"Lost Looking For Fish: the world's best occasional blog!"

Do you know what I hate? When B-grade companies, in a desperate attempt to make their pathetic attempts at marketing appear more persuasive, put every inane untruth in a pair of inverted commas. The shoddy-looking chiropodist down the road from my office who claims to be "A haven of health" has clearly realised that no-one would believe such an absurdity if it wasn't surrounded by those all-validating quotation marks. "London's best bagels!" proclaims a local eaterie, entirely failing to mention which culinary mastermind or boiled bread lover has tested every single bagel in the capital before settling on a winner using a perspex clipboard and a complex system of multiple choice and pi. "A holiday you'll never forget" - what about after a head injury? And who's making this claim? What is their version of unforgettable? A fortnight at Guantanamo would certainly stick around in the memory but it's not necessarily something I'd rush to use my Air Miles on...

It must be true, suggests the punctuation, because someone has said it out loud. Sneaking into our subconscious like crack, the speech marks suggest that a third person - perhaps, egad! a celebrity or someone intelligent enough to form an actual opinion - has opened their lipglossed mouth and voiced their thoughts; surrounded by speech marks, suddenly what was previously just an annoying boast has magically been transformed into an objective and plausible fact. Readers, it sends me into sweats of rage. Honestly, it's a miracle I can write about it without requiring sedation, but I risk my health so that you, too, will start noticing this modern punctuatory irritant and choose to remain doggedly unpersuaded by it. Smokes and mirrors, ladies and gentlemen - that's all it is. And it's up to us to resist temptation. Consumers of the world, unite against this trickery! Do not fall for this falsity! Unaccredited quotations do not equal truth! "Jumping off a cliff is brilliant!" Hello? Anyone?

Chess pains

So last night, I was going to see a concert performance of the musical, Chess, at the Royal Albert Hall and I was going to meet Paul and Ses and Arabee for a drink in Gloucester Road beforehand, so I got changed at work and then realised that my dress fell in between my buttocks in a leaves-not-enough-to-the-imagination-esque fashion, so I went to my local New Look to buy a pair of big pants to solve the problem, but then I realised that time was marching on and when I went to the changing room to don the new knickers and saw the huge queue I realised that I should get a move on and that waiting in line was not an option, so I found a deserted corner in New Look's underwear section and changed my pants under my dress. I don't think anyone saw. Then I got on the Circle Line at Moorgate and went to King's Cross, and then changed on to the Piccadilly Line towards Knightsbridge but when we reached Covent Garden my skin suddenly tingled and my hair felt like it might fall out because I realised with absolute 100% certainty that the tickets for Chess were not in the handbag I was holding, but instead in the silver evening bag I'd planned to take with me but decided against at the last minute, which was still on the floor in my office. So I got out of the Piccadilly Line train at Covent Garden, went back to King's Cross, changed back onto the Circle Line, returned to Moorgate, went back up to my office, got the tickets, and went back to the tube, calling Paul en route to say that since I had screwed up so spectacularly, he should now meet me at Knightsbridge rather than Gloucester Road and we'd get a cab from there. So then I got to Knightsbridge and the clock was ticking in deafening imaginary style as I strode up the escalator, new pants frustratingly unsuccessful in solving buttock/dress issues, make-up smudged and face sweaty from rushing and public transport, hair no longer glossy like a pony but lank like seaweed, but I surfaced at last and crossed the road towards Kensington Gore, phoning Paul to tell him I had arrived but he didn't pick up and it rang and rang and then went through to voicemail, so I started to panic and rang again but the same thing happened, and I started planning going alone and leaving his ticket hidden under a rock outside so that I could go in and not miss the beginning, but then on the third time he finally picked up and was all lacksadaisical and chilled like he'd been on a three week spa break in Mauritius and it turned out he'd actually strolled beyond Knightsbridge tube, back towards Hyde Park Corner, for no apparent reason, so he began to meander back towards me and oh so slowly came into view and loped across the road and I saw a bus coming so we ran after it but then the bus stop wasn't operating because of road works and we couldn't make it to the temporary bus stop 200 yards further down Kensington Gore, so I stopped running and he caught up with me, and didn't say hello but instead said, 'Can I just say: calm down.' Readers, I am highly strung but rarely murderous. Yesterday, minutes before curtain up, I was planning my first kill. 'When,' I spat at Paul, 'in the history of existence, has telling someone who is stressed to calm down EVER actually made them calm down?' Even more annoying was that Paul's phone didn't show any missed calls on it so when I explained that I'd been ringing him fruitlessly for several minutes, he looked at me like I was insane while trying not to reveal the extent of his ill-hidden disbelief and growing conviction that I am technologically inept. Thankfully he had brought me a banana to quell my post-gym starvation attack, which I ate on the bus, and that helped. We arrived at the Albert Hall only a few minutes late, had wine, I improved further, watched the show, I started to feel warm and content, went into the host's swanky box at half time and mingled with random celebs, I journeyed towards Cloud 9, watched the second half, I relaxed completely, congratulated our talented cast member, I was proud and satisfied, bought a beer in South Ken tube station, I was sleepy, arrived home, I was dead on my feet, Paul decided now was the time to buy a stock photograph for his new website, launching today, and showed me the copy, I became alert and critical, edited text by making it much better, Paul rejected my suggestions for a variety of flimsy reasons, I slipped into a coma, and then it was this morning.

Gloat

I'm in the First Class lounge at Heathrow's Terminal 5. It's 10:08 and I'm about to have a glass of Champagne, for free, with my lovely man friend Paul. Things are good.

That is all for now.

Busted?

I think I have a fairly good reputation at work. Which is lucky, because my boss' right hand man just came in to find me seated at my computer, head upright, facing forward, hand on mouse. Nothing wrong with that picture, you might think. Crucially, however, my eyes were shut.

Of course, he wasn't to know how long they'd been shut for. The truthful answer is, I believe, 'somewhere around a minute' but for all he could tell, I might have been kipping for hours. Not a good look. In my favour is the fact that this gentleman is not the most logical of people, often finding it hard to hear what someone else is saying, such is the volume of thoughts whirring around his head. So maybe he didn't notice. But I think he did. Oops.

Note to self: do not, when arriving home at around midnight after a gigantic meal with parents to celebrate mother's birthday, suggest to Paul that we should just quickly watch The Apprentice. Even though I fell asleep halfway through, I am still beyond shattered today. Motivation is low and self-esteem is even lower as my good intentions of gym-going were battered by my hangover and thus far today I have been driven to consume a consoling peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, a Penguin at 11ish, a large portion of ravioli and parmesan for lunch and a Cadbury's Caramel for tea. Well, I call it tea but it was really about 2pm. Still time for an additional late afternoon carbohydrate hit. I don't think it's booze that makes you fat: it's hangover eating that does it. Still, today I have an excuse - without regular refuelling, who knows when I'll next nod off while at my desk? We wouldn't want me to lose my job because of a low blood sugar incident, would we? Blimey, with a little more effort I'll be able to justify continued consumption of sweet foods as protection against involuntary mortgage defaults, protesting that if I don't have yet another Twix, my home might be repossessed. It's tenuous but I'm sticking with it...

Is this funny?

I think it probably is.
Apologies for absence. Back later today, I promise.