Auspicious starts

It's always a good sign that the day is going to be trying when you wake up with an expletive.

I woke up at 8:25am, stared at my alarm clock in disbelief for a few seconds, and then the swearing started. I pride myself on being an inventive swearer. But time constraints this morning meant I had to limit myself to repeating "fuck" with differing levels of intensity and desperation.

Five minutes later I'm out of the door and running for the train. Running in flip-flops is a much underrated form of transport. There's an edge of danger, because you never know if you're going to go arse over tit. And of course the loud flap-flap-flapping of flip-flop on concrete alerts all the other commuters to the fact that you're very late for work (and probably haven't had a wash this morning). You need serious strength of character to run in flip-flops.

I made the train though. And got into work on time. And now I'm wondering why the hell I bothered to rush in the first place...
12.8.03 11:10


Wedding bells

Only one week left, then I go to my first ever wedding. People find it hard to believe that I've reached the age of 26 without ever having been to one. What can I say? My friends all prefer to live in sin. Either that or they get married in secret (presumably so I won't turn up, get hideously drunk and vomit all over the top table).

But my good friends Lawrence and Gill have decided to risk inviting me to their nuptuals. Bless them. Here we all are this time last year on Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh:



We'd just climbed up what is basically an extinct volcano, in the dark, carrying a picnic and three bottles of champagne. We all look so happy because we've managed to reach the top without anybody falling to their deaths.

I have to add that the whole thing was my idea... I'm the one in the cap. I look particularly overjoyed that I haven't killed any of my friends.

Anyway, the happy couple are the blonde girlie and the guy with yellow glasses. If you think you recognise him, you've probably seen his starring turn in the Toyota Corolla advert as the guy who gets punched. He was also one of the guys in the pink bunny suits in KFC's Easter campaign. I hang out with all the stars.

The wedding's going to be in Edinburgh. So maybe I'll be able to entice them back up the seat for some more nocturnal mountain climbing. I live in hope.
12.8.03 11:58


Mind...being...numbed...

How can it still only be 12:20?!

This morning's top 5 strategies for appearing busy whilst actually doing nothing of any use whatsoever:
(1) Go upstairs & check all the photocopiers.
(2) Print off stuff. Anything. Doesn't have to be work-related.
(3) Open old emails and look at them, frowning, so as to appear to be pondering a particularly knotty problem.
(4) Flick through stationery catalogues, and occasionally make a mark by a product. A4 paper, for example, or Stabilo Boss highlighters (pack of 8, assorted colours).
(5) Make "to do" lists. I love these. Lists rock.

12:22. Well, that killed some time.
12.8.03 13:36


No, he can't have drowned!

Is it just me, or was the last episode of "Spooks" last night really harrowing?

Can't rid myself of the image of beautiful Matthew McFadyen wading into the sea, big blue eyes brimming with desperation and anguish.




There is also the question of what I'm going to do on Monday nights in the future. An even more harrowing prospect
12.8.03 14:18


Success!

I have managed to spend the entire day doing nothing. Result.

And my boss just came and actually apologised for the fact that I have nothing to do. I think I may actually have the ideal job. All I need to make it perfect is a water cooler that dispenses gin & tonic, and Colin Farrell under my desk doing naughty things to me in between phone calls (the phone rarely rings, heh heh).

Well, out of the door in 15 mins. Am going for a picnic in an as-yet-unidentified London park with Mr Purse and his Hugh Grant hair. Rose wine and strawberries, I reckon. Things always turn out okay in the end. A demain, mes amis.
12.8.03 18:33


Posh or pikey?

Had a lovely evening with Mr Purse, but it was a rather unconventional little picnic. No hampers or blankets on the lawn for us. Nope. We had our picnic on the top balcony of the National Theatre.

We raided the Barbican branch of Safeway for the following items:

Crusty bread
Fresh olives
Houmous (full fat - yay)
Cambazola cheese
Spinach, ricotta & red pepper quiche
A punnet of strawberries
1 bottle of Vittel (to prevent dehydration)
2 bottles of a cheeky little red wine (to cause dehydration)

We then raided the Barbican cafe for plastic cups (how pikey), and headed off to the South Bank. Once installed on the balcony outside the Olivier we got stuck in. People who were watching "Henry V" kept coming out with their overpriced drinks and little piddly tubs of icecream. They were clearly rather envious of our spread, which gave me a small frisson of pleasure.

By 11 o'clock we've had a bottle of wine each. I'm very definitely slurring, and have got to the point where I talk to myself in the toilet.
So we go and sit outside a bar. More wine for me, whiskey for Mr Purse. And he introduces me to the game that is "Fuck, Marry, Kill". Basically, you name 3 people, and the other person has to decide who they would fuck, who they would marry, and who they would kill. Simple really. Yet faintly disturbing. Example:

Me: Okay - Osama bin Laden, Saddam Hussain, Pol Pot.
Mr Purse: Oh, tough. Er... I'd marry Osama bin Laden, because he seems intelligent and he's not such a murdering bastard as the other two. I'd kill Pol Pot. So I guess that means I'd fuck Saddam Hussain.

So now I can't get rid of the image of Mr Purse making sweet love with America's Most Wanted. Blee.

My toughest choice was Tony Blair, Cherie Blair & Gordon Brown. Just thinking about it makes me feel sordid. Wash..out...my...mind...
13.8.03 11:57


Am I hallucinating?

Someone just cycled past my desk.

This is a strange office.
13.8.03 12:54


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