Sink or Swim

Fucking fuckity fuck, I'm a bloody nightmare.

When. Is. My. Holiday????

Tremble in wonder and amazement at my remarkable, nay, astounding, nay, infinitely better adjective-wise than anything you can ever think of ever, powers of divination.

For I, RTB, have just realised that I can predict the future. And with startling accuracy.

Truly, I am a seer.

Well, I'm certainly not a doer.

When his 38-caliber revolver failed to fire at his intended victim during a hold-up in Long Beach , California, would-be robber, James Elliot did something that can only inspire wonder.

He peered down the barrel and tried the trigger again.

This time it worked.

All right, 'fess up.

Who was it who snuck a big piece of invisible rancid cheese into my wine late night snack last night?

*shakes head to get the freakiness out*

So, I've started off today with a frantic throwing of random crap into cupboards and under beds little bit of cleaning in preparation for my guests.

Next, I'll head out and wonder what on earth I can buy that I'm going to have any chance of cooking successfully for seven people, and try not to think about the pile of takeaway menus lying conveniently in my lounge do a bit of grocery shopping for tonight's evening meal.

Then I'll await the arrival of my parents, baby sis and two teenage cousins from the States, who I haven't seen for ten years, and who I can't wait to start getting to know a little better.

Then we'll sit and chat and drink and eat a takeaway curry and perhaps head to the pub, or play some games, and talk about what we'll be doing tomorrow.

Which will mostly involve:

- A tour around Old Trafford for myself and my cousins, while mum and sis head off to the Trafford Centre, where mum will doubtless spend more money than normal because she'll be irritated that dad will have snuck off to watch Bristol Rovers play Oldham, which obviously he won't tell her about until about ten minutes before he has to leave, and is doubtless relying on me to come up with a tempting idea for how she can best amuse herself in his absence. Hence the Trafford Centre plan.

- Heading into town for some sightseeing, shopping and lunch. And some pondering on my part as to whether my Catholic uncle is likely to kill me if I introduce his kids to the marvellous, kaleidoscopic, inescapably in-your-face realities of the Manchester Pride Parade. Fuck it, I'm sure it'll be fine. Unless his 15-year-old son chooses this occasion to come out...

- Weather-dependent early evening option of a local pub beer garden, or wander down by the Mersey.

- A mass cook-up round mine of as much picky food as possible, lots of chat, more games and perhaps a DVD or two shit, must remember to buy replacement DVD player today, as my seven-month-old one is already on its way out, bag of shite that it is.

And then they all head off again on Sunday morning and I'll be left with:

- Nothing to clear up, as the flat will doubtless actually be cleaner after they leave, because mum and sis will insist on showing me how proper cleaning is actually done. For the umpteenth time. One day I will actually do something about this laziness of mine and get a cleaner.

- An extra bottle or two of wine, courtesy of my dad's generosity, and his seeming ongoing and entirely misplaced concern that I might not, in fact, turn out to be a raging alcoholic.

- Some more happy memories, courtesy of my wonderful family.

What would I do without them?

Staying up the night before last until 4am whilst drinking whisky in a rooftop hot tub possibly wasn't the best way to plan my strategic approach to gambling domination at York races yesterday.

It also meant that getting up at 7.30am to be ready to catch the Northern Belle was... interesting. As was attempting to eat the rather gorgeous brunch we were served on board, of fresh fruit, scrambled egg wrapped in smoked salmon, served atop a buttery crumpet and adorned with caviar, a selection of sweet pastries and as many bellinis as you could drink. Which, as it turned out, was a little more than my anticipated polite-yet-suffering two sips.

While everyone else busied themselves with scribbling incomprehensible notes on the Racing Post whilst smirking to themselves in an 'I know I'm a winner and soon everyone else will too' manner, myself and my drinking partner of little more than five hours previously, A, pondered the likelihood of being able to snatch a quick snooze behind the Tote counter before afternoon tea was served in the hospitality tent. Or, perhaps, in the plushest portaloos in the world, whose gold-plated taps and mahogany panelling reassured you that at no point during the day would you be forced to pick your way gingerly through a Glastonbury-esque shit pit... although you would, inexplicably, be forced to listen to a Last Night of the Proms-esque orchestral rendition of Postman Pat on a permanent loop whilst relieving yourself. I kid you not.

I have to say, however, that winning £25 on your first bet in the first race does tend to perk you up somewhat. Naturally, everyone knows that that sets you up for little more than larger stakes with boundless optimism but no return and a lot more debt than you anticipated for the rest of the day. Still, as long as the free champagne and Pimms keeps flowing, there's little cause for complaint.

And there's even less cause for complaint when, at the end of a day's gambling, as you're congratulating yourself on the fact that, over all, your financial outgoings and incomings have come out about even, you go and win £120 from a £2 each way stake in the very last race. Best Northern Fling I've ever had, I'll tell you now.

So that wasn't a bad outcome to a day that had cost me absolutely zilch in the first place. And lording it over the so-called experts, whose studying of form and calling up of friends for "dead cert" tips whilst mocking my "but I like the name" selection approach to races had secured them a big fat zero, was kind of amusing.

So, yes. Not a bad day at all.

Although, I have to say that staying up last night until 4am whilst drinking whisky in a rooftop hot tub possibly wasn't the best way to plan my strategic approach to workplace domination in the office today...

Hold-up?

Cock-up, more like...

So. My latest press jaunt starts this evening, when I check into the luscious Great John Street Hotel and swill away on champagne and oysters, before dining out at Harvey Nichols restaurant. I'm currently sat at work with my bag all packed under the desk and ready to go. I feel calm, in control and fully prepared for a good time.

Okay, naturally that's not true.

As ever, my packing wasn't done in advance last night, but hastily and in full-on panic mode whilst still wrapped in a damp towel from my shower this morning, dripping all over the clothes as I shoved them into my bag. Doubtless I'll have forgotten something crucial, like my phone charger (well, it's crucial to me).

Anyway, since I also hadn't bothered giving much thought to what I was planning to wear to York races tomorrow, I've rammed in a few different options, which I'm now trying to consider properly:

No 1: Smart, well-cut pin-striped navy trousers - Italian, dontcha know *flicks hair in manner of Dolce & Gabbana model... then digs stray strands inelegantly out of eyes* - and a bright orange top.

Hm. Too officey?

No 2: Slightly flouncy red, orange and white patterned skirt in rather lovely chiffon-type material - French, vous savez *raises chin haughtily in manner of Christian Dior model... then rubs bruised head as banged it on low door frame* - plus a strappy dark brown vest top.

Hm. Definitely an option. But is the strappy top too... er... strappy?

No 3: Long black summery dress - English, I'm afraid *snorts cocaine in manner of Rimmel model... ahem* - which comes down to calf length. And that's just the cleavage. Ahem. Seriously, though, there is a lot of cleavage.

Hm. Too much cleavage? Am I feeling brave enough?

I also don't have a suitable jacket, as most of my mine tend to be leather, either in manner of 1970s male student, or Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. So I'm considering nipping into town at lunch to see if I can find some sort of.... oh, what are those scarf things called... (God, I make a crap woman, now I've got to ask a colleague) pashmina, yes! (is it worrying that it was a male colleague who answered?).

I do, however, have a choice of bright red or bright orange shoes. See, I'm not entirely hopeless at this girlie thing. And I'm also great at eating chocolate. And I've got a decent cleavage. Especially in that dress.

I know what I've forgotten. My flouncey silly purple flower and feather hat thing that I wore at a wedding once.

Hm. Dya think a Mancunian beanie from Primark would do instead?

This PC is too old and slow and keeps kicking me off the bloody blog. I want my laptop back!

In the meantime, however, I am going to take this delicious glass of cold, crisp grapefruit juice and punnet of fresh, sweet strawberries off to bed with me and try not to fall asleep with them, so I don't wake up at 4am covered in a sticky sweet-and-sour mess.

And I've got a good book to peruse for the next hour or five so, which I've read loads of times before. It's the mental equivalent of rediscovering a comfy old pair of slippers, which is exactly what my still hungover tired old brain needs right now.

Catch ys later...

Bet she really got the hump.

Drinking eight pints of Guinness.

Drinking an unknown quantity of gin and tonic. Well, I say unknown, but what I do know is that it was enough to ensure that Sunday morning's vomit looked, felt and tasted like a treble measure.

Eating a few potato wedges. And nothing else.

Taking a rather important financial letter out with me on an all-day-drinking session in the (vain) hope that I would remember to post it at some point. Also, not to lose it. Please, if you find it, stick it in the post for me.

Sending any texts after 10pm. Because I remember none of them.

Making two phone calls after midnight. Because I remember neither of them.

Ordering a curry. Because I don't remember doing it. And I obviously forgot that I did it almost immediately, as I found it the next afternoon morning, untouched, on the kitchen table.

Opening my eyes the next morning.

Driving on an emotional whim and wild goose chase 30 miles down the motorway with a raging demolition team having a hammer-wielding competition behind my eyes and pins and needles racing down both of my arms and all across my face.

Drinking red wine last night.

All of the above are, I'm thinking, not particularly representative of the best decisions I've ever made in life...

And not so much as a sniff since then. Not a puff, not a breath.

And today, ah, today...

I'm absolutely gagging for one.

Nothing to do with clothes.

It's the look.

Not a quick, acknowledging glance. A guarded survey. A politely engaged gaze. Or a glimpse of shared recognition, held long enough to communicate, then dropped as you step back within your own mind.

This, this is where intimacy begins and ends. As you look directly into their eyes, hold that gaze, and draw back the curtain. Dropping your guard, slowly, slowly, but surely.

The trust you've built up takes hold of that crippling fear that makes you want to tear your gaze away, and gradually strangles it as you let them see, through your eyes, everything that you're feeling. About them. About you.

You're open. And completely so. Laid bare.

And you catch your breath as you see that moment of recognition flicker in their eyes, as they focus on yours and realise what you've done, and what that means. And that fear, not dead yet, stirs within as you wait for their response.

Either way, too late to turn back now. You've done it, made yourself vulnerable. You just have to hope that trust doesn't let you down.

Will it be too much for them? Will they turn their eyes away, as the sheer, sharp honesty of the moment can't help but force an honest response in return?

Or will your eyes lock? Will they acknowledge that moment and join you in it; tell you, without words, that they know what you're doing, how you're feeling, what you're giving, what you're revealing?

And will you see them draw their own curtain back and allow you to slip through, into their own emotions, their fears, their wishes; and let you touch them, very gently, with a feather-soft touch that won't let them break?

And will you hold that precious moment, in shared recognition of how you've both stripped yourselves down to complete and utter nakedness, in the most frightening and intimate of senses?

And will you let that intensity build as you reach out to them and stroke their face gently... and then, before it gets too fraught, too intense, too much for both of you, dissolve it all with a slight smile as you tilt your neck, incline your face towards theirs and meet, very gently, but determinedly, sealing the moment lightly on the lips?

Will they?
Will you?
Will he?

PR Woman: Don't forget to check in before 7pm. We're all meeting in the hotel's Oyster Bar for pre-dinner champagne and oysters.

RTB: Ah. Okay.

Excellent PR woman: And pack your swimsuit. We may be able to take a dip in the rooftop hot tub later on.

RTB: Oh. Okay.

Rapidly Becoming My Favourite PR Woman: Incidently, there will be a cash-only bar in our private marquee at the races. But don't worry about that, we'll be taking care of the bill. Just a shame we can't pay your bets for you too, isn't it?

RTB: Yes. Okay.

RTB: Can I have a quick word?

Boss: Sure.

What if she says no? I can't then ring in sick!

RTB: Is there any chance I could swap my freelance day next week from Tuesday to Wednesday?

Boss: Hm. Do you have any meetings on that day? Or any deadlines?

If I do, I'm changing them.

RTB: No, none.

Boss: Well... You're not going to make a habit of this, are you? I don't want everyone getting confused.

We'll see.

RTB: No.

Boss: Okay, just this once then.

Inner whoop!

RTB: Thanks.

See four posts down...

Well, I've just been splashed by a car, and rained on.

I've sat in a bus slowly bubbling up to volcanic explosion point as a kid with the world's brattiest screech proceeded to unload its frustration directly into my eardrum for the entire duration of my journey, whilst its mother sat unconcerned next to me.

I've got into work to discover, yet again, that nothing I asked to be done has actually been done.

And my laptop is fucked.

And I also can't help but wonder whether the pill that I've recently gone back on is responsible for turning normally calm little me into this seething mass of frustrated rage, as it's the first time since I came off the thing three years ago that I feel ready to scream and punch the wall and batter my electric toothbrush to death again at the slightest provocation...

i@m guessing thAT spilling red wine on my lAptop keyboArd wAS not the best thing to do>

aND NO<I am not typing like this deliberAtely>>>

Incidently, if you're ever in Bristol on the most glorious of gloriously sunny days, the White Lion cafe-bar at the Avon Gorge Hotel in Clifton is definitely the place to go.

The White Lion has the biggest and arguably most beautifully located beer garden in the city, which overlooks the Avon Gorge and gives a fantastic view of the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

Okay, that's not the actual view of the bridge from the beer garden, but I didn't have my camera with me, and I couldn't find a pic from the right angle. Trust me, though, it's stunning.

So this has just arrived for me:

Dear RTB,

I haven’t yet finalised the itinerary, but this should give you an idea of the trip. The only bit you wouldn’t do is the journey to and from London.

Tues 21 August 
London based media arrive in Manchester on Virgin train at 4pm. 
Transfer in mini van to Great John Street Hotel: http://www.greatjohnst.co.uk/
4.15pm – London media check in. 
RTB to check in between 4.15pm - 6pm.
7pm – Group meet in hotel Oyster Bar for ‘meet and greet’ drinks.
8pm – Group departs for Harvey Nichols restaurant in mini van. 
8.15pm Dinner and drinks (mini van back to hotel).
Overnight at hotel.

Wed 22 August
8pm - Optional Irish breakfast. 
9.30am transfer to Manchester train station. 
10.10am Depart on Northern Belle (the queen of the North!) to Ebor Races in York. 
Brunch served on board to races. 
Entrance to races and hospitality. 
Depart York station approx 5.30pm. 
Dinner on board.
9.30pm Arrive back in Manchester. 
Transfer to hotel for overnight stay.

Thur 23 August
Group departs after breakfast approx 10am.

Let me know if you can make it?

So. A two-night stay at a gorgeous hotel.
A meal out at a rather swanky little restaurant.
A day at the races.
Correction.
A hospitality day at the races.

The only problem is this.

I freelance on Tuesdays and Fridays. I'm office-based in my part-time job on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.

I have no more holiday available to book until my allowance starts again in October.

Which means that, if I accept this offer, I'm going to have to ring in sick on Wednesday.

Paddy, can we make 22 August National Call In Sick Day? Pleeeeeeease?

So I blame the state I got into on Saturday night completely on one person.
Actually, I blame it on two people.
Actually, make that three.

It was just before 1pm by the time we arrived at my folks, the so-called "ten-minute delay" warning that the RAC gave us regarding traffic problems on the M5 duly revealed to have been lacking the crucial "multiplied by six" end to the sentence.

But still, better late than never.

Better get a car with air conditioning, rather than a crappy fan that belches out recycled hot air at you whilst parked in a long motorway queue, too.

Anyway. I was happily anticipating a pre-pub-rally, suitably-stomach-lining lunch of mum's home-made bread, a selection of stupendous cheeses, some salad and a glass or two of water.

Yes, water.

Because it was, after all, merely the start of a long day of drinking, and I was already gasping from the sweltering car journey we'd just undertaken.

So I decided, most uncharacteristically, to be fair, but with the best of intentions, to keep my hydration levels up for as long as possible, and thus try to ensure that the alcohol wouldn't go immediately to my already sun-sizzled head.

So into the house I go, to be greeted, sure enough, by a table laden with mum's home-made bread, a selection of stupendous cheeses and some salad. And by a couple of my friends who had already arrived.

I'm doing the greetings, I'm eyeing up the food, I'm preparing my mouth for the wonderful de-parching qualities of a long, cold glass of water, when I start to register what mum is bellowing in my ear.

"Isn't it nice to see the three of them?"

I look at Max, my long-term, incredibly lovely and very close friend.
I look at her blokey, D, who I'm meeting for the first time.
And I look at no-one else.

And then I register their presence.

And... as I realise that another of my close mates, in my hitherto adult-only world of friends, is announcing to me, in the same week, that they are pregnant... Dad comes up and whispers in my ear:

"You'll be wanting a beer then?"

God, yes!

And so started the day of glugging...

PS Many congrats to D, Maxi and Mini! xxx

Three full days.

One night of work stress.

One day and two nights of glorious drunken abandon.

No cigs.

At precisely 11.30pm, on Thursday 9 August, 2007...

RTB extinguished her final cigarette.

That's right, folks. I'm going cold turkey.

*gobbles - chocolate, probably*

As the first full rays of the early morning sun dipped into Hoan Kiem Lake, wispy tendrils of mist started to rise, like tiny ghosts, from the surface of the water.

Soft and unhurried, their tranquil movements were echoed at the edge of the water, where a group of slight, pyjama-clad figures lined up, their calm features gradually illuminated by the rising light.

Here, Vietnamese men and women of all ages were performing their own private, gentle salute to the dawn in the form of T'ai Chi. I shifted slightly, feeling the tiny blue plastic stool wobble slightly beneath me as I inhaled the aroma of the tiny pink flowers by the edge of the lake, mingled with the increasingly pungent scents of an awakening city.

Morning is a particularly special time of day in the cities of Vietnam, as street life starts to stir, hours before the bleary eyed tourists surface from their "mini-hotels".

Hawkers dwarfed by huge wicker baskets of wares start their search for the lucky first customer of the day, whose purchase they believe will bode well for a successful day's trade.

The arresting aromas of strong coffee and sweet condensed milk stand out sharply against the first exhaust fumes from the early risers amongst the motorcycle coterie.

A slow, creaking sound emanates from the wheels of cyclos as their owners stretch their limbs in preparation for the long day ahead, lugging tourists around the city sights in exchange for a few dong.

I know that the urban pulse will quicken as the day advances, and a faster pace of life grasps onto the hours, pulling them forward, forcing them out of the morning's tranquility.

The Arc de Triomph's reputation for anarchic traffic pales into insignificance besides the streets of the city once ruled by the French, where motorbikes rule the roads with a mysterious highway code, unfathomable to outsiders - and possibly even to themselves.

It's survival of the fittest of the truest kind, in a world where helmets are a rarity. The only protective clothing are the light, elbow-length gloves and scarves which swathe the arms and faces of local women, worn not for modesty's sake, but to protect their skin from the unpopular darkening effects of the sun.

Everywhere, people from all walks of life seek a living. Wandering touts offer everything from sightseeing tours to second-hand books and bootleg DVDs.

Tiny shops are packed with kaleidoscopic silk lanterns, delicate lacquer boxes, tailor-made garments, home furnishings and decorations galore.

Cafe owners tempt tourists with the promise of sweet milkshakes, banana pancakes and baguettes, another example of the French colonial legacy.

Far more appealing to me is the unique, sour-sweet aroma of spicy, salty fish sauce which rises from pink plastic bowls of pho, or noodle soup, served with thin, transparent spring rolls. I swiftly fell in love with this simple dish, which is surprisingly refreshing - and incredibly addictive.

The practical need for survival in what remains a largely poor country contributes to a frentic lifestyle. However, traces of tranquility remain.

In the respectful hush of temple interiors.

In the ubiquitous male-bonding streetside ritual of soft murmurs, squatting and smoking.

In the delicate swish of fabric as beautiful young Vietnamese girls walk by, swathed in their white ao dais.

And in this lakeside ritual welcoming of the hesitant young sun that takes place, unfailingly, every morning in Hanoi.

One day, one morning, I shall return. To witness another Indochina dawn.

I'd just like to announce that the samosa I am currently munching on is vile.

*grimace*
*continues munching*

RTB: Can you make the rally on Saturday, then?

Lumbardo: Definitely, I'll be there. Do I have to wear any special clobber?

RTB: Yes. It's fancy dress.

Lumbardo: Nice one. What are you going as?

RTB: I've always wanted to dress up as Wonder Woman. What dya reckon?

Lumbardo. Excellent. Perhaps I'll go as a super hero too. Oooh, what shall I be? I'll have a think and let you know.

...

Now, what do you think, guys - shall I tell him I was taking the piss... or not?

*evil chuckle*

Today, Matthew, I am goi