Work
Radio days
Strange how there are patterns within the chaos. Some days, I'll field about eight calls from different cleaning companies. Other times it'll be a whole parade of stationery firms trying to get me to buy my A4 paper from them. Or courier companies trying to tempt me away from Pink Express (never going to happen - the head of Pink sends me chocolate and bottles of wine, and one of the guys on the phones used to be the guitarist in Ten Pole Tudor. You just don't desert a company like that). Today, for some reason, every other phone call seems to be from people trying to get me to buy two-way radios... Well, I guess a change is as good as a rest, etc. etc.
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Apparently there's a football match on...
It's not bad working here, you know. I've got my free Shiatsu massage booked for this afternoon, and we have TVs set up all around the office so we can watch the World Cup. Even better, the powers that be here at Clerkenwell Towers have decreed that those members of staff who wish to watch the football off-site may leave at 4:30pm. So I am leaving half an hour early today. But not to watch the football. Oh no. Instead, I am going to go and have some noodles - which will be the first proper dinner I will have had in TWO WEEKS. Up to this point, my evening meal has consisted of biscuits and tea. Mmmm, healthy. (I'm rehearsing evenings and weekends, y'see. Football? What football...?)
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My body is a temple
Check me out, gang. I'm getting healthy. Not a drop of the demon drink has passed my lips in a fortnight. That's TWO WHOLE WEEKS, people. That's is the longest I've been off the sauce since I was at University (when my sordid love affair with the grape and the grain began in earnest). And I don't even miss it all that much. Sure, I get the urge for a cold continental lager whenever I enter a pub, but an icy pint of lime and lemonade is almost as good. Almost. Also, I'm actually managing to get my 5 portions of fruit and veg a day. This is astonishing, insofar as I will happily go for months without a single piece of fruit passing my lips. I put my success in this field down to the joys of Bircher muesli with banana, blueberries and raspberries. And seeds. And honey. Yowza. I've got a bowl on the go as I type and by Christ it's tasty. A fruity jamboree in my mouth. Of course, it won't last. I'm going to France for a big wedding in two weeks' time, so it will be champagne and vin rouge and brioche and stinky cheese for me then, oh yes.
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6.6.06
It's the Tuesday of the Beast! The End of Days is here, and has been heralded by... um... well... a nice sunny day... errr... a bit of a snarl-up on the Holloway Road... um... I spilt ground coffee all over my freezer... The Apocalypse is surely nigh! For doth it not say in Revelations 13: And I saw a beast coming up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten diadems, and upon his heads names of blasphemy. And the beast did try to open the freezer drawer, but lo! the drawer was frozen shut. And the beast did yank at the drawer until it opened half way, then did try to pull out the bag of Morrisons "The Best" ground coffee. But the coffee did spill upon the ground, and upon the frozen peas, and upon the garlic pizza bread. And the beast opened his mouth unto blasphemies against God, and did say "fuck" and also "bollocks". We're clearly all doomed. Start hoarding bottled water and cans of peaches now, people. Actually, I've got rather hooked on my morning coffee. Those of you with long memories may recall Coffeeshop Jez, a.k.a. Ersatz Julian, a.k.a. The Fucktard Who Dumped Me On New Year's Eve. Anyway, just before he dropped me like a hot coal, he gave me a very cool stovetop coffee pot. I never used it (probably because it reminded me of him), but the other day I thought I'd see if it made good coffee. "Good" doesn't really cover it. It's black gold. Thick, treacly and incredibly strong. So I've started making myself a pot every morning. And now I can't stop. It's like crack, only tastier. Onthe plus side, I now have the energy to put my makeup on first thing in the morning, which can only be of benefit to me (and to the world in general).
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Minor celebrities ahoy!
We just had one of our semi-regular fire alarms here at Clerkenwell Towers, in which everybody empties out into the street and I get to wear a fetching fluorescent yellow tabard.
The cafe next to my office was evacuated too. And who should come out, holding a coffee cup? Why, only the delectable Rupert Graves: 
Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing a vest and a provocative pout, as in this picture. Rather, he was in a tracksuit and his hair was long and straggly and up in a half ponytail. He was also so tanned that he looked like he'd been carved out of teak. Very disappointing. I prefer to think of him as he was in Room With A View - i.e. butt-naked and jumping into a river.
Accompanying him was the not-quite-so-delectable, but still-pretty-hot-despite-being-very-bald Mark Strong: 
And also there was the not-at-all-hot, apparently-a-bit-of-an-arrogant-arse actor and playwright, Patrick Marber: 
His lips are too rubbery, especially in real life. They disturb me.
So what "famous" people have you seen today?
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Plates of meat
What with the stress of moving and the PMT and the crappy weather, I felt in need of a bit of pampering today. So I've just had me a pedicure. But not just any pedicure, oh no. This was a paraffin wax pedicure. I didn't really know what that was when I booked my appointment. I figured it would just be a special sort of ointment to smear on my feet.
It wasn't a special sort of ointment. Oh no.
Instead, after my feet were soaked and buffed and massaged, the therapist covered them with HOT PARAFFIN WAX until they looked like a pair of foot-shaped Edam cheeses.
What a very strange way to spend your lunch hour...
(Of course, my feet feel wonderful now - soft and smooth and tingly. In fact, they put the rest of me to shame. I wonder if I should go back and get her to cover the rest of me in wax. Or is that a little too Madonna in 'Body of Evidence'?)
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Yay
That's my day sorted, then. Nice.
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