Sink or Swim

I don't care how mind-blowingly innovative it is.

I don't care to know the astonishing details of how it works.

I don't care if this is set to be the recycling product of the century that will, ultimately and single-handedly, save our planet.

Because when I get a press release via an email whose subject title reads: "Re-usable sanitary pads from Bebeco‏", I ain't opening it.

Ewwww...

Blunch (noun): The official term for a bloggers' lunch.

God, I'm great at this words malarky, aren't I - perhaps I should consider writing for a living.

*ahem*

So, during this bit-of-a-piss-take-much-longer-than-received-permission-for lunch but hey, after this morning's news, fuckit, I have...

- Narrowly missed bashing my nose in by attempting to walk through a locked door. And no, I hadn't been drinking.

- Been hugged long, lots and in a lovely way on (and off) the streets of Mancsville.

- Been put at my ease straight away.

- Eaten far too much curry.

- Revealed - hopefully beyond the shadow of a doubt - that I am not a man(!)

- Talked about art, poetry, the Merchant Navy, accents, Palenka, religious orders, dogs, porn (the previous two were unrelated), the little-known problems of not being grumpy, Hull, annoyance services for hire, my the horror of being allergic to alcohol, Dora the Explorer, Tarot cards, scary estates in the Midlands, dodgy Stretford pubs, nearly Scotland, travel, friendship, incredible kindness, blogs, blogging, bloggers and a whole lot more.

- Giggled Laughed. Lots.

I am now...

- Full.

- Happy.

- Looking forward to tomorrow.

- Off to add a few friends to my list.

- In desperate need of a mint.

And I am not putting a picture of me up on my blog. You'll just have to read it, Saf...

Reading Juzzzy's blog has just reminded me of my dream last night.

I was at the blog meet and I wasn't drinking (obviously a dream). But it was still all a bit hazy.

Then I got told off for vomiting by a disembodied voice, and Soy fed me what she said was a custard pie and looked like a custard pie, but tasted like lemon meringue, even though she insisted it wasn't.

That Soy. Gonna have to watch her.

I've often thought that I'd like to come back as a cat.

They generally have a great lifestyle, after all. Spend most of the day snoozing; out at night until all hours, with no-one knowing what you're up to, or able to find out; demanding attention when you want it and shunning it, with incomparable disdain, when you don't; landing on your feet every single time, and getting to eat as much tuna as you like without worrying that your breath smells.

I've also considered coming back as something that has similar feline characteristics, but is a little further up the food chain, purely for the added cool factor. Like a black panther. Sexy, or what?

The only down side is, of course, that I'd have to die first.

Or would I...

Come on then, get voting!

The Red File.
To be used in case of emergencies.

Because some days, let's face it, you simply can't be arsed.

Anyone fancy joining me in a Red File Day?

Phone calls, emails and hasty scribblings finely crafted penmanship galore. My, what a busy morning.

Perhaps it's time for breakfast/lunch.

Perhaps it's time to get out of bed...

So, Miss RTB. You think you can slag us off at will? Not happy with our clientele? Spend all your time with us wishing you were somewhere else?

Arse.

I have the dubious pleasure of getting the bus into work every morning.

Ideally, I like to spend this time in one of two ways: perusing the Metro, or staring out of the window letting my mind drift off to whatever happy place it desires. Either way, the idea is to distract myself from both where I am at that moment and where I will be within the next half hour.

It also means that I don't have to do that thing which, as anyone who isn't a goddamn annoying morning person knows, is the most horrific task that can befall you before the hour of 10am. That is, hold a conversation.

Let's be clear about this: mornings are not the time for small talk. Conversations - which at any other time of the day would be an acceptable form of communication between two individuals and, indeed, a means of uniting us all in a bond of common humanity - are inevitably perceived by tired and irritable normal people as pointless, vacuous and incredibly irritating forms of earache when they take place in the hours denoted as AM.

Of course, that doesn't mean that the odd comment can't be passed on some current phenomenon, such as a downpour of rain, or the commencement of nuclear warfare. But, even then, they should be limited to one or two suitably restrained 'tut-tut' remarks and a grave shaking of the head, followed by a courteous lapse into the traditional British commuter silence.

Above all, this is not a suitable time for tiresome enthusiasm, or overwrought emotion.

Which is why I was particularly arsed off dismayed this morning to find myself sharing a seat with the middle-aged-woman equivalent of Kevin the Teenager, who filled her interminable relatively short time on the bus with halitosis-infused moaning in my face about the rising costs of bus fares.

Obviously, I asked for it by responding the to first comment she made with a soothing "Oh, I know," remark, in line with the acceptable Odd Comment rule as outlined above. Little did I realise that this was not a sane normal commuter, suitably cognisant of The Morning Commuter Rules, but a Ranting Harridan From Bus Journey Lunatic Hell.

And a bloody stingy one to boot.

"Seventy pence. Seventy pence! I'm only going six stops, and it's seventy pence! It's a fooking disgrace. Don't you think? Stagecoach are a right rip-off. Seventy pence! It used to be fifty-five, you know. Seventy! For six stops! And they're always late, they're never on time. That's what you get for seventy pence! Seventy fooking pence! Doesn't it piss you off? I mean, doesn't it? Doesn't it? It's a wonder anyone can afford public transport. No wonder everyone's driving everywhere if it costs this much all the time. Don't you think? Seventy pence for six stops. Fooking Stagecoach, what a rip-off. Did you have to pay that much? What do you pay? Is it that much? It's a disgrace. Don't you think? Fooking seventy pence. It used to be fifty-five, you know. Do you remember that? Six stops. Seventy pence. Seventy pence. Six stops. Fooking fooking fook... Stagecoach... Grrr... Arrgh... Seventy... Rip-off.... Fook... Don't you think..? Seventy... Six... Don't you think? Don't you think? DON'T YOU FOOKING THINK?"

And everyone around me shuddered, sank a little lower into their seats and thanked their lucky stars that they weren't the most unfortunate woman on the bus this morning - i.e. me. Whilst I was left consumed with impotent rage with this one unvoiced thought.

"If it bothers you that much, and if it is indeed only six stops, why don't you get off your lazy, fecking, whinging arse and WAAAALK!!!!"

"And, while you're at it, stop at the chemists on the way and buy some bloody Listerine."

And breathe...

In order to recover from my raging hangover take a break from work today, I watched the film Once.

If you haven't seen or heard of it, the basic plot follows the emerging relationship of an Irish busker and a Czech immigrant in Dublin, based on their shared love of, and talents in, music.

Conceived and written as a "visual album", it's crammed full of music, supposedly written by the two main characters in the film, and actually written by the people - professional musicians, rather than actors - who play those characters, during the screenwriting process.

It does indeed, at times, make you feel as though you're watching the longest and most intricate music video ever. Or perhaps, more accurately, the ultimate modern-day fairytale musical. And this makes it a richly dense film, as the emotions and themes conveyed in the songs remove the need for additional scenes and explanatory dialogue.

It's simple. It's sweet.
And it's beautiful.

Juzzzy, even you, music-hater that you are - I reckon you'd appreciate it.

So I went to the Christmas markets yesterday.

Gluwine.
Beer.
Gluwine
Wine.
Wine.
Wine.
Wine.

......

So I woke up this morning.

Eurgh.
Ooh.
Bleurrgh.
Nnffff.
Ingggggg.
Meh.
Ouch.

Perhaps it's time to re-evaluate my lifestyle. Because somehow I don't think that leftover curry and an Innocent Detox Smoothie is going to save my liver.

I'd forgotten what fun this film is.

"They're armed."

Name that film...

I can't believe this. With all that amount that Juzzzy I drink?

Obviously I shall now have to spend my entire weekend devoted to boosting sales. Honestly, the lengths I will go to for a good cause.

*ahem*

With acknowledgements to the Juzzmeister himself for bringing such shocking news of note to my attention.

An old friend of mine has just got in touch with me. We were friends at school. Pre-school, in fact.

Apparently she named a doll after me when she was four years old. I didn't ask if she's stuck pins in it since.

I've not spoken to her for, ooh, about 15 years. And what I remember of her makes me smile at her enduring sweetness, and frown at how little I believe I was there for her when I should have been.

And just now, looking on her Facebook profile (yes, that's how she got in touch), I found this:

www.logansrun.info

It's about her son.
It made me cry.
And it made me want to do something about it.

So, well... I thought I'd share.

I love this article.

Not because I am remotely interested in how much a burger from either Burger King or McDonalds costs, since I am about as likely to consume one of them in the near future as I am to grow wings and a long yellow beak and fly around the office, shouting: "I'm quackers, I am!"

But purely because of this phrase:

"...the damaging burger battles of 2000 and 2003..."

How did I miss this? Why weren't bloody burgers hitting the headlines every day? Where were the dramatic conflict scenes on the News at Ten?

Just imagine the warzone...

Sir, sir! Incoming sesame seeds!

Get the casualties outta here, soldier. My God, they're covered in ketchup.

Let Operation Gherkin commence...

Some mornings you wake up and everything's rosy. 

The sun is beaming away outside; there's a smile on your face and a song in your heart (actually, I wake up every single morning with a song in my head, but that's a different matter) and you just know that it's going to be a good day.

Other mornings you wake up with a distinct feeling of impending doom, which you just can't shake.

These are the mornings when you just know that as you are walking up to the end of the road you are going to see your bus shoot past before you can flag it down. Or that a piano is going to fall on your head.

And then there are other mornings still, when you are woken by the sound of your phone receiving a text... and the blind panic kicks in before your brain does, because it knows, without having to think about it, that you have overslept, because there's no way that someone would text you before 7am... and then you look at the clock, and the fact that it reads 10.50am is a very, very bad thing indeed, because you're supposed to be in work at 8am, and in a meeting at 9.30am, and since you're most inconveniently not Doctor Who, there's no way that you can make it... and every single second of the next hour of blind unshowered panic is filled with you cursing the phenomenon of jet-lag from the very depths of your soul... which, in itself, is probably enough to grant you enough bad karma to last the rest of the day.

Bah.

And if that weren't bad enough, you then get into work and the first thing you do is blog about it, proving that you are a) addicted, b) have all your priorities wrong and perhaps this is where you've been going wrong in life for so many years, and c) a dickhead.

Editor: Who shall we ask to write a last-minute article on how to keep the kids entertained over Christmas? Oooh, I know, why don't we pick the childless, non-maternal pisshead, who is actually a lot more interested in watching the football on this Wednesday night than in looking up festive party games on the net for her imaginary babies?

"Darling, why do you keep disconnecting your phone? Have you won £5 million on the lottery?"

"No, I'm having an affair."

"Oh. That's okay then."

At around 7.30am he opened his eyes, but he didn't wake up - for the simple reason that he hadn't been sleeping. Jet-lag was kicking in nicely, but that wasn't the only factor at play.

He was halfway through a week-long trip to Canada, accompanied by his wife, L, and two daughters, RTB and SJ. He’d already been to Toronto, where he’d enjoyed spending time with some relatives who he’d never met before. He was soon to head to Banff, where he was destined to do his bit towards sustaining the Canadian economy by awarding a shed-load of cash to various souvenir and clothes shops.

But where he was right now was always going to be the highlight of his trip.

Eleven years ago, he and his family had driven along the Icefields Parkway, between Jasper and Banff in the Canadian Rockies. During this trip, they had stopped at Lake Louise. It wasn’t a long stop, just enough for a breather, a coffee and a photo. But, just as the photo was taken, the beauty of the scene was unexpectedly heightened by a light, unseasonal flurry of snow.

To him, it was a perfect moment.

He looked up at the grand hotel perched on the edge of the lake and said: “Wouldn’t it be fantastic to stay here?”

And so the idea, conceived by him, planned by his family and finally executed by his wife, became a reality to mark his 60th birthday.

He'd arrived at the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise as dusk fell the evening before. By the time they’d checked in and identified the correct room (“Yes, we definitely booked a lakeside view”), it was dark outside, save for the light that was thrown onto the snow-carpeted ground from the windows of the hotel, and the pinpricks of festive fairy lights in the fir trees nearest the building.

A quick unpack, a dinner and drink in the downstairs saloon bar and it was time for an early night. And the beginning of a long night too, as the jet-lag prodded him, his wife snored beside him, and the sheer excitement of where he was kept him giddy and awake and anticipating the morning.

And finally, at around 7.30am, he opened his eyes.

The room slowly lightened as dawn peeked around the edges of the curtains, beckoning him irresistibly out of bed, around the other bed where his daughters slept, and towards the window.

He drew the curtains. And what lay on the other side took his breath away.

He looked back into the room.

“L,” he hissed. “L.”

A grunt came from the bed he’d just left.

“Come and see.”

Another grunt, then a groan.

“L!”

An exasperated sigh. “All right! Give me a moment. It’s not going anywhere, is it?”

The bedclothes shifted, and were still. He chuckled to himself. L wasn’t exactly a morning person.

Much like his eldest daughter, RTB, who he could see was studiously pretending to be asleep, arm flung over her eyes, trying to salvage a few more moments of speechless peace before she would have to acknowledge the inevitable start to the day.

But SJ was a different matter. She sat up, bleary-eyed, but sharply curious, blinking rapidly and squinting at him in the pale light.

“Wait ‘til you see this, SJ,” he whispered. And turned again to drink it all in.

The grand arc of soaring mountains, whose flinty peaks reached to the very limit of the window’s vision, looming high and dominating the scene.

The jagged, craggy texture of shadowy rock, splashed liberally by icy patches of pristine, glaringly white snow and peopled with the thin, black spikes of fir trees, their fingers waving down at him from the cliff tops and mountainsides.

The tranquil, mirror-like expanse of the lake itself, which stretched across the valley below, part-swathed in ice, transparent near the edges and a deeper blue-green in the centre.

And, as he watched, the scene changed.

Grey wisps of mist slipped down one mountainside and crept up another as Lake Louise performed her private striptease; boldly slipping off a strip of cloud to reveal a shoulder of bare rock here, teasingly whisking an opaque scarf over a frosted peak there. Ever-changing and endlessly fascinating.

And finally, as the sun rose, so did his family. They joined him at the window in time to witness the warm rays chase away the clouds, revealing at last the far end of the lake, where the snow lay deepest and a faint blue tinge to the ice revealed the presence of the vast, beautiful monster that had created the entire scene as it retreated across the valley.

“There’s the glacier,” he said.

And they looked at it, and they marvelled. And they looked at each other, and they grinned with delight.

It was, for him, another perfect moment.

For which I'm glad.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Imagine a big bowl of stew. Thick, gloopy stew.

Stew that has been simmering in a slow cooker for well over a week.

Stew whose once clearly definable ingredients of meat and vegetables have since broken down into unidentifiable, bulbous globules of what can only be described as matter.

Stew that has bubbled, smouldered and reduced down, down, down, down and down, until it is now little more than a putrid, stultifying, festering, glutinous mass akin to David Bowie's the Goblin King's Bog of Eternal Stench.

That is my brain today.

Canada tales will have to wait a little longer...

... but I ain't got the time nor the inclination to write much. Besides, I have another glass of wine which is requiring my urgent attention.

So, just a quickie.

Toronto is... not as cold as it should be. I've got nothing but jumpers with me, which I rarely wear even on the coldest of days in England, and my fake-fur-lined knee-high boots, but at least they look good, and I am sweltering.

But it's good fun.

Niagara Falls are... pretty darn big. And surprisingly impressive. And anyone who does actually buy those little bottles full of water that has allegedly apparently undertaken that journey over those slate-grey falls and into the lake below, deserves nothing but the finest of British disdain. FFS.

My family is... bigger than I realised by another couple of dozen people. Who are wonderfully hospitable, such a lot of fun and people who, in short, I feel lucky to be related to.

And no, I haven't told them that I have a blog, so I'm not just saying that, you cheeky cynical Juzzzy feckers.

Oh, look, I could write more, but I'm on holiday, so I'm taking a break from almost decent writing.

Hope you're all well, catch ya soon.

Oh, and Mr RL?
Fuck'em.

x

All. Bloody. Night.

Bonfire Night is over! Get over it!

*slaps foundation over dark circles under eyes, making them look ten times worse, and practises a beaming, congratulatory, wide-awake grin in mirror, which looks remarkably like a knackered scowl*

A question for you: Does anyone remember Kula Shaker?

I do believe that I owned an album of theirs about ten years ago, back when they were big on the hippy-indie-student scene. As was I, come to think of it. What can I say, that's what six pints of bitter and three bars of chocolate a day can do to a girl.

Anyway.

I'm going to the wedding of a long-term family friend tomorrow. She's a London-trendy, talented-arty, slender-beauty of a girl woman, who's the same age as me (cue the "So, when's it your turn? Hands up, incoming bouquet!" conversations) - and who is, worst of all, absolutely lovely.

I'm going to be so out of my depth be so out of my head on champagne have a great time.

Actually, I am looking forward to it.

Anyway.

Apparently the fella she's marrying *mental note: must try to find out his name before the wedding* manages Kula Shaker, who are, apparently, currently working on a new album.

And, apparently, Kula Shaker will be at this wedding tomorrow, possibly performing a song or too.

Anyway.

Here's another question for you: What do you think the likelihood is that this new album will be a runaway success, and make the band billions of pounds?
 
And what do you think the likelihood is of any of these potential future billionaires being single?

And what do you think the likelihood is that I might actually pounce upon, drug and marry, with a long-term aim of a wealthy divorce settlement, and perhaps even a future appearance on Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing USA, except preferably with both my legs intact fancy one of them?

I have to admit that I can't remember at all what they looked like. Let's have a quick trip down youtube memory lane...
     

Piece of piss.

I'm pissed.

Peace.

Tomorrow, I have booked some time off work in order to further my career development, by undertaking a day-long course which will set me on the path to certain destruction greater respect within my media role as a professional reviewer.

The course in question is the WSET Foundation Level course.
WSET stands for Wine and Spirits Education Trust.
In other words, I'm spending the day wine-tasting.

This is actually, it really is a proper qualification. Following a hard day's guzzling training, I shall try to hold a pen undertake an examination, which I will need to be able to focus on pass in order to receive the prestigious industry award of the WSET Foundation Level Certificate.

Following this, I will aim to sign up for AA the WSET Intermediate Level course as soon as possible, in order to weave my uncertain way progress still further into the hazy world of the food and beverage industry.

Naturally, I am motivated to undertake these courses purely by my selfless dedication to the readers of my restaurant reviews. After all, they do say that a good writer should immerse herself in wine her subject in order to produce her best work. And the more drink I can handle I know about food and drink, the better my memory write-ups will be, surely?

Thus, do I prepare to sacrifice my beloved ahem sobriety to a higher, nobler cause, as I seek to serve myself another glass of wine the general public.

I can only hope that they appreciate my sacrifice and get those cloned livers up and running pronto.

Would anyone like to offer me a sainthood?

Actually, make that offer a commission for a regular wine column, so that I can place my order with the PR people at Chateau d'Yquem for a free monthly case put my new-found knowledge into practice as soon as possible.

Thank you. Hic.

*PING*

God, it's a hard life this.

*snuggles deeper into warm duvet whilst balancing laptop on, er, top of lap*

Now. Third phone call of the day to arsey client? Or shall I just have another bite of my breakfast chocolate bar first?