Sink or Swim

Some git has written my book...

Reckon they'd give you a pint of the black stuff while you're there?

What I love about writing is its schizophrenic masks
What I hate about masks is their wind-changed immobility
What I love about immobility is duvet-softened mornings
What I hate about mornings is the lazy bitch's pain
What I love about pain is its mindless physicality
What I hate about physicality is its naked vulnerability
What I love about vulnerability is its opening to his soul
What I hate about his soul is its flight away from me
What I love about me is my foolish, fearless writing
What I hate about writing is its schizophrenic masks

Nicked from various...

Where is your mobile phone?
Desk

Your significant other?
Late

Your hair?
Messy

Your mother?
Inspirational

Your father?
Loving

Your favourite thing?
Travel

Your dream last night?
Schizophrenic

Your favourite drink?
Wine

Your dream/goal?
Book

What room are you in?
Office

Your hobby?
Yoglsa

Your fear?
Letdown

Where do you want to be in 6 years?
Happiness

Where were you last night?
Ryanfeckingairgrumblemumble

Something that you aren't?
Sufficient

Muffins?
Chocolate

Wish list item?
Love

Last thing you did?
Editing

What are you wearing?
Specs

TV?
Shite

Your pets?
Deceased

Friends?
Fantastic

Your life?
Lucky

Your mood?
Hopeful

Missing someone?
Duvet

Drinking?
Ahgwon

Smoking?
Nonono

Your car?
Girlie

Something you're not wearing?
Make-up

Your favourite store?
www.hotelchocolat.com

Your favourite colour?
Orange

When is the last time you cried?
Gone

Where do you go to over and over?
Family

Five people who email me regularly?
Friends

My favourite place to eat?
Thailand

Favourite place I'd like to be at right now?
Thailand

Too fast, too furious?

And I'm betting "for evidence" translates as 'for YouTube'...

It's lunchtime. And I am ravenous.

I go to a nearby cafe with the intention of purchasing the sandwich to rival all sandwiches, when my lacklustre attention is suddenly captured by a glorious sight.

The Pie looks divine. Its buttery, golden crust beams at me; its healthy yet pleasingly carnivorous filling of chicken, roasted tomato, spinach and goats cheese draws me in; its rustic cardboard packaging and daisy motif yelling 'organic!' in shock-pink lettering convinces me that this pie can do no wrong.

This is no cheese and onion fat-slathered greaseball from Greggs. Nor a raggedy-chicken(really?)-ends-stuffed flaky pastry. I am not being a greedy, unwholesome heifer by eating this pie for lunch. I am being kind to my organic-nutrients-starved-and-starving body.

This is, in short, a Good Pie. And it must be mine.

I return to my desk and unpack my Purchase of Pie Joy. I take a big bite. I swallow like a heifer. Mmmm, spinach and goats cheese. I take another big bite of pie. Mmm, soft crust and...

Soft?

With a sinking feeling of dough in my stomach I turn the pie box over and read:

Pre-heat oven to 180 degrees, Gas Mark 4. Place pie on a baking tray on the middle shelf of the oven and cook for approximately 20 minutes. Check pie is piping hot before serving. Not suitable for microwave cooking.

*vomits*

I love it when you're reminded of simple pleasures that you'd forgotten you enjoy so much.

Like exhaling cold air harshly, a gasp in reverse, as you flick a shrinking ice cube quickly around your mouth with your tongue, all that's left of an iced latte, while your skin calmly continues to bask in blazing sun as you lounge on the steps of one of the world's most beautiful buildings.

Like waiting for a chattering mother to notice the new vibrant orange swirls on her crisp white jacket, courtesy of her gleaming-eyed toddler's preference for creativity over consumption when given an ice lolly.

Like catching up with an old friend over sparkling Prosecco and very many platters of grilled meat.

Like witnessing the fastest-ever FA Cup goal.

Like turning acquaintances into friendships over Guinness and chips.

Like witnessing the realisation of hope as life continues to go on and enforces happiness on us, despite our best and most understandable efforts to resist - and feeling so very pleased and privileged to see it.

Like waiting around for-fecking-ever in the company of compulsive bell-ringers and Hare Krishna over-enthusiasts while the least punctual man in the world wends his sarcastic way around possibly the entire London transport system.

Like prancing around in the comfiest high-heeled shoes in the world that outlast even the most sensible flat lesbian shoes.

And like laughing so hard and so long that your limbs fold in helplessly on themselves like a collapsing puppet on strings, and you can no longer speak, only helplessly squeak, and you consequently look and sound like a total lunatic, and you don't care one bit because you're having so much bloody fun.

I love this man.

I have, for some reason, been sent an email by the Harley Medical Group containing the following offer:

"To help you shape up for summer, we are offering you £250 off Breast Augmentation, Liposuction and Tummy Tuck during the month of June."

Why, exactly, have I been sent this?

Don't they know who I am?

I mean, haven't they ever Googled "superbreasts"?

I took a trip out today. For a business meeting.

On the train journey, I could have done a load of work that I had taken with me. But I didn't. Instead, I indulged myself in reading. Four blissful hours of guilt-free reading, interspersed with gazing out of the window at the scenery.

Green fields, their luminous colour made even more vibrant by the dampness that clung to each single blade of grass and dangling leaf. A turbulent wind grappling with the tangled branches of trees. Hills half-shrouded in the heavy shade of rainclouds, half-bathed in sunshine that glinted off isolated whitewashed houses, hiding the blemishes of time under a positive summery sheen. A lone rabbit, unconcerned by the now-familiar rush of a train's wheels, crouched by the side of the tracks.

And the inspiring words of Truman Capote, who writes about hellish events with humanity, delicacy and an unerring appreciation of beauty.

Sometimes, it's the little things that make your day. Purely because, on so many other days, you forget they're there - and it makes it so utterly amazing when you remember to look.

Don't say I never give you guys anything...

www.graze.com + promotional code: M6V2KY9B = free box of healthy* goodies.

*Although I'm not too sure how "healthy" honey-coated cashews are. Or, for that matter, dark Belgian chocolate buttons.

Still. It's a step in the right direction, no?

*scoffs Copacabana mix*

It is rather irritating, I feel, that I can get the results of a colposcopy within two weeks, but it will take another four months before I can get another appointment. But I guess the up side of that is it's not serious enough to warrant being checked out any sooner.

Still.

The fact that I have gone from fine to having "mild" abnormalities in the space of six months may be throwing a rather large and clunky spanner in my plans.

The likelihood is that "mild" abnormalities will warrant nothing more than close monitoring, in case they develop into anything further. Getting these results doesn't mean another operation; many people get mild abnormalities showing up and about one-third of these either sort themselves out, or at least stay stable.

However, close monitoring will still mean getting a smear test every six months. Which means going to Thailand for a year is looking unlikely.

And then there's always the possibility that the progression from fine past borderline to mild within six months may be indicating a movement back to moderate or severe within the next few months.

Which would mean that, following my next appointment - currently set for the end of September - I may need to be around for another operation. And then, well, who knows.

Mildly irritated? Make that fucking pissed off.

I've had a fabulous few days with some fabulous people.

Great friends, lots of football, two-dinner curries, dubious Guinness, excellent Guinness, lazy mornings, sunshine days, late night natterings, grammar pedantry, fish dish gorgeousness, Portuguese beer, a highly cute lunatic dog, extra-hot piri-piri sauce and a flatulent "train driver".

Thanks to Sweetymon, Miza, Juzzzy and of course to Mr Train Driver himself, the lovely Rampers.

xx

Dr Sci: "In your edit, you changed this sentence. I prefer the way I originally wrote it - I think it sounded better."

RTB: "Ah yes, I did change that - it was grammatically incorrect."

Dr Sci: "Does that matter?"

RTB: "What... grammar?"

DR Sci: "Well, I mean, to a purist, yes, but if it sounnnnnds better my way?"

RTB: *resists urge to ask exactly how it sounnnnnds better* "Well... since this going to be read by a lot of people, I just thought it would be better if the sentence was... right."

Dr Sci: "My, you are pedantic."

Happy Birthday, Pussy-Boy!

x

On the one hand, this is no more than a mediocre pop song, much like any other.

On the other hand, there's something about it that always makes me smile...

Evening, all.
(Or should that be morning?)

Today's been a surprisingly good day, considering that it's consisted of the following exhilarating experiences:

1. Painting. Walls, not pictures.
2. Filing.

Mind-blowing stuff, eh? Still, be thankful for the mundane, and all that. Plus, the Liverpool v Chelsea match was an undeniably entertaining 90 minutes.

Anyway. I have a question I was pondering that I'd be interested in your responses to.

What do you think it is that causes self-hatred?

When there's no real reason for someone to hate themselves, I mean. When they've not done anything especially terrible, or been subject to abuse, or experienced something particularly traumatic.

Is it, simply, the unattainable desire to be "perfect"?

And no, this is not in relation to me.

Do I go out and get pissed?
Yes.

Do I, whilst pissed, ever make a tit out of myself?
Yes.

Do I like to believe that this is a relatively harmless occurrence and nothing to be worried about?
Yes.

Would I like to live somewhere where I could go out on a Wednesday night and get the bus home at midnight without having to worry that the teenage boy who got on the bus just after me, and who tried (and failed) to buy a fifteen-year-old's ticket, will ten minutes later get his cock out and wave it in my face?

And then, once said joyous bus journey is finished, on the walk home bump almost literally into teenage girl (who might well have been able to buy aforementioned fifteen-year-old bus ticket), who is crouched by the wrong side of the pavement - ie in the road - vomiting onto the kerb and who, upon questioning, has no idea where she is, has no desire to say anything to me other than "F'koff y'bitch", yet will happily wait while I ring a taxi, see her into it, pay the driver to take her to wherever the fuck it is that she thinks she might be welcome to stay that night and thank me with a "Cunt"?

Well, yes.

EDIT (following interesting debate): Do notice the phrase 'like to believe'. The irony of cause and effect is not lost on me - in fact, sadly, that's really the point.

So I have a new flatmate lined up for next month. Woohoo!

He was actually the first person I "interviewed" (quotation marks used to indicate the incongruity of using such a term for a meeting during which I waffle about my plans for the weekend, enthuse about his job [working for someone I want to work for, darnit!], bitch about missing out on tickets to see Elbow and the Halle Orchestra and, in response to his question "Do you want references?" say "Errrrrrm... dunno. Nah, sod it, you seem normal." Clearly I have some way to go before I establish my reputation as the Jeremy Paxman of the lettings world.)

He does, however, indeed seem normal. Unassuming, easygoing, friendly and very polite - he contacted me yesterday after I texted to say he had the room in order to thank me profusely for "choosing" him (from my long list of Arsey Girl, Whippersnapper, INeedALOTOfSpace Girl and Sales Rep - the latter possibly the most terrifying of all species of potential flatmate).

And he also seems less likely than my current flatmate to a) barge into my room in the hopes of seeing me naked, b) barge into my room when I'm not there in order to root through my underwear drawer, or c) offer me drugs that he "found at the gym" in the hopes that I'll take them and pass out so be unaware of his barging into my room for underwear-sighting or lack thereof reasons.

NB Yes, my current flatmate has done the room-barging and drugs-offering, but I am slandering him purely for humorous purposes by randomly attributing the above motivations to his actions. I hope.