Funnypenny

Well that was quite amusing. My boss was going to a lunch today at White's, which is an old-school members' club in London. On Tuesday he asked me to book him a cab, so I went on Google to find the address. I was expecting it to be in Mayfair or St. James', but on typing 'White's private members club London' into the searchbox, the first result that came up on Google maps was in Aldgate. Odd, I thought, but pasted the address into the Outlook calendar entry, booked the cab and forgot about it.

At 12:30 this afternoon, I got a call from my boss. He was in the taxi, outside White's Club on Leman Street, Aldgate. It turns out that members' club means different things to different people. I'd sent my boss for lunch at a strip joint.

I tried to apologise through the laughter, but annoyingly, saying sorry while cackling with uncontrollable mirth didn't communicate the sincerity I'd intended. The idea of my unbelievably clean-living, teetotal, 11% bodyfat, immaculately-dressed boss expecting a stiff-upper-lip English club and getting a lunchtime dose of fake tan, fake boobs and diamante thongs at a tacky City lapdancing venue was just too good to be true. I have since researched the establishment a little further; a review on ViewLondon by Jason1976 suggests it is just the kind of place any self-respecting man about town would hope to find himself for a business lunch on a Thursday afternoon: "Had my stag do at Club Whites this week and my first visit will definitely not be my last, as soon as we were lead to our VIP room i knew this was going to be the stag night i only dreamt of." Another reviewer, Sweeting, adds: "I tell you what, this club is rated as the best , i am never disappointed when i go , it's true that i go there pretty often but what i am saying is the truth, this club has it spot on in my opinion and i recommend highly once again, the girls , the management, could'nt be better."

When I eventually stopped laughing and was reassured that he hadn't even got out of the cab and was now safely on his way back to the office, I found the phone number of the old-school White's and tracked down the intended lunch date to apologise; thankfully, he also saw the funny side. I then emailed his PA to explain what had happened who comforted me with a tale of a friend of hers who once sent her boss to Manila instead of Milan. I guess - as ever - things could have been a little worse...

In unrelated matters, I received the below in an email yesterday and it made me laugh. There is, I'll admit, an element of recognition in my response although I SWEAR I haven't knowingly burned down a house yet. Y'know, though, never say never...

Indecent exposure

"Ummm, Janey..." said Emily, while a few of us were seated around Kate's kitchen table last night, "are you... wearing hotpants?" I winced and nodded slowly.
"I think I might be, yes," I said.

I had already been told that they looked great by Kate and Joanna, but that is not the point. Yesterday morning, I examined myself in my bedroom mirror. "I do not need to worry," I thought. "These shorts are suitable for work - they are grey wool shorts and I am wearing them over opaque black tights with high heels and a black round-neck jumper. I look preppy and efficient." Then I arrived at work and took off my coat. As is so often the case, the lighting and atmosphere in my bedroom had been somewhat different to the vibe in my office. I had a moment of Damascene clarity. I was at work. Wearing hotpants. Grey hotpants.

I was in a quandary: should I admit my fashion crisis, or attempt to persuade everyone that my choice was fine by pretending everything was exactly normal and that coming to work out of the blue wearing a pair of microshorts was a perfectly laudable decision to make on a Thursday? I considered going to the shops and buying an alternative garment for my lower half, but as soon as anyone had seen me in the shorts, this option was rendered impossible, as the logical conclusion anyone would draw having seen me change from the shorts into an alternative would be: her bum was too big for her shorts and they ripped. I had to stay in them, and I had to act confident.

I resolved to move around as little as possible, and keep my beshorted legs under my desk, so it was then inevitable that I was asked to run more errands than I'd ever been asked to run before. I was sent back and forth to the vending area, to the post tray, to get things signed, a never-ending stream of reasons meant that I had to stand up continually and show people more of my thighs than anyone would ever choose to see. Two or three people visibly double-took when I walked by them, and I can assure you, it was at my audacity, not my legs. When you are used to someone dressing relatively normally and then they turn up to work wearing an outfit that would not look out of place on Rihanna at the Manchester GMEx, it can be a bit shocking.

Today I am wearing a demure polo-necked dress that comes down to below my knees. I feel safer. As, I'm sure, do my colleagues, who don't have to fear a flash of my cellulite every time they look up from their spreadsheets. Lesson well and truly learned.

Comedown

You know how, when you haven’t been to the gym for a while, and you are absolutely dreading it, and then you finally drag yourself down there and resentfully, furiously get changed and then flap your big feet into the room, and stand there looking at all the fit people and you mentally shake yourself and say, ‘COME ON, I CAN DO THIS,’ and you clamber onto the treadmill or the step machine or whatever, and off you go, and then, to your profound surprise, you find that in fact it wasn’t nearly as hard as you were expecting, that actually, it was positively easy, and you conclude that clearly you are not as unfit as you’d feared, not even close, and that it is now apparent that you are just one of those very fortunate people who has a high level of latent fitness, who can lie around eating and boozing for weeks on end and then just decide on a whim to run a half marathon and find it irritatingly easy, and you leave the gym with a bounce in your step, and then a day or so later, you’re feeling optimistic and almost perky about going again, just like any latently fit person would do, because it won't be any problem for you, and you go and get changed and jump onto the treadmill, and set off full pelt, iPod blaring, only immediately it’s like trying to sprint through the sea, and your face goes red and the sweat starts pouring and some good Samaritan comes over to help you off because it is obvious to all and sundry that you are but moments from death, and you can't understand how you've gone from latently fit to dangerously unhealthy in less than 48 hours, and then reluctantly you have to admit to yourself that maybe what you called 'latent fitness' was, in fact, your body finding something so unfamiliar that it doesn't know how to respond in any helpful way, and it just bounds on happily, unprepared for any consequences, and that the second time around it knows what to expect, and makes it immediately obvious that a-ha, I've been here before and I know about this, and please stop as a matter of urgency because this is not actually something I am comfortable doing due to the fac that it may well lead to my imminent death? Well, it is very lucky that you know about that, because it is a metaphor for what I feel like to be at work today.

Having been, AND I QUOTE, “thrilled” to be back at my desk not 24 hours ago, sprightly, efficient, and uncharacteristically smiling, I now feel as though my eyes have been sluiced with nail varnish remover and my posture stool, far from feeling pleasingly challenging, is now rock hard against the flesh of my buttocks. Gasp. Maybe I have lost too much weight and am now at risk of posterior bruising. I will just check. No, that’s not it.

I think maybe yesterday I was delirious from lack of sleep, whereas today I have lost the delirium and am merely utterly exhausted. And guess what I have to do tonight? Go to the THEATRE. Yes. I must sit in a dark, warm room watching people talk about serious things. I will be asleep before they set foot onto the stage. Help. Oooh but what is that I see on the horizon? Double gasp! It is the man from the loading bay bringing me A BOX OF NEW CLOTHES FROM ASOS. I could not be more excited than if I was 11 and he was bringing me a note from the head saying my mum had called and that I need to leave early, and I already know that she is getting me out of school because we are secretly going to meet Joey MacIntyre from New Kids on the Block. Right, I’m off to the loo to try everything on. Oooh AND my boss is simultaneously putting on his jacket which means he will leave… yes, he’s leaving, which means I can be ages trying things on and NO ONE WILL KNOW. Except you, but you won’t tell anyone, will you. Will you? Hmmmm. Maybe I will wait until after the clothes-trying-on session to post this, to cover my back. Yes, I think that is sensible.

OK, I'm back, and I've tried everything on and I am keeping one blouse, one pair of shorts and one pair of leggings. I am sending back four jumpers, one dress and an alternative pair of shorts. Non-existent God bless ASOS for doing free next day delivery if you spend over £100 and free returns, and not minding that I totally take advantage and order pretty much anything I like just to bump my small order up over £100 so that I get it the next day. I'm now even more shattered following the adrenaline frenzy of trying on new things. Consume sleep consume sleep consume sleep die.

The past and the future are illusions. The only thing that is real is the I, and the now.

Almost famous

I have a dirty secret and it is as follows: I am literally thrilled to be back at work. It's not that I've missed the people in particular, although it's really nice to be emailing Chris and Laura with warp-speed frequency once again. It's more that I have a role here, I'm needed, and that feels nice. Doubt it'll last long but there you have it. I am a grateful hamster, running in my little wheel and scampering over to my water bottle every now and then to lick the little silver nozzle that's sticking through the bars of my cage. Maybe later I'll go to bed in some newspaper.

There's been a funny hashtag on Twitter today, #lametofame, where people list their most spurious brushes with celebrity. Due to my past life as a pop journo, I have more than I can count, but those would be cheating. So, magazine life aside, here are a few of my non-working highlights:

• I have Rod, Jane and Freddy from Rainbow's autographs
• The house I used to live in (with my parents) had previously belonged to Michael Ball's ex-girlfriend
• I once saw Graham Norton in the Covent Garden branch of Pret a Manger, but he was too far away for me to see what sandwich he was buying
• My dad once played golf with Mark Knopfler
• I was so gripped talking to Jonathan Phang, ex-judge of Britain's Next Top Model, at my friend's wedding that I set fire to the shawl I'd borrowed without asking my mother on an exposed tealight
• Kirsty Young admitted to me that she fancied Sting a lot while we were in a portaloo. Sting was also at the party - it wasn't a propos of nothing, that would have been really full on
• At the same party I danced with Sting to Dr. Alban's It's My Life, a song known at the time for its use in a Tampax ad
  
• I stayed in the same hotel as Amanda Holden when I went to Cuba and she took a photograph of a stone column with my camera. 'Stone column' is not a euphemism
  
• I saw David Gest in El Pirata in Mayfair
• When I was about 12, my dog ran away near the Thames, and Nigel Havers helped us find him
• I once spent New Year in the same pub as Sally from Home & Away and she kissed me (and everyone else in the room) on the cheek at midnight
• I shared a lift in Los Angeles with Jon Bon Jovi and Matthew McConaughey or however you spell it. At the same time. Both of them were shorter than me
• I deliberately blanked Lisa Snowdon at a party once because I don't like her. I bet she was gutted
• I served Gwyneth Paltrow a canapé when I was waitressing at a film premiere
• Chesney Hawkes pinched my bum. We were in a pub and I was 18. There is a chance that he didn't so much pinch it as accidentally brush it while we were at the bar waiting to be served. But I've told the pinching story so many times that it has become true

That's all I can think of for now although this is definitely going to be one of those things where I remember more the moment I put it live. Still, fun though it is, I'd rather go home. So I'm gonna. A demain.

More moans

As the Faithful will know, after someone described LLFF as 'about mental health' I became a bit unsure. I'm happy to be honest about the rubbish that goes on in my noodle, but I didn't really want this blog to be labeled as single-topic when I've tried quite hard to make it fairly broad.

If I'm to be truly open, though, there's another reason I quash the compulsion to share my deepest thoughts. I know deep down that this is utterly absurd but that's hardly a rarity among my observations... and... well, OK, out with it: I worried that some handsome (or bearable) young man could be reading, and that my admitting to being a divider short of a lever arch file might deter him from, one day, tentatively emailing me to ask me on a date. Yes, I know: absurd. I cringe even to admit it. I mean, a) Fictional Bearable Man has four years of LLFF to read back on, so only writing about HILARIOUS antics from now on will hardly cancel out 650 entries of questionably certifiable content. b) In four years, I've only ever had one person get in touch with me flirtatiously as a result of what they've read here, and let's just say that didn't end well. c) I AM MEANT TO BE ON A FREAKING BOYBAN so any worrying about Fictional Bearable Men is absolutely against orders, and should be ceased IMMEDIATELY.

So with all that in mind, here's a description of my mental state over the past few days. You can read about it as long as you allow me to apply the caveat that I really don't think I'm THAT much more mental than anyone else, just fractionally more open about it. Allow me that indulgence, I prithee.

Last Monday I thought I felt the symptoms of PMT. I'm not sure what our problem is, but it seems like, despite menstruating more or less monthly for around two decades, the women I know tend to greet each new period with irritated surprise. You'd have thought we'd know exactly when it was going to happen, but no - the last one finishes and we just bury our heads in the sand and forget about it until the next one creeps up like an unwelcome drunk houseguest and ruins an otherwise perfectly good week. For the record, my PMT symptoms tend to include: body temperature always being wrong; near-constant exhaustion; physical sense of having ingested around ten pints of thick soup or porridge that has oozed through my intestine and is now filling up legs and arms et cetera; a perpetual feeling of foreboding. It is not unbearable, but equally it is not rib-ticklingly good fun. After about five days of this, I become convinced that the PMT is about to end and that good ol' MT should surely be about to begin. But no - I had a fairly over-sensitive weekend feeling anti-social and quiet, and then yesterday, day eight, I metaphorically hit the fan.

It started when Chris came into my office at around 11am for a chat. We nattered harmlessly for a few minutes and then he made some very light-hearted but unarguably derogatory comment about the Welsh, and then the Scots. I told him not to be racist, he (quite sensibly) told me to lighten up, I refused, and he (entirely reasonably) swore at me and stropped off. I sat there wondering what to do. I knew I was being insufferable and deserved to be firmly mocked. Equally, I do think that people should stick to their principles, and that 'harmless' prejudiced jokes between friends, even friends who know the other isn't really racist, aren't ideal. I get miffed when people use 'gay' as a derogatory term too. It's boringly puritanical, but I'd feel really awful if I went the other way. There's loads of ways to slag people off without relying on their nationality or their sexuality. (As an aside, I'm not even sure he was theoretically being racist. I don't think Welsh is a race, is it?) Either way, I didn't like him being prejudiced, but I should have let it go.

So I was a bit upset about that, annoyed at myself for being a dick, but I went off to Boots at lunch and got a few things sorted out, and the nice lady at the Benefit counter gave me 'dramatic eyes' (think Twiggy in the Sixties rather than this) and I went back to the office feeling slightly better. And then I got a phonecall from a very chipper friend, who told me I should be being more positive about something that I was being negative about, and for some reason I was so determined to persuade her that I was right to feel negative about it that I started crying. Fortunately my colleagues weren't in their offices so no one could see me as the decidedly-non-waterproof Benefit products coursed down my cheeks but I still worried that someone might come in and ask me something, so I thought it best to hide. I ducked under my desk and sat there, cross legged and sobbing, for about an hour. Then I got up, not really very sure at all why I had been crying for quite so long, wiped off as much of the sediment as I could, sat back on my posture stool and stared into space for another hour, unable to decide what to do. I didn't want to go to my non-negotiable evening engagement that I'd been excited about for AGES because I felt antisocial and ugly and boring and I knew I'd be expected to be loud and opinionated and hilarious. But I didn't want to go home to an empty flat. And I didn't want to see anyone else because I felt rubbish.

Then I realised that I had presents for two of the people at the non-negotiable evening engagement and I accepted that I had to go, but I couldn't shake off this weird under-confident paralysis. In the end I had to ask Chris to come and get me out of my office, which he did (after he'd emailed me to tell me he wasn't a racist). And he gave me a hug and I cried again and FUCKING HELL his dad is recovering from a stroke but will be paralysed for the rest of his life, and I know Chris must look at me like 'SHUT UP with your insignificant issues' but these freaking hormones are just so powerful - half the time you don't know why you're crying, you just feel so utterly negative and fed up. I wish boys could experience it just once because there is nothing more frustrating about knowing something isn't real but still not being able to ignore it. I imagine it's a bit like having a bad trip. And there's part of me that thinks we should all keep schtum about how it feels, that it's blog entries like these that spread the idea that women are mental and difficult and that boys are straightforward and superior. Perhaps it'd be better for women if people didn't come out and say 'Yes, I'm irrational. Yes, I cry when very little seems wrong. Yes, it sucks to be me sometimes' and instead, for the sake of equality, acted like all the other ladettes and said 'We're just like you but with bigger boobs!' Anyway. It's too late now. I write, therefore I press 'Publish Post'.

I went to the evening engagement for half an hour and handed over the presents. And it was weird - I'd felt so withdrawn, so utterly shy and gross, but then I got there and we were carol singing outside the Southbank Centre, and this crowd had gathered to listen to us, even though it was really flipping cold, and people were filming us on their phones and it was all sounding lovely, and I realised we didn't have a hat down to collect any money, and I put my furry hat down and everyone laughed, and then Christina said we weren't allowed to collect money and she picked up my hat. But what I thought was odd was how, even when I'm feeling utterly awful, I still can't quash my instinct to show off or get attention or put a stamp on things, to walk into the middle of the semi-circle and ask strangers to give us money, when thirty minutes earlier I couldn't even get the strength to re-don my Moon Boots. And I hate that. I wish I'd just be consistent and stay quiet rather than act up like some seal with a compulsion to bark. As soon as the singing had finished and a few people came up to say hello to me, I panicked again and went straight home. I watched the final of The Apprentice, which was long enough to take my mind off things, and then I went to bed.

No tears today but haven't managed to leave the house yet. I dunno. I'm off to the doctor in a minute. It's not remotely life threatening but I'd rather not hang round waiting for this to happen all over again in 28 days. And if the NHS don't have any answers I'm going to have to get me some waterproof mascara. To all the women out there: I love you. To all the men: love your women. We need you.

Floating, not gloating

Given the fact that I am trundling over rather rocky terrain at present, it seemed remarkably serendipitous that last night was the night that Emily, Grania and I had chosen, weeks ago, to use our £10-for-the-price-of-a-£40-session vouchers at Floatworks, Europe's biggest floatation centre. I wasn't sure what to expect but I was pretty certain that I'd come out of the experience feeling less stressed than when I went in.

Error.

I had my shower and peered into the pod, lime green on the outside, white on the inside, noticing as I stepped in that one of the previous users had left a couple of long, dark hairs behind. My over-sensitive reflex nearly kicked in but I reminded myself that I swim merrily in the sea, which I am told has a little more unpleasant matter in it than two long hairs. I sat down. The heavily salted water was warmish and a little over a foot deep. Body temperature, I think heated through a panel in the pod's floor. The liquid felt thick with the salt, almost syrupy. I extended my legs, put in the earplugs (supplied) and pressed the button to bring the pod's lid down. There was a red light at the foot end of the pod which emitted a comforting glow. I lay back, allowing my head to be completely supported by the water, and waited for the plinky plonky music I'd been told to expect: ten minutes to start with, followed by fifty minutes of silence, followed by more music to alert you that it's time to get out and shower.

I waited.

No plinky.

No plonky.

Just silence.

I waited some more. Without the music, I wouldn't know when to get out. I would lie there, not knowing when to get out, for an hour. Or I could get out then and there, wrap the clearly insubstantial towel around my naked form, slide my feet into the rubbery sandals and schlep back to reception to check. Given that I am always pro-active, always up for an adventure and always full of beans, I continued to lie still and hope a solution presented itself.

For the first few minutes I was intensely bored. Then I realised that you can curl yourself up, stretching one side and then the other, and hear your spine clicking. That was quite fun. Then I spent some time running my fingers through my hair, which was all ballooned out and made me feel like a mermaid. Also fun. Then I lay still, and realised that the water around your body gets really warm if you don't wiggle very much. That, too, was pleasing. Then I smoothed the water over the bits of my body that weren't submerged, and realised that it felt a bit like semen. Then I remembered being in Madrid about ten years ago and interviewing one of Scooch who said that his favourite place to masturbate was on sunbeds. And then I suddenly worried that I was lying in a pod full of strange men's semen. Then I started wondering how long it was 'til my hour was up. And basically I wondered that for ages until I got bored of wondering it and actually got out, and checked the time on my phone. I'd only had about 45 minutes but I was out now and I knew I wouldn't relax if I got back in. So I got back into the shower and then went to the hairdrying area to dry my hair. There was a lot of other people's hair on the floor.

When I got back to reception, I told the lady about my lack of music. "Did you have the green pod?" she asked, unflapped. I nodded. "Ah, well that one's temperamental." She wrote out a laminated voucher for another free session and handed it over. I felt placated but not yet relaxed.

When Grania and Emily came out, they too were unconvinced, although the woman behind reception said that everyone says their second float is miles better than their first because they know the ropes. That sounds to me like marketing gold. Then the three of us went over the road to the restaurant, where I took one sip of my delicious glass of cold white wine and then knocked the rest of it all over myself, much of it pouring into my left boot. The boots are ten days old and are lined with a massively-absorbent and warm fleecy fabric. So that's good. The left one will smell of wine FOREVER.

Then I had too much to eat and we set the world to rights and then I had to wait 14 minutes for a tube, so I went back up to street level which was DEFINITELY an error, and eventually got a bus home and felt exhausted and slept quite well, and today I am knackered but I keep thinking about floating and feeling, for some unexpected reason, like I really want to do it again as a matter of some urgency.

So, in conclusion:
Floating at the time: thumbs horizontal
Cold white wine in my mouth: thumbs up
Cold white wine all over my dress and tights, and in my winter boots: thumbs down
Memory of evening: thumbs up
Floating in retrospect: thumbs at 2 and 10 o'clock

Also: Blood and Gifts is a very good play at the National. It's about the diplomatic handling of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the early eighties and I recommend it. It's very funny and informative. A bit like me but with broader appeal.

Finally: I just found out that, due to a glitsch in the system last week, our office vending machine went through a spate of giving away Kitkats for 1p. This is what happens when I start liking Twix Fino. It is a conspiracy, I tell you. Livid.

Baseless concerns

About two months ago I received a standard heads-up email from HR saying a new guy was starting at work, and when I saw his name, I realised that I knew him. We were part of the same extended social circle a long time ago, and when I was 17 I spent an afternoon or two sunbathing around his parents' pool in south west London. How odd, I thought. It's a small world.

So when he started, I sent him an email saying 'Remember me?' His desk is only fifteen metres from my office door, but I chose to send him an email not only because I am sometimes a bit shy (100% implausible but 100% true) but also because being greeted at your desk, surrounded by new colleagues, by a girl you may or may not remember from around 15 years ago doesn't sound like my idea of fun. So I sent the email, and he replied and said 'Yes, what the hell are you doing here?' and I told him and that was it.

And then yesterday, after he'd worked here for six weeks, I finally bumped into him in the vending area while I was getting a glass of milk to drink alongside my second piece of Laura's Marks & Spencer's chocolate birthday cake. And instead of saying 'How are you getting on?' or 'What's new?', the first thing I said to a guy I hadn't seen for 15 years, a guy who I SWEAR I do not fancy (and I know this because my friend still knows him and has told me enough about him for me to know for sure) was 'Oh god, how embarrassing, you've caught me on a day when I'm not wearing any make-up.'

I mean.

The catalogue of things which are annoying about that statement is tragic:

a) I very rarely wear make-up at work, so I don't know who I was trying to kid.
b) I do not fancy him, so why do I care whether he thinks I'm rough or not? I could have been naked except for an immaculate Hitler moustache and I still shouldn't have been self conscious about my appearance in front of him.
c) There is absolutely no WAY that a boy would hear a girl say that and not think that she does then fancy him.
d) Even if I'd thought I might fancy him at some undisclosed point in the future, that would have been up there in the Top 10 list of things not to Tourette's-reveal on first meeting him.
e) The fact that I'm even slightly annoyed about it will make everyone who reads this convinced that, in a Gertrude protesting too much fashion, I do actually really fancy him, which I really don't.

In short: I am a dick.

What was good, however, was that last night I had a vivid, VIVID dream about being seriously, morbidly, twice-as-big-as-Vanessa-Feltz-at-her-biggest, needs-a-winch-to-get-out-of-bed fat. My mum was telling me that I was disgusting and needed to do something about it, and I was crying and saying, 'How can you be so horrible and judge me like this?' but secretly knowing she was right and hating myself. And then I woke up and got dressed and looked in the mirror and comparitively, I am like the thinnest person in the history of the world, basically like Kate Moss but fractionally facially less pretty, so I'm off to have some garlic bread with cheese.

Meh of the same

I was hoping to give you a positive update that I now look back on Sunday and Monday and think, 'Wow, where did that come from? I feel AMAZING now! Look at me gambolling through this poppy field and playfully throwing handfuls of blossom at this attractive Boden-wearing stranger.' But in fact, I'm thinking, 'Wow, where did that come from? It couldn't be less logical, yet I am getting more and more sad with each passing hour and I don't understand why. And in the moments where I am not holding back tears, I am UNBELIEVABLY ANGRY at EVERYTHING. In short: a joy to be around.'

Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.

He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"

Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.

In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.

'Sup

Hmmm, odd. Don't know what happened there. One minute you couldn't shut me up, the next I totally lose interest. Not that my life's dried up, by any means. Edited highlights of the last few days include:

• Saturday's trip to the ukulele hootenanny, including a run-in with mad Paul who muttered something under his breath about me and, when I asked him to clarify, said, "Nothing, nothing," in a way that meant, "I dream of your death."
• My first ever collection from Freecycle - I have donated many items in the past but never gained anything. What was the object that was so desirable for me that I got up and left my house especially to pick it up from a house under five minutes' walk away? A pair of bowling shoes. Yup. I have enough cupboard space to squeeze in another couple of matchboxes, and I collect free bowling shoes, despite the fact that a) every bowling lane offers shoe hire included in the price; b) that I bowl less than once every two years on average; and c) I am literally crap at it so turning up with my own shoes will be a bit like taking driving lessons in a Mercedes Gullwing. Madness.
• With meditation becoming ever trickier at work, I discovered our office prayer room and have tentatively walked back and forth to it, past the HR department, hating the fact that they all think I am now a Christian or something. Urgh. The prayer room itself is said to be 'laid out in an appropriate way'. I had imagined perhaps some chairs, a little altar, and space for prayer mats. Instead it's just an empty room with a whiteboard on one wall, upon which an arrow, drawn in green pen, indicates the direction of Mecca. In a corner are three or four prayer mats folded into quarters, but they haven't moved since I've been in there. It's definitely a Muslim prayer room, not a multi-faith area. And I'd definitely feel like quite a dick if anyone walked in and caught me sitting on the carpet concentrating on relaxing my neck and shoulders. Beats trying to get zen while sitting next to a shrapnel pooer, though.
• I've read two brilliant books: And When Did You Last See Your Father? and George Orwell's essay collection, Books vs. Cigarettes, a small but immaculate selection of thoughts, ranging from reading to press freedom to school recollections and the snobbishness inherent in children. Both highly recommended.
• I saw a film, Sweet Smell of Success, which was good but not brilliant. I don't get why people fancied Tony Curtis. I think he looks like a waxwork.

That's all for now.

There has been an incident

Right. I have had three therapy sessions with my latest woman, and it's all ticking along nicely, thank you. The surface has been scratched and I am enjoying the process. But there is a problem. One of the things she has suggested I try is meditation. She is by no means the first person who has told me I might benefit from chilling the fuck out. My last therapist, who I saw a year or two ago, likened me to a "beautiful acquiline Arab horse charging across a deserted beach, rushing headlong to nothing." Horses are unquestionably attractive creatures, but nonetheless, I wasn't sure the analogy was a compliment. Learning to switch off would be great: I quite enjoy being full of beans, so I don't think I'd do it all the time, but it'd be fun to know how.

As a result, this new woman's got me doing a thing called Autogenic Training, which is a kind of Western, secular meditation. Each week, she gives me new things to do. At the moment, I have to do mental exercises three times a day, each stint lasting around 5-10 minutes. So far, so manageable. When I wake up in the morning, I give it a go. When I get home at night, I rarely manage to get through the session without falling asleep, which I reckon is a positive. But it's the weekday lunchtime element that is causing issues.

Thus far, I have been retreating to the ladies' facilities for these few minutes every day, hoping to catch them at a downtime. Inevitably, however, while I'm focusing on relaxing the muscles in my neck and shoulders, someone walks in, sits down loudly in the next door cubicle and starts weeing. I try to focus on my own energy but in a 'don't think of pink elephants' moment, the 'don't think of the person weeing next door' concept results in me accidentally amplifying the noises until it seems as though my fellow visitor is urinating in a steel bucket perched atop my head. At times like these, meditation is somewhat tricky. I'd challenge the Dalai Lama to remain zen.

In typical self-castigatory style, however, I have been telling myself that I should be able to block these things out. One should not need total silence to meditate - that would be impractical. So I have persevered through the weeks. Right up until ten minutes ago, when a nadir was reached. I declare myself beaten.

I was seated in the cubicle, body and head relaxed, glasses in lap, noticing and not judging the thoughts of tonight's belated birthday gathering that were popping uninvited into my head, (alongside the thoughts of Sherbet Dib-dabs and bad posture concerns and gym dread and last night's dream about swimming in the Thames) when a person, presumably female, entered the room and chose the adjacent stall to mine. I increased the pressure on myself to remain focused. She started to wee. I clenched my eardrums. Suddenly, there was an explosion. I was unsure whether to duck for cover or check myself for shrapnel. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see the walls still upright. Surely something so powerful would have blown the power supply? But no; there was another, and another. I am fairly sure that the methane quantities this girl produced are single-arsedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. Pint after pint of liquid faeces erupted onto the ceramic just a few inches and a thin layer of MDF from where I was seated, trying hard not to weep or be sick while repeating silently to myself 'I am at peace', as I had been instructed.

Finally, the attack seemed to pass. No all clear siren rang out, but there was a new kind of movement next door. I assessed my options. I still wasn't sure if the bomber knew I was there. From the time she'd arrived, I'd been absolutely noiseless. Yes, my door was locked, but unless she got down on her hands and knees, she wouldn't be sure someone was inside. Despite feeling aggrieved beyond compare at the aural onslaught I'd had to withstand, I felt that the kindest thing to do to someone who'd just suffered such an indignity was to pretend I had heard nothing. And the easiest way to do that was to stay still. More than ready to leave, I nonetheless resolved to lay low.

Eventually, she emerged from her cubicle and washed her hands with an admirable yet slightly emetic thoroughness. But she didn't vacate the sink area. I wasn't sure what she was doing, but after a minute or two, it occurred to me that perhaps she was waiting for me. Perhaps, I reasoned, she was so embarrassed that someone had heard her emissions that she had decided to kill me. I was briefly scared until I remembered that I am an office worker and not in an episode of Sunset Beach. I waited a bit longer. And then a little longer still. Finally, I became bored of this bizarre stand-off. I also admitted to myself that there was a strange part of me that wanted to see who had been responsible for the violent anal eruptions, so powerful that they would surely have made anyone who grew up on a faultline instinctively take refuge under a doorframe. I decided to stand up and declare my presence, but at the instant that I slid back the lock, she made a break for it, tearing out of the bathroom and into the small anteroom. All I glimpsed was her unfamiliar rear view, long dark hair, slim hips, fitted trousers and an understandably purposeful walk.

I washed my hands and left, unseen.

I am not at peace.

Another day, another fad

For as long as I am in the black and largely free of any responsibility, I will continue to entertain myself by doing pretty much whatever I fancy. And last week I fancied buying some Yogatoes. There they are, in situ, on the left. They are like huge, clear jelly sweets that separate your toes, stretching the muscles, improving arch support and (hopefully) minimising the aforementioned bunion issue. You can see the pesky bunion on the knuckle of my left big toe. And one growing on the right too. Bah. Anyway. Maybe these things will help. You're meant to wear them for 10-15 minutes a day at first, and build up gradually to an hour. I put them on when I got into bed last night. My left little toe muscles felt a bit angry at first at the stretch but they soon settled down; the remainder of my feet found the experience seriously pleasant. I promptly fell asleep and woke up about an hour and half later, somewhat trampling on the recommended ten minutes of wearing time for a beginner. Oops. Walking this morning, I could definitely sense that something had happened. We'll see if it's positive: I'll keep you posted.

Yesterday I was so bored at work that I shuffled down off my kneeling posture stool so that I was sitting on the bit where I'm meant to kneel and leaning against the bit where I'm meant to sit. This meant I was very low down - my head was at about the same height as my desk. I started to read. Then I got a bit drowsy, so I rested my head on a stuffed toy. Then someone came into my office. Oops. I think I got away with it. Today I have bad period pains and am snuggling up with a hot water bottle. Am boiling but I don't see any alternative as I've already ODed on Nurofen. Last night the contractions woke me up at 3am and, fittingly, I'd beeen dreaming about giving birth. No sign of the baby but lots of supportive friends congratulating me for finally getting up the duff. My need for the outward symbols of acceptance is laughable: I want the ring but am not bothered about the husband, the congratulations but not the baby. Ah well. Nothing a few weeks of consistent Yogatoes use won't cure, I'm sure.

Shang, hi?

So I know the comments section at the bottom of each of these posts is often fairly barren. I have a few loyal people who have managed to sign up and say things in public, but the vast majority of my feedback comes from those who know me in Real Life, who seem happy to tell me in person, but not so happy to write it for the World To See. Either way, I bask like a lioness in the sun when people say nice things about LLFF - along with whiskers on kittens, it is one of my favourite things - and yesterday was a good day, when four or five different and highly respected friends contacted me to say how much they'd enjoyed my witterings, and how nice it was to see me sounding so perky.

The irony is, I spent this morning in tears at my desk, the snake coiled round my feet.

I went on that date on Sunday night, and when I got home we texted briefly. He said I was amazing and mentioned 'next time'. Then we texted a bit yesterday morning, but the speed of his responses sounded the Gong of Warning. It became clear that he wasn't that keen. And the annoying thing was, I hadn't been that keen either. I mean, he was really really funny. But I guess the sexual chemistry I felt could have had more to do with wine than I'd admitted previously. And he is as laid back as it's possible to be - to the point where, given a choice between two date venues, he genuinely doesn't care which one we go to, which is all fine and dandy, especially because I do obviously have an opinion so then we just get to do what I want and everyone's happy, right? Except that is a recipe for unmitigated disaster in relationship terms. I of all people need a leader, not a follower. I dunno. I didn't think he was perfect, sure, but I certainly didn't think he was perfectly awful, either. And he'd been so persuasive about how much he'd liked me, really ladling on the compliments, and then... poof!

GASP. Maybe the magician has made him vanish.

That is surely it.

But anyway, for whever reason, he's stopped texting me, and he's still on the dating website checking in regularly, so he's a) still alive and b) surfing around for other options. And, I mean, obviously that is fair enough, in that I am doing it too, and have a date coming up this Thursday. But still. It's this gaping chasm between a) my friends, who always say "I don't understand why you haven't been snapped up," and b) boys I fancy, who always say, "I don't want to see you ever again."

And so then I sit here and think - hmmm. That's the first date I've been on since my confidence took a beating in late February. And now I feel like shit again. Why do I keep on dating if it keeps giving my confidence a beating? And then I think: well, because I want, ultimately, to be in a relationship - because love is the best feeling on earth and, like pretty much everyone I know, I'd love to experience it. And then I think: well, that's fine, but we all know you can't look for love, and maybe you're just not occupied enough in the rest of your life and you're hoping too hard for love and coming across as desperate. And then I'm like: but hang on, how could I do any more? I'm basically so Ms Extra Curricular that I annoy myself with my smuggery, what with choir last night and uke tomorrow and late night museum tickets on Friday and Capital Ring on Sunday and god knows what else lined up for the coming months. But then we all know that merely being busy doesn't mean you're happy. But then what else could I do to make myself more happy and satisfied with my existence? I have wonderful friends and family. I'm deeply fortunate to be pretty much fit and healthy (snake excepted). I love my hometown. What else can I do? Maybe it's time for a break... I could go away for a bit. Change of scene. Writing opportunity... I've been talking about that for months. Maybe I should finally put my money where my mouth is and actually book something. But then... could doing that jeopardise my job? What if I go away and then whoever is covering for me ends up being better at my job than I am (e.g. by not spending all day writing blog entries) and they don't want me back? But then my job could end suddenly anyway. It certainly won't last forever: I need to confront what will happen when I leave. I should line up other options. Maybe if I went away for a couple of months, I could write while I was away and then I could start putting a safety net in place for Life After This Job. But then I read that and laugh, and think, for goodness' sake, moron, who ever heard of using writing as a safety net? Writing is about as safe as Gaza. Don't risk your security. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't you forget about me. But then... security is so... stable. I'm 32, with no kids, no relationship, an affordable mortgage and some savings. Why not go away? Go to China for two months, explore, have some adventures, come back and see what happens? And then I'm like: that's freaking terrifying. I hate rocking the boat, it feels grim. I'm a control freak. I like controlled fun: medium sized waves and lifejackets, not tsunamis and kayaks. But then... maybe the medium waves and the lifejacket is a bit boring. Maybe I'm feeling stifled. And then I was, like, ooh, my boss has just walked in, and before I knew it I was asking him about a sabbatical, and he said that it definitely could be doable, and now it looks like I'm going to China for eight weeks in September and October this year. All because some moronic short boy from Hull didn't text me back.

Madness.

Formation anxiety

There appears to have been a shift in my local EAT while I was in Lapland, although I am not the only one who missed the memo. The EAT in question is a rectangular room, with sandwich refrigeration units running along the long left hand wall and the short back wall. The short front wall looks out onto the street and is glass, and along the right hand wall are the tills. Pre-Finland, in the busy lunchtime rush, we would all collect our chosen items and stand behind one of the tills, hungrily awaiting our turn. But yesterday, when I went to buy my sandwich, something had altered. A new, one-queue format had been adopted, with a snake from the front door, running along the length of the left hand refrigeration units and then doubling around the top, with the frontmost person going to the next available till.

I am a big fan of the one-queue format. It is the most fair system, without doubt. It didn't quite work in EAT, physically, due to the layout of the store and the volume of people attempting to line up, but I was enthusiastic about the shift in procedure and willingly took my place at the tail-end, putting up with the irritation as people leaned through the snake to get their sandwiches. Gradually, I moved further from the front door, up along the left hand side, and eventually rounded the top corner. Then I noticed that, with only two people ahead of me, the snake was being abandoned. No one was joining the back, instead reverting to pre-Finland protocol and standing in front of individual tills. Most frustratingly, the staff at the tills could plainly see what had happened and did nothing to rectify the shift. My blood sugar was low and I was furious, so I did what any self-respecting Brit would do: stood politely in silence, not wanting to be a pedantic dickhead, knowing that eventually my time would come. Victory.

EAT today was back to multi-queues. It may be less fair, but one-queue only works if everyone adheres to the system, and sadly EAT's vertical layout just doesn't allow for it. Frankly, I was relieved.

Last night I went to see Blaze at the Peacock Theatre in Holborn. It was excellent and rubbish in equal measures, almost schizophrenically so. My favourite bit was the beginning. There were approx. 12 pairs of trainers in a row across the front of the stage, and the three of us chose our favourite ones. Then suddenly, as the lights dimmed, Grania announced that we had to kiss the people who put on our shoes. A tall ugly guy put on the red velcro boots I'd picked. I was annoyed. Then I saw that Grania and Emily's favourite shoes were both being put on by girls. I felt better. The dancing started and it was very cool. But there just wasn't enough street stuff to sustain an hour and twenty minute show, so the choreographers padded it out with nods to Wii games, 80s pop and acid house that just didn't sit right. Inexplicably, the lighting was absolutely superb for about six minutes in total, and pretty rubbish the rest of the time (how does this happen?); similarly, a lot of the music was original and it was occasionally very good, but mostly a bit lame. And while there were three break dancing guys who were absolutely exceptional, several of the others seemed about as street as Prince Philip - they could do the moves, but it was all a bit staged and I felt like I was watching an end-of-term performance at Sylvia Young, and then I was, like, 'Well what do you expect, Jane - this is a theatre, they're on a stage, of course it's choreographed.' And then I was, like, 'Well, maybe street dancing shouldn't leave the streets,' and then I was like, 'Well, then you wouldn't be here and none of these lovely people in the audience would be having this nice night out,' and I was like, 'Well, I'm fine with that,' and then I was like, 'Well FINE.' So much for the show being schizophrenic. I think it's clear who is the mentalist.

Thrilled

Guess what I just caught myself doing. You'll never guess. I was whistling at my desk, proving without question that, for now, the snake has crept away. I can still see its tail-end, but it's definitely retreating, and I am watching it leave, waving it off with a maniacal grin on my mug. And it feels inCREDible, a new lease of life. I went for lovely gastropub chats with Kate and Ses last night and my perspective shifted, and today the sun is out, I ran for nearly five miles with Laura this morning through our beautiful city, over Waterloo Bridge, weaving around Southwark and back over London Bridge, up through Bank and back to the office, exclaiming every now and then at the architecture, stark white stone radiating against deep cyan, and making fun of an unfortunate man's running style. It was elating. And god it's good to be back.

Guess what I found out today? You'll never guess. Laura was telling me that Michelle told her that Lisa told her that a girl came out of our basement gym last week, went into the changing rooms and got into the shower, without her glasses (obv), and TROD IN A POO. Someone had had a poo in our work showers. Amazing.

God I'm excited. I feel like running through the streets singing and high fiving complete strangers. Also I feel like drinking a lot of white wine. Will do the latter but not the former. Woop.

Disconnected

Some emails I’ve sent to Laura today:
09:52 ‘Internet’s down. Home time.'
09:55 ‘I literally have nothing to do.’
11:12 ‘I think it should be illegal to expect someone to sit at a desk without the internet.’
12:10 ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhh.’
12:51 ‘Is there someone I can sue about this?’

It is now 15:37 and this is by far the longest I’ve gone without proper internet access at work since I started here 2.5 years ago. Of course, I still have the ability to check my emails and read the internet on my phone, but when there are over five consecutive hours of work time to kill, it’s simply not a substitute – the iPhone is superlative for passive browsing on-the-go, but when it comes to researching holidays, finding fun social things to do on evenings off or spending hard-earned cash buying jigsaw puzzles on Amazon, a screen the size of a four finger KitKat and the ability to type with only one thumb is somewhat limiting, dextrous though I am.

I genuinely have finished my work, I can’t read my book at my desk, and I’ve been reduced to writing this on Microsoft Word in the hope that I’ll shortly be able to work out how to post to Blogger via email. The situation is untenable. Without full access to the internet, continuing in my current job is absolutely not an option. I need the web to maintain some semblance of sanity, to distract my mind from the unbending futility of my nine to five. If they don't fix it soon, I will have to resign.

And no, it’s not weirdly liberating, you sanctimonious crap-weasels. It’s absolutely fucking awful. If no-one in the world had the web, I might be able to find some joy in the situation. But being cut off while everyone else in the surrounding buildings is still happily connected is like not being invited on a really fun holiday, and while all my friends are there having a seminal time and sending me unbearable postcards, I’m stuck at a bus stop in leaking shoes, and then a van drives by and drenches me, and a really over-confident child laughs and three ex-boyfriends walk by, all with new girlfriends, and see me looking like a fat otter, and then I finally get home and realise that I’ve lost my house keys, and then I get to my parents’ house and find that they’re out for dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, so I have to go back to work and sleep on the floor of my office, and I wake up with the indentations from the carpet tiles printed onto my face, and then I look in the newspapers and find that all Londoners have been infected with a deadly and completely incurable virus and we have three days to live.

Latest update: "We currently experience high connection issues to the browse environment. This causes the services on the environment to be unavailable for a period of time. At this moment it is not clear what and who is causing this high amount of connections. We will continue our investigation." I’m feeling murderous.

Office romance

So this afternoon I was writing an email to my boss when I received a text message on my phone that was sitting next to my keyboard. I was reading the message while typing my email, and it was only once I'd pressed send that I realised that I'd put an x at the end of it. I virtually kissed my boss. So inappropriate. But bound to happpen eventually.

Everything else I have to tell you is currently embargoed. Will update you as situations develop.

I can handle the truth

I know it's terrible to say, but I'm not a massive fan of the Dutch, for several reasons. In no way do I think I'm better than them, it's just that we're different and so we tend to rub each other up the wrong way. One thing I love, however, is that when they email you, their shortened form of 'Kind regards' (where we might write 'Rgds') is 'Gr'. Every now and then, I get a very polite message from one of my Dutch colleagues, which ends, as below, in a cute little growl.

I thank you for your time and wish you a happy weekend.
Gr,
Thea

It always makes me very happy.

In other news, last night I went on a date with a guy from the website. I wasn't convinced about him from his emails and it's safe to say I was singularly unbutterfly-ey about him, but then he texted before our meeting time to ask if I'd rather meet him at the restaurant or at the tube, which I thought was slighly gallant and I determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. I met him at the restaurant, we kissed hello and sat down. Then he started to talk. My brain knew that something was awry but couldn't immediately calculate quite what it was. His accent was unusual. And so I asked him.
"What's that accent? I don't recognise it."
"OK, well, I'm clearly not English, as it says in my profile," he said. "Nor is English my first language. I was born in Holland and grew up in Germany. And I've lived in London for ten years."
"Why did you lie?"
"Because I get better matching scores with people if I say I'm English."
"Well, I'd get better matching scores with people if I said my body type was slim. Them's the breaks."

By this point, the waiter had taken our drinks order, but then I told him I wouldn't be ordering any food. Once again, I know my mother will say I'm being too picky, but as I explained to him, I don't give a flying lemur whether he's from the UK or the Ukraine but I do have a massive problem with lying. As far as I'm concerned, trust and honesty are the bedrock of any relationship. He'd successfully pulled the wool over my eyes about this. What else was he prepared to disguise to get me into bed? Sure, we all omit certain key pieces of information. I might not tell a first date that I'm quite keen on having children in the next few years, or that one of my boobs is a bit bigger than the other, or that I'm on anti-depressant medication. But if he asked me outright, I wouldn't lie. And I would not - and do not - say anything in my online profile that is dishonest. The guy last night, he lied to me. And for that reason, we had a nice chat about nothing for twenty minutes, and then I stood up, left the restaurant and went home to my sofa.

OBVIOUSLY if I'd fancied him I would have let the whole lying thing go.

Jane has a brilliant idea

Well, that was an experience. It's a quiet Tuesday in the office and, having eaten at my desk, I had an hour's lunchbreak to kill. Usually I'd go to the gym or the pub, but I have a pilates class after work so the former wasn't necessary, and the latter didn't appeal as it would have involved going on my own, and my alcoholism isn't quite at those levels yet. My next thought was that I should go look around some shops - it's payday, after all - but I don't need any clothes. In fact, I am the opposite of a person who needs clothes. I should be shedding them, snake-like, as I walk along - not consuming more, so I stayed away.

What I really wanted to do, I reasoned, was fall asleep in a comfortable armchair for an hour. I considered Starbucks, but wasn't keen as a) it's Starbucks, b) I don't like coffee and other hot drinks didn't appeal following the daily mouth-burning event with my EAT soup, and c) I was once cold in a Starbucks and have since tarred them all with the hyper-active air-conditioning brush. And all the while, the obvious solution was becoming clearer and clearer, despite the attempts of my rational mind to push it away. "There's somewhere you know," my dark side was whispering. "It's nearby and toasty warm... It's free... You won't have to spend £4 on an unwanted beverage... And you can nod off to your heart's content... No one will laugh at you if you dribble. No one will mind if your head lolls forward. A private sleeping chamber, just for you..." Finally, there was no use fighting. I am logical, if nothing else, and this was the Best Option. And so here, in the centre of one of the greatest cities on earth, with money to burn and time on my side, I spent today's break... in the loo.

And it was warm, and free, and I kipped for 43 minutes. I'd set my alarm to wake me up, but in the end, even though I had been entirely undisturbed by the noise of people coming and going, it was the sound of what must have been a shire horse weeing in the next door cubicle that was my final wake-up call. I stretched my legs, endured a minute or two of powerful but energising pins and needles, straightened my clothes and walked the 20 yards back to my desk, feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and like I'd saved approx. £65, which is probably what I would have spent, had I hit the shops. Ah me. If only all of life's quandaries had such efficient and cost-effective solutions.

Next time on LLFF: in lieu of a summer holiday, Jane spends a week living in a skip near Croydon.

08:58 this morning

I was standing in a crowded lift at work. Also in the lift were two women. One of them was holding a Black & Red notebook and a regulation pass for the building and was therefore clearly a full-time employee of the same company as I. The other was sporting a visitor's pass and was obviously a guest in the building.
Full Time Employee: "So, where is it you've come in from again?"
Visitor: "Kazakhstan."
FTE: "Ah right, I've never been there."
Visitor: [smiles politely]
FTE: "The nearest I've been is probably... well, I went to Singapore once, but that's..."
Visitor: "Nowhere near it."

In that 10-12 second exchange, I felt a wide selection of emotional responses, starting with absolute anger at the FTE's response to the Kazakhstan information. Who cares if you've never been there, you small-minded, blinkered mofo? Why don't you try and expand your horizons a bit? There's a Kazakhstani national standing in the same airspace as you. Why not ask her what it's like there? People's merry bubble existence drives me spastic. Then I felt absolute horror and the simultaneous desire to laugh at the Singapore remark. And sympathy for the Visitor who tried to show polite interest and didn't spit in the face of the ignorant FTE. I don't know where all this passion came from, given that it was before 9am on a Monday morning, but that's what happened. No wonder I'm always so exhausted when a journey in a lift is so stressful.

Plus I have admittedly been burning the candle at both ends of late, while holding it with a pair of tongs and firing the mid-section with a blowtorch. I am all out of wick. Wednesday night I went to a secret supper club in Brixton, where the host opens his home two nights a week to 16 strangers and cooks them the most glorious food I've had in quite some time. It was almost emotional - such an extraordinary hidden gem full of simple, uncomplicated sensations of love and passion without cynicism or caveat, which rekindled my never-that-latant fondness for city life. Then on Thursday I fasted until the evening, when it was Joanna's birthday party and I walked to the pub in the pouring rain and we ate oh-so-much pizza and delicious apple bakewell. Friday day was spent with the Glastocrush, doing a psychometric test at a gentlemen's club in Mayfair (you couldn't make it up) and then rushing home to face a dramatic pre-birthday-party wardrobe malfunction combined with too-many-incoming-phonecalls crisis when at one point I was completely naked except for a very fitted black halterneck top, barking down the phone at Emily while the GC stood by with wondrous dedication, wondering how he could help - but, short of developing an ability to perform miracle cellulite-busting, body-firming algae wraps in the confines of my flat, there was pretty much nothing he could do. Eventually we made it to my party where twelve of us went bowling in Bayswater and ate and drank too much more, and then three of us went on to the midnight show at The Comedy Store, and then two of us went back to my flat and talked until 4am. On Saturday we did an hour of yoga to sweat out the hangover, and then went vintage shopping for just under six hours (this is me and Grania, by the way, not the GC, who was working but would have wept openly if I'd made him shop on his day off). Despite our hangovers we managed to shop with impressive dedication and harmony, only complaining about vintage arm on one or two occasions, and avoiding an actual fist fight over a turban with admirable diplomacy. Then in the evening I went over to the GC's flat for an impromptu BBQ on the roof with two others, and we wrote messages on a Chinese lantern, lit it and winced as it flew, at speed, into a large chestnut tree, but were thrilled when the second attempt lifted high up, unfortunately then extinguishing almost immediately and coming down somewhere around a nearby sports centre. Yesterday was Sunday and I played frisbee in Green Park and didn't humiliate myself entirely as far as I'm aware, and then I went home and hoovered and tidied and wiped and dusted and ironed and now I'm feeling slightly less hectic, especially with the prospect of another night at the flat tonight. But calm or not, all of the above might help one to understand why an overheard conversation in an elevator is enough to tip me over the edge. Maybe I should take the stairs.

Close shave

There was a narrow escape this morning when I was emailing an Outlook distribution list of around twenty senior people, one of which is my boss's ultimate boss, and nearly signed off the message with the unorthodox 'Kind retards'. I told Laura, who said she read in the paper recently that someone had sent an email to their CEO, and instead of Dear Angus, wrote Dear Anus. That really must happen quite a lot though, I reckon. Must be a nominal hazard when you're called Angus. Yet another reason not to rely on the computer's spell check facility.

On a different matter, it is widely known that, should you be both a) waiting for a bus and b) a smoker, lighting a cigarette will ensure that a bus will come around the corner in a matter of seconds. In a dramatic development, I have, this very morning, finished my semi-official survey (sample size: one) and concluded that it is similarly guaranteed that, moments after putting on hand cream, you will suddenly need to relieve yourself and thus, shortly afterwards, will consequently have to suffer the irritation of washing off said freshly-applied cream. The time lapse between the application of the lotion and the urgency of the toilet visit is in direct proportion to the expense and perceived luxuriousness of the handcream.

I'm not claiming that my survey should be backed by public funding, or that it will save lives, but there is little doubt that these findings could prove vital should one ever need to produce urine urgently, e.g. if samples are required at gunpoint by a perverted gunman. I admit, asking the weapon-brandishing man (it would definitely be a man) to hold on while one slathers one's hands in top-price moisturising lotion would obviously be a little unusual, but if it gets the results, who cares?