Sink or Swim

As Bono would no doubt say.

That's what I'm feeling right now.

It's not love. It's far too intense, primaeval and downright dirtily naughty to be such a pure emotion.

No, This is LUST.

I have been trying to control it. Trying to resist temptation. But it's confession time: I think I have to be honest and admit that it's simply not working.

Truth is, I can't get this feeling of longing out of my head. It's been preying on my mind, haunting me. And I know enough about myself these days to recognise that it's probably only a matter of time before I give in.

And not much time at that.

Okay, I admit it... perhaps it's simply because I'm feeling rather vulnerable at the moment. I know that I can't really afford to do this right now. And so, as sod's law dictates, that means that the stubborn hat slips on, the blinkers drop down and the fuckit switch goes click once more.

So. Fuckit indeed. Time to make a decision.

Which is why tomorrow, I think I'm going to close my eyes, take a deep breath and just bloody well go for it.

Yes. I'm buying those goddamn gorrrrrgeous shoes I saw in Zara yesterday.

Ahem. What?

So. Would anyone care to explain to me exactly how, in the urban environment of Manchester - which at the best of times could hardly be described as tropical, let alone now as the days darken and we are slowly but surely seized by the icy grip of winter, a time of hibernation for so many living creatures - I have managed to obtain two mosquito bites on my shoulder?

Definitely the best excuse I think I'm going to get for why a friend of mine cannot come out with me this evening:

"...I had a bout of bonking last night and have done my back in..."

I've been invited to the Future Shorts festival this evening; a showcase of short films from world cinema. It looks really interesting, and it's something a little different to do on a weekday evening.

But now I'm at home. And I'm really knackered, thanks to a recent bout of insomnia. And the thought of that bus ride back into town isn't terribly appealing.

And I'm aware that the last minute nature of this event means that I'm highly unlikely to find someone who wants to come along, especially with it being a Tuesday.

And there's a rather lovely bottle of white wine chilling in my fridge which didn't cost £21. And this sofa is sooooooo comfy.

And I still have a shedload of work to do.

Hmmmm...

London has it's Dungeons; Edinburgh has the Vaults, Blackpool has the 'Pasaje del Terror'.

Yet, none can engender the horror recently felt by one RTB in The Metropolitan in Manchester, when she scanned the pub's wine list and decided that the £12 per bottle price tag for Avila Pinot Noir was so good that it should  be immediately celebrated with a couple of bottles... and then, oh fuckit, perhaps one more...

...only to discover when the tab needed paying that dyslexia had suddenly struck her at the cruellest of moments and the price tag wasn't quite such a bargain when the two digits were reversed into their correct positions...

I have a mountain of work to do, which is scaring the hell out of me.

But of course, I know perfectly well that you need to face your fears in order to progess through life.

Which is why I consider it to be rather fortuitous that I'm really not in the mood for progressing right now.

So I'm off to get drunk instead.

Hurrah!

I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I DON'T want to work, I don't want to work, I don't WANT to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I don't want to work, I DON'T want to work, I DON'T want to work, I don't want to WORK, I DON'T WANT to WORK, I DON'T want to WORK, I don't WANT to WORK, I DON'T WANT to WORK, I DON'T WANT to WORK, I DON'T WANT to WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK, I DON'T WANT TO WORK! I DON'T WANT TO WORK!! I DON'T WANT TO WORK!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO WORK!!!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO WORK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I. DON'T. WANT. TO. WORK.
I. DON'T. WANT. TO. WORK!!!!!
I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. BLOODY. WELL. WOOOORRRRRK!!!!!

AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Have this instead:

Dear Mr BigBoss,

From the circumstances that I have encountered in the office today, I have inferred that you are currently experiencing some severe financial difficulties. Please receive my heartfelt sympathy - and an offer of assistance.

I have already offered to save you a paltry sum the cost of my salary each year, by tendering my application for voluntary severance. However, it appears that your fecking HR department are not so keen as I to pass this saving on to you; at least, not in the dim and distant near future.

I would therefore like to suggest that a collection be made, whereby every member of staff within the organisation agrees to donate a penny to the sorry cause. I, for one, would be more than willing to traverse my way around the entire organisation and collect every single last penny, if it means that just one little thing could happen.

Turn The Bastard Heating On!!!

Yours sincerely,

Ms RowTheArcticTrawler
Communications Through Chatttttering Teeth Manager
The Be-icicled Nostrils Division
Igloo Offices Inc.

Surely there must be a place for this woman's superpowers in the next series of Heroes?

More stuffed than a teddy bear.

Gusto (noun)
Enjoyment or vigour, hearty or keen.
Vigorous enjoyment, as in eating, or drinking.
ORIGIN: [LATIN] gustus 'a tasting' - [Italian 1629]. gusto 'taste'

Gusto. Tonight.

Nutritious diet... regular exercise... Who needs them?

All I require in order to boost my health and well-being is another pair of high-heeled shoes.

Shortness is bad for your health

Short people suffer worse physical and mental health than those of normal height, scientists claim.

They also claim shorter people would feel much better about themselves if they were only marginally taller, and so could improve their health just by wearing high-heeled shoes.

The researchers, led by Torsten Christensen at Novo Nordisk in Denmark, based their analysis of the responses of 14,416 people to a Department of Health survey.

The team, which included Prof Peter Clayton at Manchester University, found that people in the shortest height category - men shorter than 5ft 4in and women shorter than 5ft - said they experienced significantly worse health than people of normal height.

Daily Telegraph

*wonders how many of the cigarettes smoked over the years were inhaled whilst wearing high-heeled shoes and thus, doubtless, negated*

Have to say, I really rather like this...

No typos!

When you have to get off the bus to work one stop before yours, because you're struck by the sudden presentiment that you and the three rows of people in front of you are about to be struck by a truckload of vomit.

When you then take 10 minutes to stagger a two-minute distance, interspersed with a couple of sit-down-in-middle-of-pavement moments of embasrassment whilst the world marches past you at confusingly blurry speed, trying tofigure out what kind of trick it is that gravity appears to be playing on you, and pondering on how mirculous it is that your body normal produces saliva on demand - and how, consequently, weird it is when it suddenly stops doing so.

When you have legs like a jelly baby on a hot day.

When you finally get into the office building and go into the toilets to recover, and the next minute, or perhaps it's three day later, who knows, wake up on teh freezing cold floor of said toilets.

I want my duvet and a very, very soft pillow.

And no. I'm not hungover.

RTB is... in a futile attempt to appear as though she couldn't care less, gesticulating obscenely at, whilst simultaneously deep down starting to acknowledge that she may already be unable to walk away from... Facebook.

As if...

I am not in the mood for chasing people to provide me with information that they don't have, and aren't interested in finding for the sake of a marketing leaflet, which has nothing to do with their job priorities, and which they're certainly not inclined to pay any attention to on a Friday, when everyone does the minimum amount of work expected of them anyway, and the fact that if I don't get this information asap then I won't get paid really isn't something that they can be expected to care about, today.

What I am in the mood for today is a pint of Guinness. Accompanied by the biggest and best cheese and pate lunch known to wo/man. Followed, perhaps by another leisurely pint of the lusciously smooth black stuff.

A touch of shopping, followed by a hint of coffee.

And then, as early evening sets in, a gasp of cocktails; a gathering of chuckles; a delegation of Northern Quarter bars; a twist of laughter; a crowd of conversations; a bubble of silliness; a glass of dancing and a sparkle of smiling eyes. All laced with a healthy dollop of Manchester.

And hopefully no vomit.

So I met a girl last night at my networking event who has been on Big Brother.

Of course, I didn't realise this, since I wouldn't recognise anyone who has been on Big Brother even if they came up to me wearing a T-shirt that read "I've been on Big Brother!" and slapped me round the face with a six-foot-high sign that read "I've been on Big Brother!" and yelled "I'VE BEEN ON BIG BROTHER!" in my ear.

(The exception to this is probably Jade Goody who I wouldn't mind slapping around the face with a six-foot-high sign...)

Anyway, I told her what I did for a meagre existence living, and she looked at me and said:

"I know who you write for; I read your column, it's got your picture next to it. You're a celebrity!"

Now that is a wrong-way-around conversation.

Tonight I shall be going to a networking event for "aspiring, inspiring and highly successful entrepreneurs."

Why?

It's a fantastic opportunity for me to "gain an insight into the minds of brilliant business people, learning excellent tips and advice, in response to the audience's burning questions."

Why?

No. I don't know either.

Hm. Perhaps Why? could be my "burning question" - fucked if I can think of another, after all...

Just blogged about this on a friend's site and thought I'd invite your opinions.

I've had various discussions with friends before on how to deflect unwanted attention from those impossible-to-shake-off drunken twats men, and we generally came to the following conclusion:

"Sorry, I'm not interested" - No chance; the implied challenge just adds incentive.

"I have a boyfriend/husband" - As above, often more so.

"I'm a lesbian" - Has the opposite effect to that intended.

"I've got HIV" - Invites the worrying response of "Hurrah! So I do I - no condoms required!"

"Piss off" - Either results in verbal abuse, or doesn't make it through the selective deafness firewall.

We eventually settled on "I used to be a man," which we believed would put off most heterosexual men (except Juzzzy).

Any others?

Extract from an article in the Metro this morning:

People in Wokingham enjoy the best quality of life in Britian. They earn more, have better schools and it's even sunnier there. Its residents are the healthiest in the nation, according to a report produced by the Halifax.

On average, Wokingham's workers earn £744 a week and their houses cost £328,280, nearly £50,000 more than the national average.

So. Would anyone care to enlighten me on exactly why I left this little haven of wealth, health and sun, and chose instead to move to crime-ridden, my-salary-sucks, permanently-pissing-it-down, permanently-got-a-cold-cos-it's-permanently-pisssing-it-down, Manchester?

Ah, that's right! To get a good university education. In order to boost my future career prospects. And increase my earning potential. And perhaps then, one day, I could afford to live somewhere fantastic - perhaps even somewhere that offers the best quality of life in Britain!

Oh...

Only kidding, I love it up here. Although I do miss that sun...

There I was, happily piling the remains of a block of creamy yet richly mature cheese on top of a slice of crusty bread, ready for a sumptuously savoury toasty extravaganza... when I realised.

I've run out of Worcestershire sauce.

Nooooooooooooooooooo!

"Flights are booked!!! Leave Wed 16 Jan 08, back 19 Jun 08!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

You know, it's good to know that I'm so incredibly lovely that I can be truly ecstatic for my two friends who are about to have a trip of a lifetime travelling for six months around South America, even though it's been a travel ambition of mine for at least ten years. And not at all jealous.

*sniff*

That's right. Not at allllll jealous.

*sniff*

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh-haaaaaaa-haaaa-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!

I'm tired.

But good.

Yes, yes, all right, I know it's from The MIrror. But it's still bloody funny...

Chocolate man grabbed by the truffles

The man dubbed the Willy Wonka of Thorntons has quit in disgrace after a bizarre "truffle squishing" attack on a rival firm.

CCTV images at a Hotel Chocolat store showed top chocolatier Barry Colenso squashing items on one of their displays.

A source said: "Footage showed Mr Colenso methodically gripping several chocolate sections and then leaving the store. The store manager found that £63.50 worth of damage had been caused through truffles being squashed."

A Hotel Chocolat spokesman added: "Mr Colenso admitted 'handling' products in an 'inappropriate' manner. This was an extraordinary act of truffle squishing. We can only guess at what provoked it."

The Mirror, today.

"This was an extraordinary act of truffle squishing." Superb.

I wonder what Cadburys would have to say about my occasional habit of putting their Chocolate Eclairs down my bra? Not that I've ever done that in a shop... well...

Agree to change your normal freelance day in order to accompany her to a business meeting.

Check.

Be completely fine about the fact that a crisis with her child's nursery means a round trip to her folks for unexpected babysitting duties, which is going to add a couple of hours to proceedings and take a substantial chunk out of the day.

Check.

Navigate us successfully to the business meeting.

Check.

Make a good impression on potential new client with potentially decent amount of potentially rather reasonably paid work with intelligent questions and knee high boots.

Check.

Have a good chat about how excited you are at the potential partnership and come up with several suggestions for how we could move things forward, both in the immediate and more distant future.

Check.

When getting out of the car and saying goodbye, call the apple-of-her-eye one-year-old daughter by the wrong name.

Check.

Oh...

It's early morning. I've got lots to do today. Best get moving.

I go into the lounge, flick the light on, switch the broadband on, plug in th