Sink or Swim

...is what I am currently suffering from. Oh, how I am suffering.

Symptoms include:

- Head-spinning.
- Mild hysteria.
- Contortion of facial features into an expression of utmost bewilderment.
- Involuntary outbursts of words such as "Eh?" and "Whatthefuck?"
- A near-uncontrollable thirst for mind-numbing Guinness.
- Risk of being bored to death.

It all started over three hours ago as the following conversation drew to a close:

".... so basically, we've got some interesting findings, which we're really excited about and think a lot of people would be excited about, too. Shall I send you a summary and you can put it into an article for us?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Which is why I am currently still ploughing my way though a document that includes this...

"IgE-mediated sensitization is not an all-or-nothing phenomenon, as the probability of presence and persistence of wheeze increases with increasing specific IgE antibody levels."

And this...

"U-EPX reflects the presence of atopy and associated symptoms and may be useful for monitoring the progression of allergic disease."

And, best of all, this...

"Increasing endotoxin exposure is associated with reduced risk of allergic sensitization and eczema and with increased risk of non-atopic wheeze, but only in children with the CC genotype at -159 of the CD14 gene31."

So. Are we excited yet?

*bashes head on desk and start to hyperventilate - which may or may not be related to non-atopic wheezing, depending on whatever the feck that means*

Nor do I have type 2 diabetes.

But I simply must insist that I take part in this study. Purely in the selfless interests of furthering medical knowledge and potentially benefiting all humankind, of course.

Oh yes. I reeeeeeally know how to turn a guy down.

Lunchtime conversation between RTB and NotGayHonest Man...

NGH: "So.... what are you saying?"

RTB: "Look. I like you. I really do. It's just that I'm not feeling The Spark."

NGH: "The Spark?"

RTB: "Yeah, you know. The.... the.... spa...aa.....aaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

*pause*

*NGH wipes RTB's snot off his face*

There's no denying that brain damage is a terrible injury and a traumatic experience for a young boy and his family to go through, with doubtless devasting, long-term effects.

But honestly, is this really necessary?

It. Was. An. Accident. Tragic, of course. But still.

Besides, if the woman concerned had been supervising at the time, is it likely that things would have turned out differently?

Would she, with super-human ability, have been able to pinpoint the exact moment at which a seemingly innocuous shoe heel was about to become a deadly weapon, and swoop in with the kind of speed normally only attributed to Superman, or perhaps stop time in the manner of Hiro from Heroes, in order to interrupt the offending somersault before it caused lasting damage to a young boy's life?

Or would the fact that children are always wont to leap around boisteriously on a bouncy castle have meant that the exact same scenario would have unfolded?

And now the sinful father has been brought into proceedings, who now has to deal with not only the upset that such an accident would undoubtedly cause him, but also the fact that he is being held responsible for (allegedly - since he in fact denies it) doing what all other parents presumably said to their children at that party: "Yes, son, you can go on the bouncy castle. That's what it's there for, after all."

Personally speaking, I think it's all too obvious that the real culprit here is the undisclosed manufacturer of the offensive shoe, for not ensuring that their heels instantly evaporate on contact with a person's head. Talk about irresponsible.

"We'll never be defeated!" said the Ginger to the Lime.
One whiff of us and soon you'll find her feeling quite sublime."
"That's what you think," the Lime said, whilst looking rather glum.
"It's far too early, after all, to add a tot of rum."

And to think, all this time I thought the S in PMS stood for Syndrome...

Happy Birthday Mr Potato Head!
x

But I ain't got no sympathy for the devil.

For today, Lucifer hath taken a particularly virulent form of the Cold Virus and has decided to share his earthly experience of Pure Evil with me.

*sneeze*

Do I really want to link to this?

Well. Just read it.

Quick! Someone tell the world's fattest man - his luck with the ladies is about to change...

http://www.flicklife.com/view_video.php?viewkey=4ace64a68e154ba72f24&flag=F

*clutches head*

In recognition of the outstanding efforts being put in by the nutters runners taking part in the London Marathon, I have designed my own personal marathon for the day.

1. Every race requires a warm-up. And what better way to warm up in the morning than by snuggling still further into the duvet and staying there for a further two hours after awakening?

2. Listen for the starter's gun. Which went off this morning at around 10am on episode six of my DVD set of 24, series five.

3. Hard work. It's a tough one, all right, typing tirelessly to get my articles written. Phew! *mops brow*

4. Take it easy. It's not a sprint, after all, so I'm making sure I take regular blogging breaks in-between the exhausting work.

5. Breathing. Not to be underestimated. Inhale deeply, exhale loudly. *lights cigarette*

6. Sustenance. I am keeping my endurance levels up via the consumption of high-energy foods, as befits a professional distance athlete. These include Marmite on toast and left-over Chicken Makhani with Aloo Chili.

7. Stay hydrated. Imperative for success. Cups of tea for the morning, a glass of red wine for the afternoon - good for the heart - and a few pints of iron-rich Guinness for the evening.

8. Support. Where would our runners be without cheers from the crowd? So then, cheers! *raises glass*

9. Staggering over the finish line. The finish line being the steps outside the pub I'm going to this evening. Staggering should not be a problem. I might even get a round of applause from the onlookers if I fall over at the same time.

Marathons, eh? What's all the fuss about?

*passes out*

Where is your mobile phone? Pocket
Your significant other? Battery-operated
Your hair? Wet
Your mother? Inspirational
Your father? Generous
Your favourite thing? Laughter
Your dream last night? Forgotten
Your favorite drink? Wine
Your dream/goal? Exciting
The room you're in? Lounge
Your ex? Past
Your fear? Self-destruction
Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happy
Where were you last night? Bed
What you're not? Organised
One of your wish list items? Holiday
Where you grew up? Souf
The last thing you did? Brekkie
What are you wearing? Nightie
Your TV? Fuzzy
Your pets? Non-existent
Your computer? Laptop
Your life? Busy
Your mood? Contented
Missing someone? Aye
Your car? Peeyougot
Something you're not wearing? Underwear
Favourite Store? Fopp
Your summer? Anticipated
Like someone? Many
Your favourite colour? Orange
Last time you laughed? Midnight
Last time you cried? Tuesday

This track makes me wish I could play the drums, or the guitar - I'd lurrrve to be able to attack that intro...

It pains me greatly to write this post. But write it I must, if only for the greater good and perhaps the salvation of humankind.

Ever since I first found my calling - thanks in no small part to the eager devouring (and re-devouring) of the Childhood Manual to Chocolate Addiction, otherwise known as Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - I have devoted my life to the divine crusade of discovering everything there is to know about the Lip-smackingly Luscious Kingdom of Cacao.

Key highlights of my extensive research campaign to date include:

- Visiting Cadbury's World in Bournville (where I was eventually dragged away from the presence of the one-seater Creme Egg car - which can apparently reach speeds of up to 60mph on the motorway, and which I was certain had my name on it somewhere - with considerable reluctance and a dismaying lack of ceremony by my parents).

- Watching with the trained eye of a critc (of chocolate) both films, 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' and 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory' and reaching the sad conclusion that Johnny Depp, while undeniably cute talented in the role, was unable to better the Oompa Loompas' doompa-dee-doo having the perfect puzzle for you in the original adaptation.

- Regularly mugging a friend of mine who used to work at the Mars factory in Berkshire and - shock horror - didn't like chocolate (hideous, incomprehensible concept).

- Visiting Switzerland. Mmmmm.

- Watching Chocolat. Well done Johnny, redemption gained.

- Undertaking various scientific research projects, including the infamous "How To Consume a Kilo Bar of Dairy Milk in World Record Time", "I WILL Eat 16 Creme Eggs On Easter Morning" and, of course, "How To Reach the Perfect Temperature for Consumption of Chocolate Eclairs Thanks to Storage Down the Bra".

Anyway.

Now a fully registered chocoholic (yes, there is an official body, known more familiarly as the Hotel Chocolat Tasting Membership Club), I pride myself on having tried and gobbled tasted a diverse array of variations of the glorious form.

Key manufacturers include:

Galaxy, Milka, Ferrero Rocher, Lindt, Green and Blacks, Mars, Thorntons, Cote d'Or, Hotel Chocolat, Chocolat Poulain, the Divine Chocolate Company, Suchard, Nestle (so shoot me), Traidcraft (better?), Peyrano, Toblerone and, of course, Cadburys.

But now, now my proudly advancing foray into the ever-increasingly-joyous international world of confectionery has reached an abrupt halt as, thanks to a work colleague's return from a recent trip to America, I have just had my inaugural taste of a Hershey's Kiss.

And it was...

A.
Bom.
In.
Able.

Jesus. Do people actually like eating these septic brown dollops of putridity?

Do they enjoy the way the sensation changes from feeling as though you are eating a particularly unpleasant form of cooking chocolate to feeling as though your taste buds and nasal passages are being seared with a relentlessly foul and malevolent secretion; a Wrongness of the worst order, such that Lucifer himself would gasp at the devasting nature and paralysing power of its Evil?

And do they rejoice in the fact that this repulsive excrement of the devil's swine then lingers as if it has not merely coated your mouth, but has actually managed to infuse its very character with the insides of your cheeks, becoming one with your DNA with every pulse of your horrified heart as it courses through your veins, infesting every fibre of your being with its poisonous, baleful, wretched villainy?

I'm sorry. I can't talk any more.

*positions mouth under running faucet and prepares to camp out overnight in said position*

I think they found a few moles...

Fact one - My shower is, if you'll excuse the complex technical terminology, fucked.

Fact two - There is a team of builders currently refurbishing the flat across the landing.

Fact three - One of said team wolf-whistled at me this morning.

Fact four - Instead of my normal reaction of disdainful glance or pretended deafness, I turned around and gave him a cheeky smile.

Fact five - Fact four might have had something to do with the fact that he and his workmate were in the process of carrying a bath out of the back of their van.

Fact six - I will never make a good feminist...

So. Shall I?

*practises helpless female look in front of mirror and searches for lip gloss*

Does this mean the next time you put a saucer of milk out for a little nocturnal visitor that you might be arrested for having a deadly weapon in your back garden?

And what's next in the animal weaponry criminal world? Being battered with a cod?

Yep, twas a mad one all right. But thanks to the hideous phenomenon that is currently overshadowing my life, my being, my very soul (i.e. having shedloads, truckloads and then a few more aircrafthangarloads of work to do), I ain't really got much time to go into detail about it.

So it's just as well that Ms Phoenix has risen from the Flames of Doubtless Another Hangover to blog about it. Even if she did include evil pics.

I shall simply summarise the rest of my weekend as follows:

+ Getting to catch up with a very good friend of mine, who I'd not seen in over three years.

- Sitting next to a woman whose conversation revolved around the fact that she has two children, wants four more (yes, four) asap and is currently doing everything she can to get number three on the go (and I mean, everything). Oh, and discovering that she was younger than me. Meep!

+ African drumming. No, really - it was a damn good laugh. And I want to become a drummer, right now. Although I will settle for becoming Head Taster at Hotel Chocolat, instead.

- Being cornered by another woman who wants to fix her brother up with someone. Anyone. And I happened to be the only single candidate there, who unfortunately lacked the presence of mind to claim to be gay. Or to simply say "bugger off".

+ A massive Mexican fajita fest, complete with cocktails of rum-infused joy. Drool.

- Being too full from the massive Mexican fajita fest to get sufficiently sozzled. Which didn't seem like much of a problem, until I entered the club in which we would be dancing the night away and realised that I was in no way drunk enough to cope with the fact that they were playing the Macarena.

+ Watching a fantastic display of breakdancing. Seriously impressive stuff. Rumours that my opinion may have been slightly influenced by the fact that it was all performed by semi-naked, torso-tastic men have not been greatly exaggerated.

- Not pulling a semi-naked, torso-tastic breakdancer. Or even signing one up for the Nekkid Boys of Blog Calendar. Darnit.

+ Mini blogmeet. Hurrah!

- Having to leave mini blogmeet early due to insufficient belief in promises of early tandem cycling to Mancsville non-flexible rail ticket. Boo!

+ Meeting Jeremy Clarkson. Well, nearly. Photographic evidence indicates that I did, anyway.

- Signing up to a cult which I discovered, too late, returns my virginity to me. Like I'd ever want that back. Can't I have the complexion of an 18-year-old, instead?

+ Chips. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, soooooo goooooooooood. Harhar!

- Being unfairly accused of chip thievery by an androgenous version of Gillian McKeith. There are no names in my toilet, faeces-boy...

+ Meeting a very close relative of the man who brought technical enlightenment to the world and truly made it a better place for you and for me by inventing that sure-fire candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize: a robot that can play ping-pong.

- Being forced to admit that the phrase "only watching other people smoke" is not techically correct when you happen to have a lit cigarette in your own hand and happen to be inhaling from the end of it. Honestly, so picky.

+ Lots and lots and lots and then a hell of a lot more of utterly ridiculous laughter.

Yep. I'll be doing that again.

With the sun slanting in through the window, gently nudging me awake before my alarm went off in a warm, welcoming way that didn't seem at all invasive, but somehow seemed natural and right; bringing an involuntary smile to my lips as I stretched my limbs and felt life enter my sleep-weary limbs, sighing with contentment as I planned my day ahead.

No, of course it fecking didn't.

I woke up too early; pressed the off button instead of the snooze button on my alarm clock; woke up too late; raced into the bathroom in a blind (literally - I forgot to pick up my specs) panic; leapt into the shower and switched it on, only to be greeted by a blast of freezing cold water, indictating that the electrics had failed and hot water would be notably absent from this appliance today; leapt out of the shower; skidded my heels on the wet floor and landed incredibly painfully on the not-at-all-funny bone of my arse; cursed very violently; contemplated weeping in frustration and decided I couldn't be arsed; decided instead that washing my hair in the sink would have to be attempted; decided next that washing my hair in the sink was a fucking useless idea; unfortunately didn't make this decision until about five minutes after I realised that a few handfuls of water would never wash the infinitely regenerating suds out of my hair; shook my head in frustration, bashed said head against the hot tap; contemplated bawling in frustration and decided that I hated myself too much to indulge myself in this way; rubbed my head with a towel in the most incompetent and ineffective way possible; hobbled back into the bedroom and blow-dried shampoo-encrusted hair into a globulous mass reminiscent of a blancmange that has been first exploded and then petrified; wondered if the words "a fucking hat will have to fucking do" should be permanently aligned with my name in the next version of the Oxford English Dictionary; pulled on any old random, crumpled and doubtless smelly clothes from the fabric mountain on my floor and raced out of the flat and off to work.

Enter work. Switch on PC. Attempt to focus on screen, somewhat hampered by encrusted goo on eyelids which is either a) sleep or b) extracts of Guinness that has somehow seeped out of my eyes during the night and fastened itself to my eyelashes; after all, it is seeping out of every other pore today, so why not my eyes?

Sit. Work. Yawn. Scratch blancmange-head. Gulp at tea. Send texts. Work. Wonder when on earth am going to get freelance work done over the course of a weekend which will be spent entirely in London. Have little niggling feeling which can't quite place, so decide best course of action is to ignore it. Work. Gulp more tea.

Have following conversation:

RTB: "L, Is R not in today?"
L: "Yes, but she's in late. Gets in around 11, I think."

Contemplate further attempts at conversation. Laugh at self for entertaining such an impossible thought for even a second. Work. Gulp tea. Ignore niggling feelings. Repeat ad nauseum.

11am. R enters.

RTB: "Morning, R. How are you?"
R: "Morning, RTB, I'm good thanks. What are you doing here?"
RTB: "I...............
.............
..............
............................."

Oh SHIT!!!!!

Curse self long and loud.

Establish self as incompent butt of jokes for the duration of current job in the eyes of current colleagues.

Jam hat onto blancmange head.

Return home, where will spend the rest of the day trying to do the freelance work that is piled up - as, after all, befits the kind of work one should be doing on a FECKING FREELANCE NOT OFFICE WHY DID YOU GO INTO THE OFFICE YOU ABSOLUTE BLITHERING IDIOT freelance work day.

Clutch blancmange head, moan and rock. Repeat ad nauseum.

Life is hectic - but I simply had to pop in and share this little insight into my upcoming weekend.

For, as I browsed the schedule of events sent to me in advance of this Saturday's hen party, my eyes were irresistably drawn to the small item tucked casually between a champagne buffet lunch and restaurant dinner and clubbing.

"...and I've booked African drumming from 3.30, which we will, weather and neighbours permitting, do outside in the back yard..."

...

I'm off to a hen party in our fair ca-pee-tale this Saturday night.

Doubtless plenty of giggling girlies will be pushing the poor drunken woman at any available - or unavailable, for that matter - male in the City vicinity, wickedly encouraging her to snatch her last chance to shag a random man, before it's all too late.

And that'll just be me.

But anyway.

Saturday night I'll be staying somewhere in South Wimbledon.

Sunday morning I will be hungover having a late brunch somewhere in the same vicinity. After which the party disbands and we'll go our separate ways.

Except for me, whose ticket back to Mancsville from Euston doesn't kick in until 7pm.

So, I was wondering, just on the off chance... would anyone fancy a hair of the dog pointing and laughing at a stinkingly hungover girl a mini blogmeety at some point at a suitable location on Sunday afternoon?

Comments/ PMs welcome if you're footloose and fancy-free. Or simply have sod all better to do.

*awaits in cavernous silence*

And to think that some people laughed at the thought that Watership Down gave me a nightmare as a kid...

Car tax!

...is what I shall plead, anyway, when I'm sat in front of the judge and doing a Heather Mills - except without the million-pound fortune (and hopefully with both my legs intact).

But...

Erm...

Yeah.

*cough*

Said yes.

EDIT: Of course it is.