Sink or Swim

So this was how I spent last night.

"Get yourselves into groups of six."

Check.

"Number yourselves from one to six."

Check.

"Now leave your groups."

Check.

"Now, if you're an odd number, look for an even number, and vice versa."

Eh?

What kind of half-arsed, unnecessarily complicated way is that to organise a speed-networking event?

First you're shuffling around grabbing at six people, trying not to look as though you're the last person picked for the rounders team (and, despite the fact that most attendees left school over 20 years ago, you're still finding people who don't want to leave their "fwends").

Then more shuffling as you leave those people behind anyway (why you couldn't just talk to the odd or even number who was actually next to you in the first place is up there with the Bermuda Triangle as far as unsolved mysteries of life go).

And then, instead of sitting down comfortably, talking informally with people about what you do over a nice glass of wine and discovering whether you have any mutual business interests - or, if not, whether you can just have a chat and a bit of a laugh - you're left wandering around a crowded room, stumbling inelegantly over discarded bags along the way, grasping desperately at individuals who are looking equally as confused and hopelessly inept as you, and barking ridiculous questions at them along the lines of:

"What number are you? Three? Hang on, what number am I? Er... Am I allowed to talk to you? Isn't this totally fecking pointless? Who are all these people anyway? Where's the bloody bar?"

And I have another one tonight. Christ, I hope it's an improvement. Still, at least I've practised my pitch now.

"Hi, I'm RTB. Where's the bar?"

7.45am
Hm. It's really rather wet and windy out there - and the only umbrella I own is bust. Perhaps I'll wait for it to blow over a bit before leaving the house.

8.00am
I do have that meeting just after 9am though. Really must leave soon.

8.15am
Shit. Really got to go!

8.19am, as the hail becomes horizontal and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse roar in thunderous appreciation as they hurl Lightning Spears of Doom directed at the door of a particular flat in Manchester
I hate today.

8.29am, two seconds after I step onto the bus
Oh look. That'll be the sun beaming through the cracking clouds as the Hurricane of Hell magically disappears into the freshly washed ether, as if it never were. How wonderful.

9.22am, as I rush into the office, with an appearance remarkably similar to that I had at a particular point on a particular night in Liverpool not so long ago - except I'm sadly not pissed
So sorry I'm late! Where's the meeting again?
Oh. It got cancelled? Yesterday? And nobody told me?

Wonderful.

Bus pulls up.

Driver: "Eye Hospital."

*silence*

Driver: "Did someone want the Eye Hospital?"

Man: "I do."

Driver: "Well, we're at the Eye Hospital."

Man: "Where? I can't see it."

Driver: "Well, perhaps that's why you need it, mate."

I'm quite getting into this yoga malarky.

Admittedly, experiencing a whole two classes doesn't exactly qualify me for karma yogi status just yet in fact, it doesn't even guarantee that I'll make the third class - but I am enjoying it.

I like feeling as though I'm making my body work hard without having to pound it exhaustedly, sweatily and incompetently around a running track (or, worse still, around the smog-and-scally-filled streets of Manchester), and probably buggering up my knee (again) in the process.

Its internal, contemplative focus and emphasis on holistic development suits someone like me, who is a spoilt, sulky brat who hates losing and has a habit of developing strange, unexplained injuries mid-race when she realises that she's being soundly whupped yet again doesn't really enjoy competitive sports.

I love the feeling of intense effort followed by relief, relaxation and the sense that you've released some niggling tensions from your body as you strrrrrrrrrrrrrretch.

And I find the notion that I will become more flexible and thus capable of getting into far more interesting and impressive sexual positions than ever before really rather motivating.

Granted, there is still the farting to deal with. But hey, you can't have it all. (It does make me wonder if the inventor of nose plugs was Buddhist, though.)

Anyway. After my second class last night, I felt very tired, but in a positive way. Perhaps it was the tranquil sense of being at one with my body giving me an unusual sense of wellbeing, as the epiphanic notion of healthier living struck me perhaps truly for the first time, with all the illuminating force of a divine lightening bolt sent by Buddha himself, and my mind pondered the higher matters of existence as I watched Heroes series two illegally on the internet.

So I wrote a shopping list of ingredients to buy today for the new me. Nothing major, just a few small steps to a healthier lifestyle.

These included:

Fish.
Eggs.
Probiotic yoghurt.
Wholemeal bread.
Watercress.
New potatoes.
Berries.
Carrots.
Cottage cheese.
Fruit juice.

However, my lack of willpower breakfast this morning caused me to deviate ever so slightly from this list, and I now have sat in front of me the following:

Fish.
Eggs.
Apple crumble and custard.
Cheesy-topped sun-dried tomato ciabatta from M&S.
Watercress.
New potatoes.
Innocent Detox smoothie.
Galaxy Ripple.
Green and Blacks Maya Gold chocolate bar.
Carrot sticks.
Family-size tub of hummus.
Stilton with cranberries.
Spinach and ricotta ravioli with tomato and marscapone sauce (and not the watery diet version, pah).
Wine.
Wine.
Wine (curse those irresistable three-for-two bargains).

Oh yes, and the frothy remains of an extra-large, chocolate-besprinkled cappuccino.

Hm. I don't think I'll be applying to any ashrams just yet.

In no particular order...

I still love London. Perhaps I'll always be a southerner at heart. After all, I remain part of that elite group who knows about the invisible "r" in words such as "bath" and "glass".

My business partner is ace!  And I'm not just saying that because she now knows I have a blog...

The view of Canary Wharf from across the Thames remains one of my favourite ever cityscapes, deserving of lingering, misty-eyed contemplation. Ideally followed by a pint of Guinness in the Gypsy Moth.

Mrs F and Shipscook are fantastic hosts, who truly know how to spoil a girl rotten. But you should never go to stay with them wearing jeans that are already a little on the tight side, as you may never be able to peel yourself out of them again.

The concept of reliability is fleeing ever further in seeming desperation from the reality of the Tube system.

He may, and does, cross the line on many occasions - but that OldNick can be a right gentleman.

I have never had, nor do I ever expect to develop, terrorist tendencies - but I do believe that the Unsightly Carbuncle Dome deserves to be bombed.

If you ever spy an orange in the vicinity of Nick's outer belly, run like the *ahem* wind.

Beware of affectionates pussies in the morning - they're probably only after your meat. Ahem.

Although world domination is best planned over a few bottles of Cobra, it may make it a little trickier finding your friend afterwards.

If you lived in Ancient Egypt, the only way to get out of building the Egyptian Pyramids was to become a mumifier of cats.

Nick wants me. But only to pull his finger.

I want the recipe for Mrs F's dahl soup.

Thank you, mine hosts

xxx

I is off to Lahhhhhnden taaaaan.

World domination is imminent. As is booze. Surprisingly.

Laterz... (Some of you soonerz...)

And for Fatey.

Peace, medear.

x

Christ, YES.

Look at the programme! Look at it!

It's as if it were designed solely with me in mind.

It's my version of heaven.

It's where I would happily, nay exultantly, expire - probably in a paroxysm of sheer gratitude and wine and chocolate.

It's...errrm... *slips* gaaahhh...*splash* arrrrrghhh....*splutter*

*drowns in own ocean of drool*

Hm. Perhaps I should have eaten lunch.

So in my quest for some form of exercise that doesn't inspire my hatred, or boredom or much effort, I went to a yoga class last night. During the course of which I made a few discoveries.

Firstly, I am not as flexible as I believed. In fact, I'm not even a hundredth of the way there.

I previously believed that being able to touch your heel to your forehead (albeit with a slight degree of assistance from your hand) was actually reasonably impressive. Not to mention the apparently weird thing I can do with my arms.

But I was wrong.

I mean, how the feck are you supposed to do this?

That's just ridiculous. How can that be good for your body?

And, more importantly, what would you do if the wind changed? I wouldn't want to be stuck like that forever. Ahem.

Anyway, moving on.

Secondly, wearing an old pair of glasses, whose arms are incredibly loose and liable to fall off at any moment, is not particularly advisable during a yoga class. Especially during those numerous positions which involve your head hanging upside down. When the glasses keep falling off your nose with a clatter that echoes deafeningly around the quiet room, rudely disturbing the Breathing Cycle and probably permanently defiling the Shining Aura of Keen Boy In The Corner, and thus attracting the Evil Glare. Twat.

Thirdly, judging by the "aura" in the room at occasional points during the class, yoga makes you fart.

And fourthly, there are few things more detrimental to "freeing your mind and concentrating on your own body" than when you are instructed to look up and inhale - and find yourself cheek to cheek with the arse of the woman who is bending over in front of you and has a bum cleavage that any builders union would be proud to name Yawning Crevass of the Year.

And you've already started to inhale.

Try all you like, cheri - a Crepe Crumble will never beat a Crispy Pancake.

Kinda like this...

Happy Birthday to Noooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!

xx

David Cameron finds it more uncomfortable than ever to hug a hoodie, thanks to the latest must-have fashion item for urban youth...

I've completed my tax return. In advance of the deadline.

In advance of the deadline!

You may not realise what a momentous achievement this is for me, but trust me, I'm flabbergasted delighted.

And my bill wasn't anywhere near as much as I was expecting, thanks to a recent change in my tax code. Which means that the sum of money I had scrabbled around frantically for and finally scrimped together from the spare change hanging around my flat put aside is now... well... put aside.

Now, where was that list of online shops some helpful bloggers helped me to compile...?

PS If anyone says the words "Tax doesn't have to be taxing" I shall be forced to hunt you down and behead you. With a spoon. It may take some time...

Line manager had enough of my cheek and about to sack me?

Nuclear bomb about to drop on my flat?

Gypsy curse from the woman whose heather I refused to buy in 1998 finally kicking in?

Hitman hired by my millionaire ex-husband, whose life savings I ran off with and then squandered on a stockpile of chocolate and red wine, managed to track me down?

No.

The charger for my mobile phone is refusing to work.

Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!

On Facebook, a mere moment ages ago...

I want Jamie Oliver. He's full of healthy food recipes. Which is what I need. Plus someone to cook them for me, obviously.

Did you see him last night? Really irritating, actually - reminded me of some American televangelist. Booming: "You've got seven years to live!" as he bounces like some deranged Andrex puppy around the sobbing pensioner.

Darn. I should have blogged something about that.

Darn. I am now so addicted to blog that I feel as though witticisms are not allowed outside blogworld.

Triple darn. I am now considering the possibility of writing a post on 'signs you're addicted to blog'.

I shall resist. If only until tonight.

Darn.

Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.
Anybody?
No?
Dust.

It's low in fat. So you can eat as much dust as you like.

*RTB continues to drearily "eat" (hoho!) lunch*

EDIT:

Two of my good friends arrived a few hours ago in Buenos Aries.

This destination marks the start of their five-month trip traversing the wonders of Argentina, Brazil, Peru, Venezuela, Chile, Cuba and Ecuador.

And, who knows, perhaps they'll throw in a little Paraguay, Uruguay, Colombia, Bolivia, Guyana, French Guiana, Suriname and the Galapagos Islands for good measure.

Magnificent temples of ancient civilisations; sun-soaked beaches; tranquil cerulean lakes topped with mysterious floating islands; dusky swirls of expensive cigar smoke; luscious vineyards (and deluscious wines); sultry tropical rainforests teeming with life and colour; brilliant football; the flamboyance of Carnaval; steaming geysers; extravagant dancing; enigmatic stone sculptures; fit men (fit men, fit men, fit men) and my lifetime ambition of hang-gliding from Rio's Christ the Redeemer Statue down to Copacabana beach...... just a few items that may feature on their itinerary for the next few months.

Not that I'm in any way jealous, you understand.

After all, this morning was a real adventure.

Missing the bus by just enough time that I couldn't get on it, but was fortuitiously still close enough to get copiously splashed by it; discovering that my umbrella was spectacularly broken, thus enabling me to get further soaked by the impressively tropicalesque weather, which stopped approximately ten seconds after I entered work; my hat flitting its merry way off my head, as if on the wings of a dove, and landing gracefully at the far side of a deep and richly muddy puddle; all topped by the surprise announcement of a gathering of departmental staff for the gasp-inducingly, awe-inspiringly, oh so terribly exciting purpose of discussing statistics.

Unmissable stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

(Apart from the bus, of course...)

He's a very naughty boy...

They say that everything happens for a reason.

I don't actually subscribe to that philosophy, not believing in predestination, or divine intervention, or gypsy curses or being patronised. But I do like to think that when shit happens you can at least try to learn something from it, or become stronger in some way. That kind of bollocks positive thinking appeals to me.

However, I am currently struggling to understand what possible reason, or mental stamina, or life's lesson, or any positive element whatsoever I could be gaining from the fact that I, RTB, appear to be turning into a reptile.

Reptile verihorribilus.

Admittedly, it is happening very slowly.

I do not have a tail. Let alone one that can break off in times of emergency (handy for bank robberies when eluding the police).

I do not turn bright red when stood next to a post box. Unless someone says something very rude to me (shush, Nick).

I lack the ability to run up walls and ceilings without falling on my arse. Not that I would actually mind developing that particular talent (although my days of wearing skirts would be numbered).

I have not taken to eating insects. I have nothing to add to this statement (nothing, I said).

But what I do have is a patch of skin on my arm which is currently sporting the kind of scaly encrustations last witnessed by cinema-goers with rubbish taste at a showing of Jurassic Park III.

And it is spreading.

Yes, I have been to my GP. Several times. Which has only resulted in me spending the equivalent of a small third world country's debt on numerous steroid creams. Which would probably have had exactly the same effect if I had decided, instead of slathering them on my arm in a manner reminiscent of a candlemaker layering wax onto a wick, to squirt them up my arse. *rude comments about arses and creams censored here*

And yes, I have tried the chemists. Who either refer me to the Vaseline section *no need for further censorship of arse-related comments, thank you very much* or back to my GP.

And yes, I do scratch the itch. Don't look at me like that, you don't know what it feels like. And I only do it occasionally. And... But... Oh, just leave me alone!

Which means that I am now forced to consider the hitherto unconsiderable.

Alternative therapies.

It's not that I don't believe in them. It's just that I have no idea how to sort the alternative wheat from the charlatan chaff - and I don't particularly want to have to re-mortgage my flat before I find out.

Nor do I want to visit some complementary health centre hoping to be De-Reptiled and come out instead with a yoga mat that has been hand-woven by Nepalese monks; Hopi candle singes on my ears; a CD containing 20 famous classical pieces performed by blue whales; the conviction that I was, in one of my previous lives, abducted by Martians, and a 500g packet of mung beans.

(What do you do with mung beans?)

All I want is for someone knowledgeable to tell me exactly where I can find The One with the Anti-Lizard Cure (was that a Friends episode?), before my blood runs cold, my pores seal up and my career prospects are limited to walking up and down the streets of Chorlton wearing a sandwich board advertising Iguana Bar.

... having the theme tune to 'Stop That Pigeon' running round and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and AROUND and AROUND and AROUND and AROUNDDDDDDD your fecking head???

Very few things, I'd imagine.

Mind you, it was ace...

Thought I'd just pop in to share...

...for the cheap seats in the back!

Hankies at the ready, though - it's heartrending stuff...

Mary had a little lamb,
But wanted something better.
So late one night she sat down to
Compose a little letter.

"Dear God," she wrote, "oh please do note
How I've behaved so far,
My virtue's virtually intact
And doesn't bear a scar.

Good Catholic girls are innocent
And, rest assured, I am,
But there must be something better
Than a crummy little lamb.

Yes, my spirit's willing,
But my flesh is willing too
And I really have to say, dear God,
Some fun is overdue."

She sealed it with a tender kiss
And posted it that night,
And for you non-believers
Who think this is utter shite

The truth is, one week later
The lamb became old news
And Mary was thrown out of church
For snogging in the pews.

I'd almost forgotten about this until today (which was probably a good thing, since it's cringingly contrived and borderline pretentious... okay, okay, forget the borderline...).

But hey, I was a teenager when I wrote it. And I dug it out, read it in full and remembered, so thought I'd share it unedited in all its clunky, facile, over-emotional, honest glory.

Play

They call it recreational, but who is being played?
There is no laughter here; trapped in the dark she lies, afraid.
Afraid to take another hit she knows she doesn't want,
But more scared not to, thanks to all the ghosts who her do haunt.

Before she begged for mercy from an unforgiving friend,
Before rejection doomed her to this night that wouldn't end,
Before she left the note that showed she knew this wasn't play,
Before she used it one last time; before the break of day.

Catholicism always gets a bum rap...

Hm, coming up to 5pm.

*yawns*
*stretches*
*sighs contentedly*

I think I might get out of bed.

Well, it's nearly the weekend - which means leisure, pleasure and blush-inducing thoughts of hot lurrrrve are a-leaping to the forefront of many an outrageous mind across this roguishly flirty, spankingly kinky, red-hot-lust-driven and downright norrrrty nation of ours.

Except in the case of Miss Pure-As-The-Driven-Bike-Snow RTB, that is, who is spending the weekend in the pleasant, but not exactly sexy, company of her parents and some of their friends.

(Although, come to think of it, she is going to a madcap boozefest leaving do this evening..... which she's not actually allowed to get pissed stay out too late at, since she has to get up ridiculously early tomorrow in order to drive billions of several miles for aforementioned parental-type commitments..... which obviously means that she is as doomed as a dodo with bird flu and will get ridiculously slaughtered, to the degree that she will probably end up wishing she were extinct will be rather tired the next day..... which means she will then have to speed drive down the motorway with a raging hangover feeling somewhat under par..... which will doubtless cause her to throw a right strop when told off by parentals for being three hours' late for lunch feel slightly less sociable than normal.... which means she knows, right now, that she is doomed, doomed, dooooooooomed..... which is already making her crave a pint anyway..... what was I saying? Oh yes.....)

Friday fantasies.

I'm sure I've we've all had some usually slightly inebriated version of this conversation before - so here's an easy little meme of the thank f*ck it's Friday for you.

Who Would Be Your Ideal...?

One-Night Stand: Colin Farrell.
Why? Arrogant arse, maybe - but a bloody sexy one. And that accent. Phwoooaarrr!

Love Affair: Thierry Henry.
Why? Va-va-voooooooom. And that accent. Phwoooaarrr! (~~)

Marital Partner: Jonathan Woss.
Why? C'mon, marriage is hard enough - you need a good laugh along the way. And that accent. Oh... Anyway, he's cute.

One To Make You Turn: The Jolie.
Why? Like there's another choice. If you're going to turn, you might as well do it properly. Besides, she might bring her other half along for the ride...

So. Anyone else fancy a go?

That last question's not part of the meme, by the way.
Nor is it an offer.