Dripping

Yesterday, I likened the loss of another year of youth like the slow draining of Halal meat. Of course, I recognise the over dramatising of this inevitable situation. It’s just a birthday and I’m just another piece of aging meat. But you know, no biggie. I’ll just be over there, hanging upside down, dripping, ready to be devoured by mankind.

Sorry.

As a sign of my new found maturity (I think I might be finding it this year) I have managed to complete most things on my list. Sure, my financial awareness is still low and I’ve failed on the one dream I have (to get an article published), but hell, at least I’ve managed to make sushi.

The list for next year might perhaps be grander, more worldy and wise. It might include things like ‘clean venetian blinds’ or ‘learn correct use of apostrophes’. It might even include climbing some sort of mountain. Note, during that last sentence, I just had a brilliant, mature, go-getter thought! I’ve decided to make the list 30 things to do before 30 and goddamn it, I’m going to tick off every fucking one.

To aging and blessed meat!

Sausage swapping

I held hands with a man last night whose fingers were like uncooked sausages.

I also held hands with a man wearing a spotty neck kerchief and whose name was probably Marc.

And finally, I also held hands with a man, who, if he ever managed to have sex with someone, would afterwards stain a dozen white roses in droplets of his blood and then stand outside that someone's bedroom window pulling off each petal and licking them. Or something to that effect.

Swing dancing classes are as equally fun as they are disturbing. It's the single freak man's dream. Not only do they get to touch a real life woman, they get to touch a roomful of WOMEN. It's the ultimate excursion from porn. For someone who doesn't like being touched by strangers, let alone petal licking freaks, I had to make a conscious effort not to do 'my face'. For those who haven't seen this afore mentioned 'face', it can only be described as what your own face would look like if a stranger took a shit on your shoe, but a lot less animated. So I guess it would be, more accurately, deadpan shit on your shoe.

But back to the lessons.

The whole swing dance thing is almost literally swinging. You can go to these lessons alone or with a partner, it doesn't really matter because you end up swapping. A lot. Good for singles, good for first time women touchers, not good for those who when faced with raw sausage hands wants to vomit. With each new partner, it's such an intimate position and situation that you don't know where to look. You can't look into their eyes because that's just excruciating (especially if they're counting at you 'one, two, rock step'), so you both look at the floor, or a shoulder, anywhere to avoid that awkward moment of eye contact that inevitably happens. And then it begins again with the next call of a partner swap. But it's not all bad, it's actually quite fun, especially when you get back to the person whose hands you'd much prefer to be holding. Oh and being able to wash your hands after. Twice.

Snoozing stars

I was pretty sure my half an hour Planetarium visit this weekend was going to be the cliff notes version of Bill Bryson's A Short History of Everything (while this is a VERY interesting book, my retention rate is about 1 - err, neurons or something?). Anyway, I thought my brain might go all spongy and I'd be able to report back and tell you everything about the universe etc.

Turns out the Planetarium seats are VERY comfortable.

So much so, after noting that the whole reclining back and shooting through the night's stars was very cool, I suddenly found myself extremely sleepy. I tried blinking a lot. Moving my head around. Wiggling. Doing large, wide eyes to stop drooping.

It didn't work. I fell asleep with my mouth open as we learnt about dwarf stars and what planets we could see in that night's sky.

So disappointing. I guess I can report an astronomer with a west country lisp talking you through space is VERY soothing.

Double fister of tag team hell

fhjkshdfjkhewuinsdjknjkdnfjkdnfjknvd

Thanks,
Hx

AHRHGHGHHGHGHGHGHGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Why do you nice people try and kill me with your abbreviated names and plentiful kisses?

Can you:

1. Type your name in full (unless your name is Fannyjalitousia, then I'll understand the cropping)
2. Don't kiss me when you don't know me and knowing me doesn't count if your role in life is giving me work
3. Just please, please, STOP

That is all.

Now

Sometimes, I find it amazing that from a sea of nobodies, one day, you find your somebody.

It could have been anyone, from anywhere, yet at that point in time, you chose them and they chose you.

And then suddenly, somehow, they become a part of you. To the point where you can't think of a time when they didn't exist with you. Everything before seems like a series of jagged steps, simply there to lead you to what is real now. Completely intertwined in your being; your life, your breath at night, even your choice of dinner, they become an extension of you.

And so this is what happens when you take two nobodies, unsuspecting and unknowing, that one day, they will become eachother's somebodies.

Going offline with mackerel

I was in a meeting today where buzz words were shot from this one man's mouth like spittle from an old folks home.

For the first 15 minutes of the meeting I was completely lost on what the fuck he was talking about. He showed numerous charts that I forced myself to read in the hope that I could understand why I was there and being subjected to watching my life slip away. Sadly, nothing registered in the mature side of my brain, so I instead busied myself pretending we were all fish living in the deep sea, communicating through warbles and waiting for some plankton to drift into our mouths. When I become bored of that, I tried to listen again. And boy, what a treat that was. Spotting a post-it pad on the table, I began to take notes. Readers, I'm sorry for my fish fantasy, who knows what kind of gold I missed.

But in order of delivery, here are my notes:

'We need a visual mnemonic" (I had to look up the definition as I could only recite the Keanu Reeves movie with this name)

"We have brand schizophrenia" (HA!)

"Communication stimulous" (I'm thinking some kind of Powerpoint presentation gang bang here)

"We need proof of brand life" (I'm losing MY life here)

"On a macro level" (I wrote 'mackerel' in the meeting but I'm pretty sure he wasn't talking fish)

"Let's complete the loop here" (If you say so cowboy)

"We want to create linear experiences" (Jesus)

"Make it granular" (One teaspoon or two?)

And finally, my favourite:

"Let's say we have four animals. Let's club one and call it three"

GAAAAAAAAH.

God that tickled me. What a dick. That tops the time I was made to write 'def con one' on a client/agency communication piece for a client who quite smartly never read his email and needed a 'trigger' word for emergencies.

My funny bone is pissing itself at the moment.

An awkward conversation

Today I told someone I was wearing a nappy and I had indeed pissed myself.

But let's put this in context first.

I had written an article about a photography event that I was planning to do over the weekend. As a result, I had gotten free entry for my group. In the article, I had written about my excitement about running around East London photography answers to clues. I had described my excitement the type that makes you 'want to pee your pants'. Like most things I write or say, as soon as they've left my brain, it's like they never happened.

So today, I introduced myself to the organiser of the event. He held his arms open to hug me in greeting. I obliged awkwardly as embracing strangers is probably my 1007th least favourite thing to do. But then he kissed my cheek instead, so the hug at the end which I was originally going in for became a weird tack on, making me wonder if that was even the original intention. Anyway, he was very odd and strange people make me stranger. It's like a reaction; I turbo gush weird shit out my mouth as humanly possible.

Get a cup, or maybe a tank, because it's coming.

After the event, the organiser called out to me. He wanted 'feedback'. Now, after introducing myself, I kind of figured that my communication with him was over and a wave goodbye would suffice. But no. He asked me if 'that thing had happened'. I thought he was referencing me putting a hit on the other teams so we could win (this was something that came from my mouth in a panic following the kisshug). But no, it was about my article. Let's have a replay:

HIm: So did you piss yourself?

Me: Yeah, I did actually....

But I was wearing a nappy...

Him: You Australians are so prepared.

Me: Yeah, I have to be, I have a loose bladder. It used to dribble down my legs. That's of course, until I started on the nappies.

It came way too easily. It always does.

A story of what could have been

I’m having a lot of trouble holding my head up at the moment. This is thanks to a combination of things: lugging my laptop around everyday, indulging in two pillows at night, hunching over my desk and probably having a large around of brains to carrying in my head.

So last night, in the depths of pain, I went into a Chinese ‘herbal medicine establishment’ to get a pressure point massage for my neck. I had my friend explain in Chinese that my neck was sore and needed some sorting out. She even told them to use some special ointment to ‘close the points’ off or something like that. It was even organized that I would see ‘the doctor’ there. I felt optimistic, cocooned in the triumph of defying the language barrier that would have normally resulted in me getting an ear massage instead.

My friend went downstairs for her massage and I sat there, waiting for the doctor to come. Around me were golden waving cats and boxes of what I’m pretty sure were boob enlarging potions. A girl wearing a short dress appeared at the door, gesturing for me to follow her. So I did. Holding my head up with my hand like an African tribal woman who has just taken off her neck bangles. She led me to another ‘establishment’ and told me to go downstairs. At this point I was slightly worried that I was about to get whisked off into some kind of black market whore trading. For a second I wondered how much they’d sell me for considering that two months shy of 29, I’d probably be regarded as withered goods. As I got downstairs, the dulled light that can only be associated with $2 sucky sucky greeted me. To my left was a young girl leaning against a doorframe. “Oh fuck”, I thought as I saw she was wearing a black and white striped dress and platform shoes. This was all it took for me to be totally convinced I was in a brothel. Suddenly, it crossed my mind that maybe they thought I was a lesbian and ‘sore neck’ was a Chinese code word for ‘girl on girl’ action. I walked into ‘my room’ and half expected a tripod, leather school girl outfits and pink handcuffs. Clearly I have an overactive imagination. What was definitely lacking was any sign of the kind, elderly Chinese herbal guru I was expecting. Instead, waiting for me was another young Chinese girl wearing a short dress and platform shoes.

I got on the table and hoped for the best. To her credit she had strong hands, although I’m not entirely sure what rubbing my bum had to do with my neck problems. During the few moments of pain inflicting downtime, I, err, might have also given her the impression that I was a TV star. I was trying to explain advertising but got a better reaction when I said TV. Despite not getting sold or penetrated by an angry Chinese lesbian, my neck is better although movement is restricted. All in all, I feel like a better half Chinese person for the experience.

Two things that will probably turn into more

Partner Dan and I were taken out to lunch the other week by the creative directors of the place we are working.

PD is in charge of conversation. I chip in when I'm not daydreaming or when I think it's worth opening my mouth. Unfortunately, on this occasion when I chose to partake in conversation, it resulted in something pretty much word for word to this:

Scene: a pizza place. A pizza is placed down in front of each of the involved people: PD, me, CD 1 and CD 2. As the last pizza is being placed down in front of CD 2, the kind of shy one, I say:

"Bloody hell, you've got a small one!"

Thinking sometimes helps, yet never happens.

Today, I was in a meeting presenting some work. I was sitting next to one of those alien like conference phone contraptions. It started ringing as the 'set up' was being done, so I cleverly worked out how to stop the noise; I hung up on them. I looked around the room for approval. I saw props in their faces, smiles, admiration for sorting this problem out so promptly. High five freelance girl, they thought. I had done well. I mentally congratulated myself. Ten seconds later, the phone started ringing again. Persistent bugger, I thought, and I got ready to press the magic button again. The dude who was 'setting up' took one swift move to answer the phone, almost putting a rip in his bone (I know) coloured trousers. Apparently it was the announcement that the head marketing president whom we were waiting for was waiting patiently in reception.

One day I will be impressive. Mark my words bitches.

Penis Update

I have been inundated with requests (two) for an update on Penis.

Yesterday afternoon, Penis was up to his old tricks. Partner Dan's usually good natured demeanor was rattled when he slammed* his pen down and said:

'You alwight there?'

No, PD doesn't have a speech impediment (although debatable) but I wanted to get his Englishness across for my international (5 including mum) readers.

Penis replied:

'I'm just trying to steal some ideas'

Argh, he's such a dick muncher!! Dan has now tried doing the same to him, this has unfortunately bombed, resulting in enforced Dan and Penis conversation about Penis' boring work. Sucker (Ha! Sucker).

While we're on the subject, I was working quite intently this afternoon, you know, saving the world etc, when I heard this noise:

'Mumble ggrrrraaah, grahhhhh, thesfghkldjfds, grahhhhhhhh, grrrraaaahh mumble.'

I looked around. I looked behind. I looked in front. And there it was again. That noise.

'Mumble ggrrrraaah, grahhhhh, thesfghkldjfds, grahhhhhhhh, grrrraaaahh mumble.'

I looked around. I looked behind. I looked in front. I looked to my left. Penis was talking to me.

I imagine this is what alien communication will be like if a. they exist b. defy light year travel

I wished he'd learn all 'chit chat' is done through Partner Dan. We're like good cop/silent cop.

* huge exaggeration

A tribute

I thought it was about time I dedicated a few words to the people who wait at the bus stop outside our house.

A few words of guidance.

Some helpful hints.

Food for thought.

I understand it's probably too much for people to look around (preferably between the hours of midnight and 6am, Mon-Sun) and see there are houses surrounding them. I understand that what they have to say is probably very important at the time. Repeating 'do ya know who I am'? for ten minutes at the top of your voice definitely gets the message across. Because, yes, I fucking know who you are; an illiterate pain in the ass. And sure, if you're a tramp, there's probably no better way to discard your bottles of £2 cider other than to smash them on the ground. Or, if you're feeling super friendly, throw each other against the bin after. Finally, I'd like to say to Redmond and his two friends who were conversing at 5:30am this morning, I hope you resolved your beef because I didn't need to sleep, really, a good three hours on the weekend is sufficient.

To the people who did a blues jam when we first moved in, you can come back. You were pleasant, albeit 1 am on a Sunday night was a little late. Screaming children, tramps, Redmond and illiterate people without voice control should move to the next bus stop.

Thank you

Just a thought

Does singing to yourself make you appear friendlier? Or just a dick who sings to themselves?

His name is Penis

As I embark on my 5th week of freelance, I am stopping to take a moment to think of the lack of penises I've met along the way. All but one penis, with whom I am currently sitting on the same table.

For the sake of continuity, let's just call him Penis.

Now we, as in me and my work partner, met Penis on our first day at our new gig. He seemed ok, but he was a big talker - a lot of talk to say not much. And a starer. Both of these attributes tire me.

For the first three days, we were away from Penis. Life was good. You know, quiet. Now, on day six, we are both tired of the Penis with his talking and staring. But why this dislike you may ask? Well, firstly, he's nosey. Secondly, he has an annoying voice. Thirdly, he has one of those jobs that he's clearly made up himself. Fourthly, he whinges about working hard. Welcome to advertising d-wad.

Today, Partner Dan (I'm not sure where this name has come from but I'm feeling kind of Western) was scamping. As I was image searching (sorry for the boring detail), I noticed Penis doing his usual peering. I kept my eyes straight except to check whether Partner Dan had clocked Penis. PD was scamping very intently, refusing to look up, which was unusual, as PD will usually find any excuse to be entertained by anything else other than work. After a good THREE minutes of staring without results, Penis went back to his work.

Me to PD [whispering]: Did you...

PD: Yes..

Enough was said. We continued working silently, in unity, to defer any entry Penis might have into a conversation.

Penis defied. Take that Penis!

Wrinkly love

I was looking at a couple on the tube the other day. They were married, in their late fifties, trying to navigate their way around the Central Line. I think one of them might have been wearing a bum bag which, by the way, while I can see the practical benefits it is still unforgivable unless you are a carnie/pikie (like how I'm catering for my audiences?). She, was a little thick around the waist with a crazy, crazy, boof of hair and he, thicker, less hair with a large serving of grey. At first, it made me wonder what they were like at 28, which then led me to wonder how they saw each other - whether it was of each other now or, of each other young.

Aging is a peculiar thing. Naturally, none of us really look forward to it. Shallowly, it's kind of cruel. Emotionally hard and sad to grasp yet mortally, totally understandable. Truthfully, I'm not sure how well I'm going to take aging seeing as though the prospect of 30 is giving me tri-monthly freak outs and raised veins and loose skin makes me have to shut my eyes and go to my happy place. But all of that aside, when you age with someone, you have a mirror to your own change. It must be a strange yet comforting experience to grow old with your partner and similarly, your friends. Every wrinkle of yours will be matched by theirs, every grey, every bag, every added inch to the waist you once had. But with every gravity defying year also comes another series of moments shared. And that, is a beautiful thought.

So that takes me back to my original question, when you've spent the good part of 20, 30, 40, 50 years with someone, when you look into the eyes that haven't change, but everything around them has, which version of them do you see?

Full of none of the right stuff

Sometimes I get worried, genuinely worried, I don't know enough stuff. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've tried to fill in the many gaps but no matter how much I try (and honestly, these tries are probably rather half hearted) I can't retain information.

Ask me a famous person's baby name and I'll tell you. Ask me the about some of the most insignificant moments of my life and I'll recite them perfectly. Ask me me a Dean Cain fact and I'll bore you for hours.

But I can't work out percentages. I don't know what most big words mean. I don't know plant types, dog types or even religious types. I don't know how long cooked meat should be left in a fridge and I ashamedly can't remember the finer details of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. How can I possibly ever have children when I have the most useless information to pass onto them?

"Mummy, tell me about the Cold War"

"How about we ask Google?"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHERE INVERTED COMMAS GO. AND NOW I'M HAVING A MENTAL BLANK, ARE THEY CALLED INVERTED COMMAS OR QUOTATIONS?!

My brain is a murky pond of plankton, and not much else. By my age, I'm supposed to know more. I know I am.

I even tried consulting Bill Bryson's Short History of Nearly Everything. It was really interesting. I wanted to retain everything I read so badly. I read about how the universe was created and about atoms and neutrons but fuck, the plankton is infiltrating my brain's best intensions and I think perhaps neutrons might belong in your brain and not in the stratosphere.

Oh god. I'm confused. I think I need to lay down.

Innies and outies

Large groups of people make me shrivel back into myself like an old man's penis.

One of two things happen. I either say nothing at all or what does manage to come out of my mouth makes people look at me like I've just wet myself. Before you start thinking I'm a complete social retard, I'm not. Sometimes I'm actually ok, but as a general life rule, I just don't do small talk well. And in the instances I'm under performing, the following happens.

Let's pretend I'm in a scenario where I'm running around holding up alphabet letters while being filmed. I'm with a big group of people who seem to say funny quips straight away rather than thinking of them half an hour later. These people are 'extraverted'. Now people who are loud and have 'high levels of outer excitement' make me sleepy. And the bouncier they get, the more unenthusiastic I become. It's like I have to balance out the situation. Most of the time, I end up having to use my back up energy sources for fake laughter. Then I have to remember to keep my lips from curling into bitch face in between the good humored ha ha's. This leaves me running at -24 and needing a nap.

Now let's move to the second scenario when I'm shriveling out of my penis and going into saggy old man's balls scenario (I believe either one of the two happens when you get older, please correct me if I'm wrong) i.e small talk. Now, I've mentioned this problem a few times, but I have a new scenario I thought I'd share.

I recently had a job interview where my mouth decided to take the mic. Usually when this happens I have absolutely no idea what's going to come out.

Important man: So, er, how was your weekend?

Me: I bought an iron [oh god, I think I was supposed to talk about films or something]

Ha. I haven't ironed in four years. Ha. But I have a pair of 'fun pants' that need ironing so I had to give in. Ha. [brain, abort]

Yeah and do you know you can get an iron from Argos for £3? Ha, I can't believe I waited this long. Ha ha ha [abort, abort]

So now I'm an ironer, ha.

[abort signal accepted]

I think it went well.

Stripes, arrows and roots

I have nothing of interest to write about, so instead, I'm just going to write a story, straight from my brain, un-edited and see what comes out.

Here it goes:

Once lived a loser mouse called David-Peter-Steve. He was given three first names because his mother, Sue, couldn't decide which one she liked better. David-Peter-Steve was a loser because when they were handing out life labels to the new borns, Sue was too busy eating her jelly to go and get a good one. So while David-Peter-Steve could have been a 'winner' or even 'smack bang on average', he was stuck with being a loser for life. But being a loser was ok. He was pretty good at it. Along with his life label he got a list of instructions on how to be a loser. He went through his first couple of years sticking close to the list, but recently, he had gotten creative. David-Peter-Steve's favourite loser activity was clicking his paws. It made the same noise as a human finger click and he clicked everywhere he went. In fact, there wasn't a single second of the day where he wouldn't finger click. Another day, he kept a leaf of spinach in between his teeth and inserted his finger up his nose where it stayed breakfast, lunch and dinner. And another day, David-Peter-Steve yelled 'car' every time a car went past on the highway where he lived.

Yes, David-Peter-Steve was a loser.

David-Peter-Steve's best friend was a 'winner'. His name was Number 1. Now Number 1 had been very lucky. His mother had been first in line on his day of birth, forgoing the free maternity ward jelly. So Number 1 breezed through life. One day, while David-Peter-Steve and Number 1 were out, David-Peter-Steve, mid paw click, found a life label on the road. It said 'A-Ok'.

...to be continued, or not.

Bunting update: Two letters sewn, chances of me finishing it are slim.

Today

I used my brain. It hurt and the stuff that came from it won't change the world. In fact, it will probably do more harm than good, but lets not dwell on that (perhaps I will elaborate on this at a later date). The brain usage was great, it really was.

MY BRAIN WORKS!

P.S I'm currently creating some bunting, I know, very out of character, so I thought I'd give you an update of my progress. I have 10 flags* to sew on, and have 8 more to go. I'm so womanly, really I am.

*Cut out complete with letters also cut out and sewed on

Newness

Friday marked the end of something which pretty much started bang on three years ago.

My new life in London started all in one go. Pretty much straight away, I got a job, a house and well, a life. All the elements transitioned so seamlessly that I didn't really notice that this 'everything' was going on in a foreign place. Whether it was actually seamlessness or ambivalence, who really knows. But since then, some parts have changed, but the constant has always been my job. It has represented a massive chunk of my time here; both good and bad, and has shaped my experiences and perhaps who I've become as a person in a lot of ways that I probably couldn't even begin to explain.

Now, newness is here and again, the transitions are happening so seamlessly that the ambivalence has once again set in. Is change supposed to feel a certain way? Am I supposed to feel satisfied, relieved or even excited? I recognise none of these things, I feel as robotic as my earlier sentence sounded. Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to the future, but not in the anticipatory, I'm about to pee my pants way of an upcoming holiday or, I don't know, if I was about to bathe in Belgium chips with ketchup and mayo. I guess I thought the end of my sometimes vein popping (insert your own hateful thing here) job would feel different, but it doesn't.

Clearly, I'm dead inside and the only thing keeping my heart beating is the promise of tomorrow's breakfast.

Wish me luck for tomorrow. Oh wait, I don't care.

I bought an iron

I know.

I know.

Frankly, I feel a little disappointed in myself. I mean, I've gone four whole years without ironing. Four. I've hung clothes in the bathroom while I've showered (doesn't work as well as you think), I've shook things, I've even tried sitting on my clothes - pulling them to make them straight (this doesn't work either).

I guess on the other hand, it's a turning point in my maturity. People who are 28 on the cusp of 29 should really iron their clothes, right?

Right?