I happen to know someone who was accepted to Cambridge once; and if we’re using him as a benchmark for potential Cambridge Calibre, then all you really have to be is slightly socially retarded, yet possess a extraordinary talent for music and the arts.  So Eff you and your mole, and stop waking me up at this UNGODLY HOUR on a Saturday with your appalling music and your post-run groans.  TWAT.

Rant over, it’s a sunny day and, if Harold Camping - genuine Reverend/Insane Person – is to be believed, it’s our last day on Earth.  I’m not sure I buy into the rantings of someone who has put actual money into posting his prophecies all over the Internet, after all, The Mayans don’t do that.  I guess all I can really be thankful for is that The End appears to be holding off until about 6pm so I have just enough time to catch the last day of Margaret Harrison’s ‘I Am A Fantasy’ exhibition at the Payne Shurvell Gallery.  I feel very distinguished and cultured as I type that.  I also just heard a very strange noise outside my window and, fearing it may be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, wound up my blind to face my doom.  It was a lawnmower.

I am slightly concerned about my mental health at the moment (I know, when am I not concerned about my mental health?!)  Just prior to my rude awakening thanks to The Mole, I had roused myself with a sudden fear that I didn’t know where my nail file was.  I had no need for such an implement at this time, but a snapshot of the file’s packet lying on my bedroom floor sent me into something of a panic about where the beloved Miss Manicure was.  Methinks I have been reading too much Jon Richardson that I am now developing my own OCD.  Or perhaps, like Mummy Musing often hints at, it is something that has always been there.  Either way this, much like a lot of other things in my life, needs to be stopped in its tracks, before we cut to more sleepless nights about the state of my cutlery drawer/scrap paper tray/insert randomness here.

And now onto more pressing matters, like Stand Up For The Week and how I literally felt that I had been standing up for the whole week during filming.

Lovemenot and I were on the tube to Mornington Crescent; Lovemenot was the usual vision of laid-back, Joplin-lovechild beauty she always is.  I had opted for a quirky look in the form of a vintage tea-dress with mustard tights and chunky tan platforms in a bid to impress my new crush, topped off with a wing-ed eye and a nude lip.  I had also opted for allowing myself two hours to get ready – just in case.  Several moments of queuing later and we were given green wristbands which, as it turns out, means nothing more than you get to fight your way to a half-decent space about 2 minutes before people with white wristbands.  Once inside, we nestled into a spot on the first balcony behind a bunch of Whitehall-groupies (one was potentially EVEN shorter than me so we thought we could probably take them on). 

The filming itself took about three hours. Kevin Bridges as compere was incredible, Jack Whitehall was phenomenal and the special guess Dave Fulton was outstanding as he joked about general miserable English attitudes.  Being an American he can do this and it doesn’t sound either boring or offensive.  There were breaks in which everyone was too scared to buy a drink or take a trip to the Little Girls/Boys Room for fear of losing their places.  Then Fate stepped in, in the form of a small lady in front of us, who was leaving just in between Andi and Jon’s sets.  I didn’t even consider why she wouldn’t want to stay for J-Rich’s stamp on Sport for the week, I simply slipped into prime location at the front of the balcony and tried to rest my feet, which were killing from the heels I had stupidly chosen to wear.  A girl has to suffer for fashion, and the suffering was not in vain as lovely J-Rich took to the stage with his awkward nervous twitches and general hilarity.  He was concise, rehearsed, hysterical and unbelievably sexy – in short the heels and the wait and the wristbands were all worth it.

I would, however, like to thank the two larger-than-life idiots who had unfortunately positioned themselves next to myself and Lovemenot, only for an argument to ensue halfway through Andi Osho’s set, about one taking the other’s place.  Not only that, they then decided to try and get me involved in refereeing due to my being carelessly pushed during this scramble – don’t start with me, I’m just here for the Stand-Up Totty and the laughs.  Still, I didn’t appreciate missing most of Andi’s act due to some whining American’s bitter words with someone who might have been Kevin Bridges’ Dad.  For the record, the furtive two hours of getting ready paid off, as proven on playback on the night SUFTW was aired.  Cue a screen shot of myself and Lovemenot laughing heartily at Jon’s Ashley Cole jokes.  Oh how happy I was leaning precariously over that balcony.  And I’m still sure he looked up.  Several times.

Of course, living in Dalston, there had to be some jibe about the choice of mustard tights, which I feel complimented my ‘Librarian Geek Chic’ outfit, from a suitably drunk/stoned/threatening passer by.  So a big thank you to the Tosspiece in McDonalds who took it upon himself to fulfil that oh-so-predictable role with his sniggering, and quite frankly, ugly friend.  Why don’t you come back to me when you can find a Pleather Jacket that fits you?  Don’t choke on that Quarter Pounder now.

Well aside from my considerable man-bashing, which upon reading back this blog, I have been doing a fair bit of these last few weeks; The L-O-V-E word is still very much hanging in the Summer air.

Lovemenot is still all smitten with the Young Cherub.  There have been Cider-fuelled dates in the park, Friday Fright Night dates watching Insidious (which, when translated, apparently means – Unscariest and Frankly Most Laughable Film of 2011) and he’s even made a homemade Lasagne for her.  A man of many talents this Young Cherub appears to be – not only can he cook, have decent conversation and make Lovemenot feel a bit lovely; he could also stand in as inspiration at The Louvre for portrait sessions and sculpture classes!  Still, this new man has led our Lovemenot to close the chapter with Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again and for that, may we be truly thankful.  My little girl is all grown up, one day it will be my turn!

My post would not be complete without a mention of my Oldest and Dearest Goldie moving up to the Big Smoke in the name of all that is the Anti-Theist Tallboy.  Having been in a relationship with The One for over a year, she felt it was time to make the move and carve out a new life for herself, with him, in London.  Which works for me!  Cut to a new job at The Independent and I am hearing tales of trouble in co-habitation paradise…over no less than a duvet!  I honestly never thought I would hear the day Goldie beamed about making dinner for her beloved, resent his intrusion of her dance game on the Kinect or query the argument that ensued over who had stolen the ‘whole effing duvet’ after one sleepless night.  It really is at times like this I like to spread out like a starfish in my delightful double boudoir, safe in the knowledge that I do not have to have these conversations.  Then I remember the nail file and it all comes flooding back that I still have sleepless nights for very different reasons.

In quite surprising news, The Fox is still relatively on the scene.  I am yet to retract my statement about his rubbish communication, as it tends to be about four or five days before I hear from him; but I will retract my statement about his mediocre kissing, as this was proven very much wrong on a date night in Hoxton this Tuesday just gone.  I sort of half-thought it was all over after the first one due to lack of texting.  Then, one Wednesday evening, I was chilling in my room after a hefty dinner of Enchiladas with Stickels and MMH, my phone chimed and The Fox’s name was unashamedly displayed across it.  We had a lovely conversation, banter was flying around the flat and Stickels’ attempt at distracting my attention by performing various sexual positions in my room was quite the sight.  A date for the following week was set and that was Hoxton last Tuesday.  I have learnt over the past year, that whatever you have going on with a man, it’s probably best not to listen to the advice of your gay BFs.  This is mostly because they will just suggest sleeping with as many men as is humanly possible so as to appear aloof and uncaring.

I think I am warming to The Fox though.  Despite the lack of regular contact and the half-arsed attempt at trying to get me back to his on Tuesday (no it didn’t work), we have a lot of fun when we’re out.  The conversation flows, he is very funny, stylish and is nicknamed Simon Le Bon by his friends due to his love of turned-up cuffs on blazers.  I’m just trying not to think about it too much, or actually talk about it too much.  But I like the fact that he remembers conversations we have had, I like that he is here and in the now and I like that he has upgraded from mediocre kisser to actually quite good kisser.  I am not one to speak too soon (anymore) but there may be the slimmest chance that perhaps someone is finally chipping away at the surface of Miss Musing.

So I do hope you all enjoy your Potential Last Day On Earth.  Spend it wisely as I will.  I am off to view indecent art, consider the procurement of a parasol and potentially a nose piercing and, if it all really is about to end, I have a heartfelt Facebook message drafted and a map of Swindon at the ready.

Mwah x

Wooooaaahhhh I'm In Love With Judas

I’m actually not, because he was a bad man…and he kissed men…and I’ve been there and done that.  Ha.

The one person I am slightly in love with though, much to my surprise, is Lady Gaga.  And for this I blame Stickels, for his consistent playing of her Euro-trash, oh-so-catchy tunes.  A bit slow to catch up with this one really, I wasn’t phased by Just Dance or Poker Face, I thought the meat dress was nothing more than a disgusting, rancid experience for whoever she ended up sitting next to and couldn’t have cared less about the mental Tea Cup stories, superstar or not.  Then two miraculous things happened, Stickels moved in AND Born This Way was released.  I now cannot stop watching her, her live performances move me and every fibre of my being is desperate to learn each and every dance routine.  I’ve gone from Gaga-bashing at anyone who will listen to me, to watching every live performance with Stickels whilst debating her ‘realness, emotion and longevity as a performer’.  These are strange times Musers, strange times indeed.

Well. Summer is fast approaching and love really does seem to be in the air.  Love of a sickly, sweet, fairytale nature ever since THAT double kiss on the famous balcony which set our proud, British hearts alight last Friday. 

And what a wedding it was for Wills and Kate.  She looked stunning in her McQueen get up, he looked a bit like he could have tried harder with that bald patch, Harry looked like he was going to laugh through most of it (love him).  Of course, I was able to view these historical moments through nothing more than the medium of Elle.com as, unlike the majority of British folk enjoying a public holiday to witness the eternal vows exchanged between two young lovers, I had to endure the quietest day of all time in my shop.  I’m sick of it actually, sick of no long weekends and sick of having to miss out on these lovely things, just because I work in the service industry and there may be a slim chance somebody wants to be styled, whilst the rest of Britain watches Kate waltz down the aisle at Westminster Abbey.  I know I work for a lovely brand and have a banging, beautiful wardrobe.  But I am, once again, struggling to make myself happy about serving people who seem to think they are so much better than me, day in day out.  So much so that I invested in the beautiful, 70s-inspired Dana Culottes as a new piece of uniform, to both cheer me up and to aid my daydreams of swanning around a la Des Barres, amidst throngs of hunky musicians.  Methinks it’s time to look at new career options – other than best selling novelist of course.  The book is coming along well thanks for asking…

Still, all was not lost this week as I still managed to celebrate the Royal Wedding in style over at the O2 Academy with Miss Lloyd (who ruined her shoes on the dancefloor – mostly because she could barely stay upright, ahem) and Lovemenot, who has since become smitten with a young man with whom she became acquainted that evening – he’s got Lovemenot written all over him, face of a young boy cherub with stubble.  There were starter drinks at Slim Jims, Kate and Wills cardboard cut outs, scary bride costumes (none of which were mine) and there was The Locomotion.  Of course, by the time Min made herself present on the decks, Miss Lloyd was nowhere to be seen and Lucy was off being romanced by her new crush on the dancefloor. 

Now I’m not one to tot up the list of crushes and encounters (both appropriate and very inappropriate); but I am often approached/accosted by various menfolk on nights out, none the least on visits to O2.  Lets review…there was The Shirtless Man, his friend, the Night of the Two Twat Toms, Drunk James (O2 Arena – still counts, Lord help me) and so on and so forth.  I literally have kissed a million frogs to no avail what so ever.  So it should not have surprised me that on this night, I had no less than 8 men-tals approach me.  Some were chancers, others were lucky enough to get a tongue-in-cheek slow dance to Lady In Red.  Then came The Fox.

With Miss Lloyd having sloped off with his mate near enough upon entry to the club, The Fox and I started having a dance-off.  Him - a very cute, very funny, mediocre kisser with a lot to say and a promise of a date in the upcoming week, versus Me – Glad-Ragged and suspicious, but always more than ready to hit the floor to some Rick Astley.  There was plenty of flirting, a phone number swap and more mediocre kissing before he disappeared, it appeared, to chat up other women.  I left it, I danced the night away and ended up back at the flat of Lovemenot’s new lip-accessory, chewing the ear off some random about my unrequited love for Dreamboy (that’s my Judas, right there).  It was 5.45a.m when I climbed in to bed.

Cut to a lazy Sunday evening catching up with comedy on the Internet, after an horrific day at work (my fault, not work, for once), and my message alert sounds to reveal a text from The Fox.  His texting etiquette is humorous and to the point, he mentions something about becoming a stand-up comedian and, before you can say ‘but hang on a minute, were you not tonguing the face off another woman last night?’, I have arranged to meet him at Piccadilly Circus that coming Tuesday.  Lovemenot is all a-gidder next to me, having arranged a day date with Young Cherub for that Monday, I wasn’t sure how to feel – other than overtired, and in love with J-Rich. 

Still, Tuesday came, The Fox turned up donning Stripy T Shirt and Blazer and it wasn’t horrendous.  The Rose-Print dress was dusted off and there was Cider a-plenty, as we chatted about our work, our likes, our dislikes and surfing in Portugal (obviously not me – my hair wouldn’t stand it).  I always rather enjoy those spontaneous dates, the ones where you don’t know where to go for your next drink so you walk around for ages, arm in arm, having easy conversation.  I felt comfortable with him.  Ironic really that, on the day I text my Mum to tell her that I am officially done with silly little boys who don’t know what they want, I have a rather lovely date with ANOTHER 22 year old. 

So we had a lovely time, and I do hope to see him again, there has been talk of a random trip to a random gig at a random venue, but who knows?  Having been in the dating game for some time, one knows to expect the unexpected and, sadly, not to expect anything.  The Fox is being a little slow off the mark with his texting currently, so we wait with baited breath, not great for a man who describes himself as a ‘doer’ though.  Still, perhaps I’m not done with the silly little boys quite yet.

So there you have it, what a magical, fairytale-ish week to be blogging…The Prince marries his girl, the evil sorcerer Bin Laden is defeated and somewhere in a faraway castle, in Dalston, one little Princess dreams of being rescued by her Prince

P.S. Dear J-Rich,

I will be coming to your good self at Koko next week for the recording of the last in the current series of ‘Stand Up For The Week’.  Look out for me, I’ll probably be the one being ousted by security in a ‘Mrs Richardson’ T-shirt….give us a wave!

Much Love

Miss Musing

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.