Older but not wiser

Alternatives

2010-07-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

For some reason this blog is getting over run with Chinese spambots. It's annoying. So I've decided to set up an alternative home... I'll still post (more personal) stuff here from time to time but will probably be more prolific (and professional) over on the other side.

Catch me at http://www.dorsetdispatches.wordpress.com (not you spammers!)

Zx

Country living

2010-07-03T09:30:00.001-07:00

It happened. Much to my astonishment I am now a bona fide resident of a small town on the south coast of the UK. It is beautiful. There are however a few little culture shocks that I am still adjusting to.

1. Talking to strangers
When people pass you in the street, they smile and say hello regardless of whether you know them or not. The day after we moved in a woman practically threw herself in front of my car and banged frantically on the window. I thought I'd run over her and/or her cat. Turned out she "just wanted to say hello" to her new neighbours.

A lady in the local shop this morning shared her life history with me. I only went in for a pint of milk.

In London this sort of behaviour would get you stabbed/arrested/sectioned.

2. Shopping
The clothing stock does not change. Last week's maxi dresses (which are also in fact last season's) are still in stock. As they were the week before, and the week before that.

The bread and butter of the tourist town however is gifts. Candles, fudge, straw hats. And gollys. I thought they were illegal, but the little black teddy bears that I believe are almost universally offensive are still freely available here. Has nobody told them yet?

3. Hills
It doesn't matter that the fashion trade is so lacking because practically the only footwear I've worn since my arrival are my trainers. The hills are killers. We're talking full-on cliff-top peaks and troughs here, and there's no avoiding them. I have calves of steel already.

4. Driving
People down here don't drive - they meander from a-b at a pace so frustratingly leisurely that sometimes the transition from 2nd to 3rd gear feels like a Grand Prix moment. And that's without the tractors, farm lorries and occasional cattle that also get in the way.

I've already learned that a safe bet is to double whatever time the satnav suggests is the length of the journey. On the plus side, petrol goes a lot further when your average speed is about 20 miles an hour - and that's still more than I ever managed to reach along Marylebone High Street.

I do love it here though. There's so much space - and there is nothing more relaxing than a sunset stroll along the beach after work. Just as well really - it takes 11 hours to download stuff from the internet sometimes. Am quite sure there's not much piracy going on down here. Noone's got the time.

Party Jug Sundays

2010-05-30T15:27:00.000-07:00

Today we revived an old tradition - one which began back in the days of flatshares and messy weekends.

Like all the best things, Party Jug Sunday was born out of necessity. Now we clear out our closets, back then we used to clear out our drinks cupboards, getting rid of old/random/disgusting booze in order to make room for more. Even the cheapest, nastiest sambucca or holiday banana liqueur could be rendered acceptable with the help of a bit of fruit juice and a straw, we discovered.

So we took it in turns to create ever more potent cocktails served in pink and blue plastic picnic jugs on the balcony... and Party Jug Sunday had arrived.

My best friend decided today that it was time to dust down the jugs one more time, after a break of about seven years. It's a sign of the times that, of the original party jug crowd, 2 of us are married, one is pregnant and only one still smokes (I still rue the day I gave up. A necessary evil, but a truly annoying one). Everybody avoided the Absinthe and one of the most popular ingredients was ginger ale.

Not entirely sure our twentysomething selves would have approved of any of it but it was lovely to float home on a cocktail fuelled high still sniggering over jokes about farts. Okay, some things never change.

D-day

2010-05-10T03:14:00.000-07:00

The UK election has turned into an interminably relentless edition of The X Factor. Can somebody please just make a decision?

Such an anti-climax to what was orginally a genuinely exciting occasion. Like hosting a brilliant party only to find, 4 days later, that your guests are still there... and starting to smell.

I'm almost beyond caring - although it is a bit sneaky that all those people who voted Lib Dem may have actually been voting Tory by stealth, if the two parties do decide to team up.

It's quite odd, having nobody in charge. I remember being mildly alarmed when that chap who was supposed to be running the country was busy playing croquet at some rural mansion instead. But perhaps on a day-to-day basis, there's not that much to do, once you've checked your email and shouted at a few people.

I am also waiting on a result a bit closer to home that's a bit of a life-changer. Not the wee-on-a-stick result (I have so many pregnant friends at the moment. It is starting to have a serious impact on my opportunities to drink wine), but news on whether I'll be leaving London.

If my new rural life gets the go-ahead I might need a new blog. There'll be no more impromptu visits to Jimmy Choo and pornstar martinis after work - i'll be racing home to feed the chickens and do long coastal walks in floating maxi dresses and designer wellies. You can take the girl out of the city... but the city doesn't leave the girl so easily.

Bridal bitchery

2010-05-02T12:22:00.000-07:00

If I'd known then what I know now I would not have had any married guests at my wedding. Because once you've done it yourself, you can't help but float through the day mentally making comparisons, and whichever way it goes you end up hating yourself. Either because you wish you'd done your own wedding their way, or because you're feeling sickeningly superior that you had a prettier cake.

The Boy and I were at a wedding do yesterday. The bride looked stunning in a satin gown with a white fur stole (I wish i hadn't worn a veil, said my inner monologue). The first reading was a sonnet which the reader had learned by heart (shit, ours had scripts. But fuck, who has a sonnet on the tip of their tongue in case the occasion arises?).

There were no discernible bridesmaids (I had two. Not that this is a popularity contest. ahem) and apart from the bridal bouquet, no flowers or decorations. The champagne flowed extremely freely (we didn't supply enough at ours)... and there was no cake (our cupcakes went down a treat).

The weirdest thing of all was the lack of after-dinner party. There was no band, no DJ, no dancing. Ergo, no first dance, no bouquet throwing, no embarrassing manoeuvres. I'm not religious but I clearly am quite traditional because I was completely thrown by that. So, in the interests of normality, at the end we jumped in a cab to the Dirty Karaoke bar. I sang Big Spender twice, and all was right with the world once more.

Jimmy Choo liked my shoes

2010-04-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

My short-lived career as an accidental fashionista is complete.

I'm still not sure how I ended up in the Choo emporium (chooporium?) in the first place. Suffice it to say that after six hours of solid shopping I was delirious.

Not to mention skint. Nothing was safe from my credit card today. I even managed to spend £40 on a pair of pants. This is a record high, even for me. To think that a pack of six M&S briefs for a fiver was once considered perfectly acceptable.

They're bloody hand wash only as well - but they are also, unarguably, beyond beautiful. Silky and soft with lace in all the right places. Putting them on made me feel like Elle McPherson... until I looked in the mirror.

Anyway enough of Plato's pants. I was standing in Jimmy Choo in desperation because I had just searched the whole of London in vain for a pair of red shoes to wear with an outfit that has to survive three weddings in the next six weeks.

The fact that an average pair of Choos costs three times more than my entire outfit combined was no longer an issue. I would have given my firstborn if they'd had something that worked.

They didn't, which was probably for the best. But, just as I was leaving, the shop manager came over and admired my shoes. Where could she get a pair, she asked?

I was wearing a pair of ballet pumps that cost me £15 in a high street sale. They were almost certainly mass produced, and do not contain a shred of soft leather or any other remotely high end material. They have never been strutted down a catwalk or seen on TV.

They are however green and sparkling, and very comfortable.

I would have swapped them then and there for the right pair of reds. Maybe I should go back...

Witty women and ghostly goings-on

2010-04-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

Am well and truly in touch with my feminine side after a hen do weekend away in the country with 14 women and not a single man. The only testosterone I encountered in 72 hours was that of the groundsman, a spritely septagenarian who turned up at 10am this morning riding a lawnmower twice the size of my car.

We had taken over a sprawling country mansion hidden away in the Lake District and surrounded by sheep and lambs roaming free on the moors. Behind the house's sturdy thick-set greystone walls lay a cosy interior of giant fireplaces and candlelit passages.

It is of course said to be haunted - although if there was a spirit there he/she kept a low profile during our stay, even when the electricity went out at 10.30pm on Saturday night, half way through an 80s-themed disco we threw for the bride-to-be in the lounge. Unless that is, the reason for the powercut was that Mr/Mrs Ghost needed a bit of peace and quiet.

At the best of times I do not always fare well in all-female groups, and I was apprehensive about spending the weekend with a feisty group composed almost entirely of journalists and ex-journalists, most of whom I hadn't met before.

But cocktails are a great equaliser and before long we were all happily exchanging life stories over increasingly potent concoctions mixed in ancient Wedgewood milk jugs.

We must have seemed a daunting prospect for the young beautician who came along to give us all manicures - city slicker that I am I opted for a French Polish that promptly chipped off as I scraped candle wax off various surfaces and polished the aga before we left.

It's the kind of place I dream of disappearing off to write novels in - my imagination fuelled by long windswept country walks and brandy-laced cream teas.

Except there is no internet or mobile phone service, and it nearly killed me. The nearest cashpoint was a 20 minute drive away and that was nowhere near the nearest town. It would have been a very short novel.

More podcasting

2010-04-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

If you want to know what I sound like, have a listen to the podcasts I'm doing with a friend. Unfortunately we've accidentally chosen a rubbish hosting site which doesn't seem to want to embed itself onto my blog. Bastard.

So you have to click here.

The new one is about dodgy internet dating and the worst pub in the world. Imagine a dodgy date in that. Eugh.

Thank you please.

clever clogs

2010-04-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

My office is an unofficial branch of MENSA. I am surrounded by people who know everything there is to know about science, technology, economics... you name it. They are, in a nutshell, incredibly fucking clever. I think the least educated of all of them has a PhD in nuclear physics.

On paper, I am one of their peers. Unbelievably some people genuinely believe this. Just last week a PR sent me a press release about developments in the heady world of quantum cryptography. Whatever the hell that is.

The sad reality is that I'm a lowly arts graduate who has somehow landed among them. I am always asking them stuff - stuff they probably learned at the age of nine. Stuff that, without the aid of Google and Bing, I wouldn't even be able to spell.

They have journals, research papers and computer chips on their desks. I have a wind-up penguin and a mug bearing the slogan "help - feed me chocolate".

However, there's one thing that even I understand. I've seen Avenue Q - the internet was created for porn. So when I stumbled upon a story involving porn, blackmail and the web, I knew I was onto a winner.

It's caused quite a stir, for which I am proud. Much more interesting than quantum whateveritwas, no?

Note to self: I am not Lady GaGa

2010-04-10T09:12:00.000-07:00

But it doesn't stop me from trying to sing like her - especially when I'm drunk in charge of a karaoke machine.

Last night started out as a low-key pub gathering and ended with eggs benedict in a 24 hour bar at 3am. This followed our impromptu singing session in a place affectionately known (by us) as the Dirty Karaoke club. Because that's exactly it is.

The entrance to Dirty Karaoke is unsurprisingly through a grubby little doorway in Soho. The rooms are small, the seats are beer stained and the equipment is ancient. But it's considerably cheaper than its posher cousins, with their shiny flatscreens and fancy dress boxes.

It's a proper little den of iniquity. And the best thing about it is that there is almost always a room available, although one has to wonder whether a quick rendition of Pokerface is necessarily the primary motivation of some of its clientele.

I have never been to Dirty Karaoke when sober. I'm not even sure that it exists during the day - I imagine it's hidden away like Harry Potter's Diagon Ally to all but the alcohol-fuelled. You probably need to fail a breath test in order to get in.

I can't even remember the name of the street it's in now, although I find my way there like a pissed-up homing pigeon whenever I need to.

So that's how I ended up there with my husband and our renegade friends, screeching along to Bad Romance in the wee hours and quaffing champagne (I'm quite sure it wasn't but by that stage I really didn't care).

Our voices are several octaves deeper today and I have a nasty feeling the worst of the hangover is yet to come. Oh, and by the way, I really can't sing.

The bar that lied

2010-04-08T15:50:00.001-07:00

The Boy and I have taken ourselves off for a quintessentially English mini break.

We are hiding out in deepest, darkest Surrey (where they filmed The Holiday and Bridget Jones 2, chick flick fans).

We have indulged in big cooked breakfasts followed by long country walks and mountain biking (I do not remember saddle soreness being this, well, sore, as an adolescent, which is probably the last time i rode a bike).

Needless to say there has also been the odd pint or five of country scrumpy on the days when we have been physically able to drag ourselves to the pubs for booze rather than chickening out and taking the car down narrow tracks and hairpin bends between the ancient, picturesque villages in the pitch black (streetlamps are a luxury here for some reason).

There is one pub that we have been saving as a treat all week. It's really near where we are staying. It's a 14th century converted farmhouse packed to its wooden rafters with olde worlde charm.

Except it has the worst reviews either of us have ever seen online. Everybody screams about the terrible service, the appalling "ping and fling" (ie microwave) food and the leary clientele.

Surely, we thought, the place is too beautiful for this to be true. So tonight we ventured in, past the antique darken wooden furniture and (unlit) sculpted hearth, towards an old oak bar.

Where we were ignored for about 10 minutes by a bored and distinctly 21st century barmaid.

We just wanted a nightcap so settled on Baileys, much to the openly snide amusement of the 2 oiks propping up the bar beside us. At least we distracted them from their drunken quarrel as to who had purchased their last round of wifebeater.

Desperately channelling Jude Law (The Holiday again, sorry, I was desperate) I chose us a cosy corner table with comfy cushions on an old settle. Unfortunately it was right by a large group who all seemed to be related, not to mention extremely pissed.

They cackled endlessly about various nights out and drunken exploits while we sat sipping our Baileys feeling like the 2 tourist twats we so obviously resembled.

Feel so cheated. Where was our crackling open fire, friendly staff and goblets of mulled wine?

Surely this is against the Trade Descriptions Act - a chain pub of the very lowest level masquerading as a country inn. I would sue, if I had the guts to go back.

Not one for the foot fetishists

2010-03-27T06:02:00.001-07:00

Despite being outwardly a cynical journalist and borderline hypochondriac, I am such a sucker for old wives tales and home remedies. The more ridiculous, the better.

I'm currently battling a really ugly infection under one of my toenails. I've had it for ages and my GP's medication, some poxy little clear nail polish that I'm supposed to use once a week, has achieved nada. If anything it's made the thing worse.

So I hit google, happily grossed myself out with pictures of other people's manky feet and then discovered an alternative cure - vinegar baths and Vicks vapour rub. Needless to say I am now sitting here with my toe in an empty pot of moisturiser filled with rather expensive balsamic (poncy I know but it's all we had to hand). I don't have any Vicks but perhaps Vaseline will do the job.

Oh, the glamour.

The Boy and I are morbidly fascinated by my horrible toenail. He thinks it should somehow be scraped out. I am beginning to wish the nail would just fall off so I can start over. I don't think I can bear a second summer without open-toed shoes (in the unlikely event that it ever stops raining, of course).

There's an episode in Sex and the City where Charlotte gets free designer shoes in exchange for indulging the shop manager's fetish for looking at feet. Definitely wouldn't work for me right now.

Booklife

2010-03-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

Someone wrote a tweet that's given me food for thought all day. OK, he's an author so he's biased, but John Graham Cumming wrote that despite loving his e-reader, he misses the exchange of books between friends.

I think choosing a book for someone is up there with making them a mixtape (yup, showing my age now - and by the way there's another dying tradition). You have to really know someone well and scrutinise their tastes in order to get the perfect book.

I can map out my life in book gifts.

The first book anyone ever gave me was an illustrated hardback of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. It was a gift from my dad in 1981, and it became my favourite bed time story. I still have it and the best thing about it is the message he wrote on the flyleaf.

Aged 11, I got a proper dictionary (which is still the designated Scrabble dictionary chez-nous... I really should update that).

At 15 Wuthering Heights made me yearn for a Heathcliff of my very own.

At 29 a dear friend gave me Wrong Rooms, the memoir of a journalist called Mark Sanderson who describes the incredibly harrowing way in which he lost his partner to AIDS. It is still the most unflichingly unflinchingly candid yet eloquent account of love and grief in my possession.

Before we married my husband gave me a limited edition, handprinted book of poetry by a British Northerner called Hovis Presley. His beautifully gruff poem I Rely On You was one of the readings at our wedding.

For Christmas in 2006 I gave my mum a book of haikus and it inspired her to write one a day for the entire year of 2007.

I could carry all of these treasures around with me on one e-reader but somehow it's the smell of the paper, the inscriptions and, as Mr Graham Cumming says, the physical act of giving that makes them special.

What's your booklife?

Love me... or else

2010-03-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

I'm generally vaguely amused by the things people say on mobile phones in public places but the girl sitting behind me on the bus today had me spitting feathers within 3 minutes of taking my seat.

"I'm on a hunger strike until you say what you know I want to hear," she wailed down the line in all seriousness.

"I'll starve - I'll probably die - but I won't eat until you've said it."

If I'd had a lighter on me I would have set fire to my (expensive) bra then and there. I looked around at her in disbelief.

Was I really listening to a twentysomething, 21st century city girl? Surely we ladies have a little more up our sleeves than emotional blackmail and the threat of self-harm to get what we want?

I'm not about to launch into the history of feminism (although I would have liked to have given this particular female a few URLs to browse) and I'm not of course suggesting that she was genuinely serious. But it angered me that she even thought this particular tactic worth saying out loud.

Maybe I've been out of the dating game for too long but "go out with me otherwise I'll kill myself" doesn't seem a particularly romantic or empowering proposition.

I know she was talking to her boyfriend by the way because in the next breath she told him that her mum believed him to be "the son she never had".

"She's so glad that I'm going out with you," she trilled. I bet she is darling. Probably takes the heat off her for a bit.

Something tells me that relationship is doomed.

Bills, bills, bills

2010-03-20T06:37:00.000-07:00

Life is bleeding me dry. In the space of one week I've had a £300 garage bill, £200 gas, £100 water and £85 electricity. It's ok, utility companies, I wasn't planning on eating very much this month anyway.

I will however need to retain a small fund for my new favourite drink. Last night a girlfriend and I discovered the joys of the pornstar martini. This fruity yet potent little devil is served with a separate shot of champagne. How gloriously decadent is that?

After a couple of those I teetered home and watched six episodes of Sex and the City back to back. The Boy bought me the box set for Christmas (more fool him) and I think it's beginning to infect him too - he returned from a night in the pub with his mate with some skincare advice for me, much to my astonishment.

Over a pint they apparently concluded that I should be using Bio Oil on my operation scar. I am hugely touched, if rather baffled. They're not exactly metrosexual types. If word of Bio Oil has reached them, it really must be good stuff.

At £9 for a teeny weeny bottle it better had be. That's almost 2 pornstar martinis during happy hour.

Back to the grindstone

2010-03-18T05:32:00.001-07:00

It's my first day back at work and I'm bewildered.

I've already put my foot in it by accidentally printing out an intensely embarrassing email exchange between my sister and I. I wasn't even aware that I'd hit print until a male colleague sheepishly handed me our correspondence in full.

The topic of our conversation was mooncups, those strange little acorn-shaped things that are marketed as an environmentally friendly alternative to tampons and towels.

We were contemplating who uses them, how one knows when one's mooncup is full, how one removes said cup without splattering the entire bathroom with its contents... you get the drift.

Gah.

All clear and the patter of little feet

2010-03-16T12:03:00.000-07:00

The lump on my thyroid was benign. I feel like the luckiest lady in London. Life is fantastic. Weirdly this also means that, strictly speaking, I have just had my first bit of cosmetic surgery as it now turns out that the lump could have remained after all.

Not the most glamorous of beginnings and I can't say I feel the need to repeat the experience in a hurry. Which I guess rules out a career as a footballer's wife. Damn.

Anyway it means the end of the whole sorry chapter. Of course now I'm cursing the fact that I got so upset about the lump in the first place but seven months of wondering on a daily basis whether one has cancer is not conducive to sanity.

I haven't really had a chance to digest any of it yet however because for the last 48 hours I have been surrounded by toddlers. Two adorable little girls under the age of 3 took over my entire world.

Yesterday I had imaginary tea parties with my little niece. Within an hour most of her toy collection was spread all over the lounge floor and she wanted to get out her 48-piece wooden train set.

Today I played My Little Pony (I had no idea they still existed) with my friend's 2 year old in a coffee shop in Hampstead Heath while she guzzled ridiculously overpriced apple juice and taught me about Peppa Pig.

It was exhausting and, at times, relentless. But I was still putty in their hands every time they flashed me one of those million dollar toddler smiles.

Broody, moi?

It's a small world after all

2010-03-10T08:31:00.001-08:00

Mine at any rate is shrinking rapidly. It now consists of my flat, the local park and the supermarket. Today I lounged around until 2.30pm in my pajamas reading a splendid spine-chiller of a ghost story (The Little Stranger, Sarah Waters). Then migrated to the kitchen to bake banana bread with all the bananas I've been given as some sort of weird get-well-soon ritual.

Yes, I baked.

I haven't baked since I was about five years old, with my mother.

I think I've burned the top of the loaf and I'm almost reassured by that. Of all the adjectives i use to describe myself, home-baker has never been one of them. No offence - it has just not been part of my world for rather a long time. It's simple and therapeutic, I enjoy it. I find myself thinking that I must invest in a food processor.

And this from someone who had a champagne dinner at The Ivy less than 2 weeks ago! This is all the more poignant for me as today I should have been flying out to Texas to report from the sxsw festival. Instead I am happily padding about in my kitchen and debating whether to pop to the store for extra milk.

Times are indeed a'changin.

I'm feeling a lot better one week after the op. It still hurts to swallow and, as I discovered when I absent-mindedly attempted to hum along to an old Queen track on the radio earlier, I can't really sing. I hope that comes back. The karaoke bars of London need me.

Day 4 in the dodgy thyroid house

2010-03-07T12:01:00.001-08:00

Milestone of the day was washing my hair. It hasn't seen shampoo since the day of the operation in the interests of keeping my neck dry... And it was pretty rank, frankly.

I was so delighted with my newly clean hair that I went the extra mile and put some mascara on too. Weirdly this made me feel a million times better too. Are there endorphins in make up and hair products? There should be. I felt like an annoying beauty advert with my newly swishy hair and voluptuous lashes.

My best friend came over and, armed (or should that be necked?) with trusty silk scarf disguise we ventured out for tea in poncy west London.

Back in the same park as yesterday, a pattern is definitely emerging. I saw the yummy mummies and their offspring - there's definitely an unofficial club that meets regularly around here. I wonder whether I'll ever be a part of it. Half of me hopes not.

Rehab

2010-03-06T12:02:00.000-08:00

I've decided to look at this period of recovery as something infinitely more glamorous than it really is. I plan to spend the next two weeks cocooned in a home made spa/relaxation zone - a bit like I imagine somewhere like The Priory to be, only without the attention-seeking celebrity contingent.

So today involved moisturising myself to within an inch of my life, followed by a little walk around the local park accessorized with big dark sunglasses and a floaty silk scarf (Puccini in my head).

After a large hot chocolate and a muffin it was time to head home for a disco nap (seem to be taking rather a lot of those at the moment. I blame the anaesthetic) before settling down to DVD One of the Sex and the City box set with herbal tea and smoked salmon bagels.

How am I doing so far? Still in a lot of pain but somehow this seems to be helping.

Lumps and bumps

2010-03-05T02:55:00.000-08:00

Woah. that was quite a cliffhanger to end on... apologies for the unnecessary drama. Needless to say MC and I have not killed each other in a drunken rage since then and married life meanders on at a very pleasant pace most of the time. We're both making concentrated efforts to drink less, which has definitely helped the mixture.

Now, I always promised myself I wouldn't write a blog about being ill (hangovers excluded). But having just had an operation for the first time I can't resist recording some of it so please humour me.

On Wednesday, seven months after my mother uttered the immortal line "what the hell is that on your neck?" just as a play was about to start at the theatre, I finally had a lump on my thyroid removed. Apparently it was the size of a plum (although they wouldn't let me see it, spoilsports). For the operation afficionados out there, the operation is called a hemithyroidectomy. Because yes, they took half my thyroid along with it.

My neck is now surprisingly dainty even if I do look a bit like Frankenstein. I thought I would enjoy the whole experience of being drugged up to the eyeballs for the operation but actually (and disappointingly) the thrill of a legal high turned out to be over-rated. I shivered, sweated and heart-pounded my way out of the anaesthetic like a bona fide crack addict on a comedown - just say no, kids.

And I had to resort to using a bedpan. Only once - but my god, never again i hope. The nurse was so lovely (and by some fantastic quirk of fate I ended up in a private room rather than a ward) but it just felt bitterly humiliating. I dragged myself and my drip to the bathroom next time round, I just couldn't face it. You really do leave your dignity at the door in hospital, however pleasant they make it.

The next step is to find out what said lump was. There's a small chance that it's something sinister, in which case I have to go through the whole palaver again to remove the rest of my thyroid. Perhaps I'll enjoy the drugs more second time around although I hope not to have to find that out.

In the meantime I have a rather sore neck. They have quite literally glued it together and it's not very happy. My vocal chords are still intact so i can still boss MC around, much to his delight. He has been amazing. He was up at 5.30am to come into hospital with me and didn't so much as flinch at the gorgeous hospital chic I was issued (those DVT stockings. sexy they ain't).

I am now back home and unable to stay awake for more than a couple of hours at a time. This apparently is quite normal. I feel like a teenager again. I thought the days when I could sleep for 13 hours at a stretch were behind me. I've got a Sex and the City box set and I intend to use it in earnest.... perhaps after a little mid morning nap.

Big decisions

2009-11-01T10:21:00.001-08:00

Today I very nearly became a statistic. The one about marriages that last less than a year.

MC and I do not get on when we've been drinking. The last few times we've been out have culminated in nasty arguments in which we've said increasingly vile things to each other.

Last night was no exception and this morning I was ready to walk away. We love each other but I'm just not sure that we bring out the best in each other and we certainly don't treat one another with very much respect once the insults start flying.

He's persuaded me to give the relationship another chance - and we're both going to cut out the booze completely, which is a vital ingredient here I think.

Wish us luck.

Facebook

2009-10-07T02:03:00.001-07:00

A friend is threatening to leave Facebook. He says that at best it's 'inane' and at it's worst it's full of people gloating about how much better their lives are than everybody else's.

If you want to stay in touch, he declares, you can email me. Only it doesn't particularly sound like he wants to stay in touch with us.

Personally I don't see FB as a means of gloating to one's friends. When I see that someone I know has had a baby, or a nice holiday, or a new pet kangaroo or too many glasses of wine the night before, I don't automatically think 'you bastards. Why don't I have that?'.

Maybe I'm the exception to some unwritten social rule (it wouldn't be the first time) because I don't compete with my friends. But honestly, I don't want to. I love them (well, most of them) - but I don't want to BE them. And I'm quite sure they have no interest in being me either, with my internal seething mass of neuroses.

Although I did enjoy posting from my little corner of paradise in Bali when I knew full well that everyone else was at work. But that's just banter, right ;)

Gadget girl

2009-10-06T12:36:00.001-07:00

Our house is a gamers paradise. Unfortunately for me, I've never been into games.

Until now.

Thanks to a new job, I now have Mondays off. Which is nice. Yesterday's Monday, however, was the greyest, grimmest, coldest and generally most miserable day of the autumn so far.

So I picked up MC's Guitar Hero. Granted, I had to call him to ask him how to get started... But once I'd managed that - oh boy. For almost 3 hours I was Alice Cooper, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton.

I kicked Guitar Hero ass. OK so I didn't quite manage every note, and yeah, during one tune my virtual audience started throwing virtual things at virtual me as I couldn't quite get the rhythm.

But I loved it. I don't think my neighbours shared my joy (why weren't they at work by the way?). I had to stop when a van pulled up outside and started drilling the pavement directly outside. Of all the houses in all the streets... They could have just banged on the wall.

Project Podcast

2009-07-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

The big name change

2009-07-29T14:12:00.001-07:00

I am quite literally in the process of splitting myself in half.

Zuzula will continue to be the journalist, the professional career woman yada yada, while Mrs MC will be the wife, the friend, perhaps one day the mother.

The difficulty is deciding which bits of my online life are my own, and which belong to work. Facebook I consider to be private, so there I have become Mrs MC. Twitter is a tricky because, while I don't strictly use it for work, people do follow me on it as a result of work.

And then there's the plethora of personal email accounts... Should gmail be for work and hotmail for friends, or vice versa?

I'm not looking forward to changing my bank account either. I've already had to cancel my ATM card once this week because of fraud, i don't think they will be very pleased when I tell them I need yet another new card in my new name.

It's all very confusing.

In other news a friend and I have started podcasting! It's such fun, we really love it. It's very early days and we're after as much feedback as we can get so drop me an email if you fancy lending me your ears.....

Introducing Mrs MC

2009-07-26T10:13:00.001-07:00

So much has happened since my last post. Most importantly of all, I am now a married woman! Those of you who have followed my exploits over the years will no doubt be as surprised as I am that I finally have a ring on my finger.

We had the perfect wedding weekend down in Dorset complete with friends, family and the world's largest hog roast ('people will never eat all that food!' said the lady who provided it. 'you haven't met my guests,' I replied. Sure enough, it was all gone in less than 2 hours. Including the 2 extra legs).

As for the dress - ah, the dress. It was truly amazing to float around in such an exquisite garment all day, even if my bridesmaids had to accompany me to the loos to help hold it all up (they may disagree).

We're off on our honeymoon proper in about 6 weeks but managed to squeeze in a 'minimoon' in Dorset from which I have just returned. It was glorious. The booze flowed and I ate my own weight in, well, whatever i fancied. I am actually quite looking forward to a week of healthy living - i must have pure champagne running through my veins and am probably about 90% pork by now.

I'm still getting used to referring to MC as my husband. Everytime I say it I expect people to laugh incredulously and say 'your what?!' - it's such a novelty.

I am keeping my maiden name for work purposes (which is another blog post in itself) but am Mrs MC in all other walks of life. Really must work on my signature though. My two year old niece could come up with something neater than I have managed thus far.

So yes - so far so good on the marriage front. Just need to figure out how we're going to pay for it all...

Fathers' day

2009-06-21T14:45:00.001-07:00

It sucks when you don't have a dad.

That is all.

Agent z reporting for duty

2009-06-18T12:11:00.001-07:00

Just back from a rather marvellous hen do. It involved 4 days, 2 countries and a veritable vat of vino.

Bridesmaids A and J did me proud. The party had a secret agent theme which saw me completing assignments along the way. It all began at st pancras with sushi and pink champagne on the eurostar to Paris.

God, I love Paris. It feels so easy to get around, and the food, the wine is so wonderful. We even had salads that arrived in bowls made out of bread. How cool is that? I cannot wait to go back.

Back in London we met more friends at the eurostar champagne bar where we quaffed yet more bubbles before heading to riotous karaoke. I have a new found respect for popstrels like katy perry and mika. It's not as easy as it sounds, belting out those tunes.

I think I'm still recovering. I'm due to have blood tests tomorrow - there's probably more wine than platelets inside me at the moment.

Peace & love

2009-05-31T16:15:00.001-07:00

My name is zuzula and I am an aggressive driver. I admit it. Put me behind a steering wheel and out comes my inner Italian cab driver. I swoop in and out of lanes, swear and beep at slow motorists and I have been know to cut the change from amber to red a bit fine at quiet traffic lights when I'm in a hurry.

I'm not saying it's right. But for me, my car is something that will get me from A to B in the most efficient way possible and I don't like things that get in the way of that. I think this is what comes of learning to drive in London. We're all the same.

Nobody will let you out unless you push your way in, in this congested race track we call the capital - and before long you realize that's just the way the cookie crumbles and get on with it.

Something has happened to me this weekend though. I've had a blissful couple of days lazing around on a south coast beach with my beloved and the journey home was quite possibly the calmest I have ever had. I didn't complain once about the nose-to-tail traffic on the London-bound motorway. I practically stopped the car in order to let someone join the M3 from a sliproad.

A lost couple at the garage asked me for directions towards the city and I let them follow me for miles, until they knew were they were. I even pulled over to wait for them when they were a bit slow crossing a roundabout.

I wasn't in the mood for my favourite game of undercutting those who insist on blocking the middle lanes without getting anywhere near the speed limit. when a child leaning out of a passing car window gave me a grin, I smiled back. I actually found myself waving at her.

What the fuck is happening to me? Must rediscover my inner hardbitch before scary as hell job interview on Thursday. I can't even believe I've got this far but they'll chew me up and spit me out if they spot a chink in the armour. Gulp.

Sales talk

2009-05-26T12:10:00.001-07:00

I know times are hard. Even elton john is down to his last £175m, poor chap. If he loses much more he might have to get his hands dirty with some sort of publicity stunt. He could always send His Partner David Furnish out to the stables I suppose (speaking of which, I discovered today that peter Andre's album is due out next month. Hmmm).

Alternatively, he could pimp himself out to some completely inappropriate ad campaign. After all, most of his generation is at it. We've got iggy pop flogging car insurance - I'm sure he's a nice enough guy but there is the tiny matter of his years of drug abuse, self harm and general batshit craziness. All very rock n roll but would you ever get in a car with him? Hell no.

Then there's johnny rotten, the legendary sex pistol... currently starring in tv commercials for butter here in the uk. Very anarchic, johnny, well done. Again, nothing against him personally but the closest to food I can imagine him being anywhere near is the roached end of a camberwell carrot (one for the withnail fans).

What next? Pete doherty as the face of pampers? Amy winehouse peddling slimfast? Who's coming up with all these ideas anyway? The recession really does have a lot to answer for.

Life is a full time job

2009-05-24T11:49:00.001-07:00

This morning I wrote a list of all the personal admin I need to get done. Most of it is utterly tedious and yet there's a staggering amount of it.

The list includes joyous treasures such as getting a new parking permit (which I really must do this week or my car will be toast) and sorting out a savings account (not that I have much in the way of savings. But there's got to be something better than the 0.2% interest offered by my current bank. Weirdly it's nowhere near the rate they're charging for my overdraft).

Then there's registering with a local doctor - 14 years after leaving the parental home I've decided that I no longer need my GP to be over an hour's drive away.

Especially since my last encounter during which they left me in the wrong waiting room for 90 minutes then shouted at me for missing my appointment and said I couldn't have another.

After a very heated exchange I finally got to see one of the doctors, a disapproving chap who told me that my blood pressure was high. I asked him whether his staff had that effect on all his patients. It didn't go down very well.

I also need to watch a film that I rented months ago (I could probably have made it myself by now with the money I've spent on it)... And then cancel my subscription to said DVD rental firm. I'm clearly not making the most of it.

The list goes on. And it doesn't include wedding related tasks, which seem to require a separate volume of their own.

How am I supposed to fit in a 40hr working week?

Spotted

2009-04-28T12:58:00.000-07:00

The newest member of our team reported for duty on Monday with the world's largest spot right between the eyes. It was so impressively enormous (we are talking the size of a 50p piece), I actually wondered at first whether it was a cut or a bruise and spent most of the morning trying desperately not to talk to it while I drew my own conclusions.

Hopefully, because of its location, I still looked like I was making eye contact.

We all studiously ignored it. All of us except one. This particular lady seems to have absolutely no editor between her internal monologue and her vocal chords.

'Oh, look at that giant zit on your face!' she chirped innocently as she walked in, three days later. You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody suddenly found some very serious work to do and all heads were bowed in front of computers. She didn't bat an eyelid.

Actually though it was the best thing she could possibly have done, because now it's all out in the open and we've been laughing about it ever since.

It was certainly a better outcome than her last attempt at this sort of thing. 'You do have a big belly!' she smiled as she walked past one of our slightly larger reporters. That didn't go down so well.

I guess a spot disappears rather more quickly than a substantive gut.

Rhythm is a Dancer

2009-04-26T04:47:00.000-07:00

Usually I approach any kind of rhythmic performance (yes, probably even that one) with the grace and poise of an average adult rhino.

After a few drinks I enjoy a boogie as much as the next girl but I would never go so far as to describe myself as a 'dancer'.

I purposefully avoid any kind of dance/routine-based exercise class on the grounds that I generally can't do half the moves, and if even I can do them, I'll forget which order I'm supposed to do them in.

So why was it that today, in my new class Body Combat, I suddenly morphed into a go-go dancer from the 1970s? I ponced my way around, hips wriggling, boobs bouncing and jazz hands a-plenty while while my fellow classmates snarled, kick-boxed and punched their way along to a series of aggressive house music tracks.

The instructor actually gnashed her teeth and made growling noises as I inadvertently sashayed through a succession of swing punches during a particularly nasty tune that was supposed to symbolise the metaphorical moment of the class's 'fight'.

'Left foot in the ring!' she shouted, resulting in me doing a pirouette for the first time in adult life.

The only possible explanation for all this is that I was temporarily possessed by Darcy Bushell. It was like the Moulin Rouge had suddenly rocked up in a Rambo film and neither one of us knew what to make of the other.

I think I'll stick to the treadmill from now on. Needless to say I'm not very graceful on that.

Bad bride

2009-04-19T09:40:00.000-07:00

What is the bridal equivalent of a slummy mummy? Because if there's no existing definition, I fear it should be 'a zuzula'.

One of my friends is getting married a week after me. Within two days of becoming engaged she'd arranged absolutely everything. Venues? check. Dress? check. Bridesmaids dresses? check. Napkin holders? Sorted. Seriously. I have never seen anything like it. She is the archetypal bridezilla and she's making me feel like a very bad bride.

With 3 months to go I have no intention of purchasing a single bridal magazine, let alone attending a wedding exhibition (surely life is too short?). Needless to say my friend has subscribed to at least four publications and been, to my knowledge, to at least 2 wedding fairs in search of inspiration.

Back in February she told me off because, with five months to go, I had yet to book a photographer. Did I not realise how quickly they get snapped up? (no pun intended) She is also now organizing her own hen do after the plan cooked up by her official chief bridesmaid was deemed inferior.

She asked me what present I was planning to buy my groom as a wedding present. I said I thought a £10,000 wedding was present enough. Apparently that's not in the spirit of things.

Next question: Which part of the wedding am I most looking forward to? Becoming MC's wife, I replied. Call me old fashioned...

Of all the offices, in all the world...

2009-04-07T09:01:00.001-07:00

We have a new arrival in our office. He's the latest in a long line of work experiences - who I have to say are on the whole putting me to shame with their go-getting attitudes and seemingly endless specialist knowledge. What happened to the ones that made the tea and were grateful for it? Bah.

Anyway we all received an email ahead of his debut on the team. I half-read it and filed it dutifully under a new email folder I have created called 'admin'. It's where I put all those boring but worthy emails that might come in useful one day (they include, for example, a note about music copyright and a reminder to do the latest health and safety assessment watsit). I figured one day I might need to know who the new chap was.

He arrived and looked strangely familiar. Given that the average age of our work experiences seems to be early 20s, I figured he must be a friend of my sister's but no, it niggled at me all morning. I definitely knew him, directly, from somewhere. But where?

I turned to my delightful admin folder and dug out the introductory email. And then it hit me. He had the same name, and the same appearance, as a boy I had a flirtation with at university. It was one of those flirtations that slowly mounted to a crescendo, only to fizzle out abruptly shortly afterwards. In short he's not someone I expected to see again.

Can I work from beneath my desk for the next two weeks, do you think?

Stuff and things

2009-03-20T08:53:00.001-07:00

Thank you to the lovely Peas on Toast for kicking my ass back into blogging again!

I've been away for far too long. How are you all?

For me, March 2009 will forever be remembered as a month of extreme stress. When someone asks you how you are, and you spontaneously burst into tears, things can't be good - and that's exactly what happened to me yesterday.

So I am taking steps to chill the fuck out. I'm going away for a girlie weekend by the sea with my best friend tonight, and I’m desperately trying to re-introduce the antiquated concept of lunchbreaks into my working week. I figure if I can at least step off the treadmill once in a while it won’t matter how long I’m actually on it in total.

MC and I have been through a bit of a rough patch, for which we are now making amends. We'd got into a really negative cycle of just bringing each other down - talking about all the shite that was happening in our respective lives because we needed to unburden - and then forgetting to share any of the joy.

One night we were out together with friends and we suddenly realised we were seeing a fun, sociable side of each other that we hadn’t bothered to display at home, because while it seemed right to entertain our friends, the notion of entertaining each other seemed to have slipped off our radars.

So last night we went bowling and banned all mention of work. Our bowling skills were atrocious but the whole thing was hilarious and fun, which was of course the entire point.

Work is taking yet another turn for the strange. The powers that be seem determined to mould me into a full-on TV person. In TV terms it’s the nicest thing you can possibly do for a colleague (after all, everyone wants to work in TV, right?) so I’m trying to bury the niggling doubt that I’m not sure whether it’s what I actually want to do. I’m getting very good at burying my head in the sand. Sometimes, it works.

Stormy weather

2009-03-03T06:42:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those days where you just want to walk out and leave the world behind you? Not in an emo angsty kind of way - don't worry. Unless my staff canteen lunchtime special (a small bowl of rather unappetisingly over-salted lukewarm butterbean soup) has other ideas I'm not planning to shuffle off the old mortal coil anytime soon.

No - I just mean… living another life. I'm turning into someone far too grown up for my own liking and sometimes I miss the freedom of just being myself (hmm this is starting to sound like an advert for tampons, or laxatives, or something equally cliched).

So many people rely on me to hold things together and I can't always live up to everyone's expectations. Sometimes there's a real sense of 'oh, it's okay, zuzula will sort it' - whether that's having an extra £20 at the end of the month, or remembering birthdays and anniversaries, or being nice to people that others can't be bothered with.

It's a burden and sometimes I want to shout out: 'it's not easy for me either!'

I'm not Mary bloody Poppins.

But that would be unfair because I'm putting a lot of this pressure on myself, I suppose. It's not like anyone is specifically asking me to do any of this stuff. I just feel it's assumed that I will.

I wonder what will happen when I finally snap. I suppose I'll turn into my mother - a truly terrifying prospect, bless her.

The cold grey skies aren't doing anything to lift my mood.

Pawnstar

2009-02-28T00:08:00.000-08:00

This weekend is to be almost entirely given over to wedmin - the boring bits of organizing a wedding that have to be achieved regardless. Today begins with a meeting with the flower arranger (which I think has potential to be fun, at least for me).

This is followed by some indepth chats about marquees, tables and various varieties of hog roast (again could be good if samples are involved. Although I expect it's just going to be pictures). We are meeting our caterer, a farmer, and the marquee man, a scout leader, in a pub. It all has shades of Withnail and I about it.

Have managed to wangle some interesting filming at work. One piece is about pawnbroking (the cause of much hilarity and hence the title of this blogpost). The other, and I still can't believe my luck, is about handbags. Result!

Brit bashing

2009-02-22T09:43:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I bought a dress that cost more than my entire wardrobe. I finally chose my wedding dress. They really are incredible contraptions. I was corsetted to within an inch of my life and even my boobs had their own little bits of scaffolding to give them 'lift' (dress fitter speak for 'honey, you're starting to sag'). But the result was simply astonishing.

I could have done with all of the above on Wednesday when I had a bit of a showbiz treat - a night at the Brit awards with a rather fabulous friend. I was bemoaning the fact that my entire team was going on a work trip that I couldn't attend because I can't do my job without Internet access. I was feeling very left out and depressed and bitched to Fab Friend about it over several large glasses of pinot noir. 'why don't you come to the Brits with me instead then?' he offered gallantly... And suddenly the work trip was a lot less bothersome.

What a party. FF and I gossiped through the awards themselves, obviously, but the performances were spectacular. I guess there's nothing like performing in front of your peers and paymasters to encourage you to pull out all the stops.

We laughed heartily at all the z list hangers on lurking near our table (former atomic kittens, the obligatory forgotten soap actresses et al) but by far my favourite was Lee Ryan, once of Blue fame (eh?) mincing around in a wet-look suit jacket and Cuban heels that I swear were bigger than my own killer stilletos. Quality. I spent far too long trying to get a discreet picture of them but I'm ashamed to report that I failed miserably. So much for all that multimedia training that work inflicts on me on an almost daily basis (or so it seems).

The aftershow was fairground themed, complete with dodgems, wrestling ring, fortune tellers and a rather pointless maze which we rather pointlessly wandered around at 3am before deciding that it really was time to make a move. I persuaded Fab Friend to crash at mine, only for the cab driver to get completely lost and admit it was only his second week in the job. Somehow, through my champagne haze, I managed to get him back on course but the fare by this time was huge so he asked me to pay whatever it usually costs.

Thus for the first and only time in my life I got a black London taxi in the wee hours of Thursday morning for the princely sum of £10. How I got away with that I'll never know.

Arabian Nights (and days)

2009-02-09T23:16:00.000-08:00

Dubai is a city rich with smells - from the good, like the spice souks with row upon row of vanilla, frankencense (how DO you spell that?), saffron to the downright vile - like the taxis by the end of the day. Find myself sitting in the backseat discreetly wafting perfume around like some High Priestess of Prada simply in order to breathe.

It's luxury hotel living all the way simply because there isn't anywhere else you can get a glass of wine - even at an eyewatering 20GBP each for standard blanc de blanc. (Oh, needless to say the Airport Lady was wrong about Dubai's cheap Duty Free! Bah) Definitely a proverbial playground for the rich - I am dreading my credit card bill this month and I don't even have a thing to show for it.

The sound of construction work fills the air and roads change daily as more and more building sites spring up seemingly overnight. My friend no longer has a front door because the road in front of her apartment disappeared in a pile of orange traffic cones and 'men at work' signage. The apartments though are stunning. All beautifully laid out with swimming pools and gyms as standard - while the UK seemingly freezes and then floods I am curled up on a sunlounger by a heated pool (not that it needs it) smothered in Factor 25.

I've prepared a few blog posts about my experiences here but as I'm not even sure whether I'll be able to publish this, the others will have to wait until I'm back in the UK. Anything deemed 'inappropriate' online is banned. And that just about sums me up most of the time so I think this will have to do for now... sorry folks.

limbo

2009-02-04T11:02:00.000-08:00

Aren't airports weird? I'm sitting here in shiny new Heathrow terminal 5 at 7pm feeling like it's about 4am. The half lights, the drone of the aircon... I haven't felt this disorientated and timeless since I stalked the hotel casinos of las vegas, all of which sounds far more glamorous than it actually was.

I'm sure I should be doing something important like buying toothpaste or throwing myself at the nearest prada handbag store but instead I'm tucked away in a little corner typing furiously on my iPhone. It is perhaps no coincidence that I watched The Terminal the other night.

Anyway I'm resisting the duty free because, according to the check-in lady, t5 is one of the most expensive in the world in that department. I'll spare you her story about the global airport costs of 200 b&h (no need to thank me) but suffice it to say where I'm headed things cost one third of what they do here. Be still, my quaking credit card.

The other thing worth mentioning is that I'm flying solo. Dear MC has some very time consuming work commitments in London (and a stinking cold to boot, poor love) so all in all it's the perfect moment for a spot of sunny, girlie r&r with my oldest friend. In aforementioned lavish apartment. Something tells me I won't be seeing am awful lot of the city of Dubai itself...

hello, siberia

2009-02-03T13:32:00.000-08:00

yes, I'm yet another Brit blogger going on about the weather. But it is extraordinary to emerge from a very lazy Sunday afternoon in a cosy pub only to find one's urban gritty abode transformed into Narnia. Admittedly after my third snowball attack in as many minutes I was considerably less enamoured with the whole scene but all in all it's been quite beautiful, if treacherous, in London town of late.

Anyway weather permitting I'm off to Dubai tomorrow to visit an old friend. Apparently her boyfriend is away, leaving us to housesit his sumptuous penthouse apartment. It's a hard life. Not sure what blog access is like in UAE but i'll do my best to log in. Are you on twitter yet?I am utterly addicted!

Pool rage

2009-01-18T10:51:00.001-08:00

This morning I had breakfast with a blogger! The Divine Ms M is, I'm pleased to report, every bit as divine as her name suggests and we have agreed that our next meeting will involve wine rather than sausages and eggs.

Unfortunately I was a lot less divine - I woke up feeling fairly crap and sadly as our breakfast continued so did the nasty feeling that something had gone distinctly awry inside my body.

A stressful yet boozy week is inevitably to blame and the result was a sordid little moment on the way home when I had to pull over in the middle of a very posh part of west London and dispel said breakfast. I have never done that before and I don't intend to repeat the experience. All most unpleasant and embarrassing, and a complete waste of a meal in one of my favourite weekend breakfast haunts.

By 6pm I was feeling just about human again so decided to take myself down to the gym for a jacuzzi/sauna pampering session (which I don't think I'll be mentioning to my trainer. She has told me in no uncertain terms that *nothing* I am currently doing is conducive to weight loss, sigh).

I was floating around in the jacuzzi on my own, thinking rude thoughts (does anyone else find all those bubbles mildly arousing?) when I heard raised voices coming from the direction of the pool. My hearing isn't great and without my lenses I am comically if hopelessly shortsighted but even I could understand the problem: a rather large and very aggressive lady who was taking up most of the fast lane and absolutely refusing to swim clockwise in it like everybody else.

Cue much shouting and arm waving (well, it wasn't exactly easy to swim around her either) as Large Lady insisted that she was in the right and they were all wrong. Eventually they got so cross that they all stomped over into the middle lane and then moved the lane rope so instead of the fast lane it became a Large Lady Lane and they had a bigger lane for all their speedy strokes.

I was inwardly applauding their ingenuity and wishing one could do this in other walks of life, like when one is driving behind somebody very slow who will not go any higher than 2nd gear. How lovely to just be able to create their own little slow lane and zoom off at one's own pace.

Large Lady didn't seem to be too pleased with the solution though and got out. At that point a hapless member of staff came along, just to take a sample of the water. Terrible timing. She chewed his ear off for about 10 minutes and then everybody else piled in to tell their side: apparently she is well-known in these parts for being a swimming offender(interesting accolade).

Then she got back into the pool - in the middle lane - I suppose to make a point (honestly has the woman no shame?). The exasperated fast laners moved back over and took their lane rope with them.

Unfortunately then I realised that I'd been in the jacuzzi for so long that my skin had turned to mush so I got out and hit the sauna to dry out. I saw her waddling in the direction of the showers shortly afterwards so I suppose she admitted defeat in the end. I shall look out for her in future. She's the most entertaining thing in this gym by miles.

Life laundry

2009-01-12T04:28:00.000-08:00

Last week I finally succombed to gadget envy and got myself an iPhone. I'm sending all sorts of strange texts as my clunky fingers are evidently too huge to touchtype the delicate keyboard, and I haven't even got round to sync it with iTunes yet, for reasons too tedious to go into. But I love it.

iPhoning up involved ending a long term relationship with Vodafone. They didn't take it very well. I received six letters begging me to stay, and even more phonecalls offering ever more incentives to stay. I am half expecting them to turn up drunk on the doorstep at 3am declaring undying love sometime soon.

Anyway new phone company = new SIM and therefore the task of inputting all my contacts from scratch for the first time this millennium. My contacts list got a very harsh edit. Out went ex-boyfriends (including the chap now doing 10 years for drug dealing, somehow I doubt he's still got his mobile on him), people I haven't spoken to since university (I graduated in 1998) and people who I just don't recognize (like 12 of the 14 'Robs' listed). Finally, I decided not to transfer dad's phone numbers. That was a tear jerker. But it's time to move on.

Speaking of which... I spent a surprisingly enjoyable Saturday afternoon trying on wedding dresses. Typically I now have three favourites and I seem to have managed to fall in love with gorgeous bridalwear from north London's most expensive designers. Marvellous!

Happy new year

2009-01-04T09:45:00.000-08:00

How quickly have the last two weeks flown by? One minute I was eating endless turkey and trimmings and now I'm sat at a computer at the gym, desperately putting off the beginning of the inevitable health kick that NEEDS to start happening right now... I haven't dared to get on the scales yet but my new jeans are already a bit on the tight side. Hence the fancy new colours etc - that alone has happily squandered 20 mins that should have been spent on the treadmill.

NYE was spent in fancy dress with MC and my best mate - we went to an old smugglers pub hidden away on the clifftops of Dorset and drank endless pints of scrumpy. I can't remember the last time I was cider-drunk but I felt so relaxed and in love with the world. The last time I felt like that was back in my clubbing days, only this time it wasn't followed by 3 days of insomnia and a stiff jaw. Cider could well be the way forward (but not during health kick obv. Sob).

Wedding plans coming together surprisingly smoothly - and next weekend the hunt for a dress begins. I am terrified. I have no idea what I'm after and I hate trying things on in front of people at the best of times. Please send me positive vibes as I'll have who-knows-how-many shop assistants, two bridesmaids and two mothers (yes, Mrs MC is coming too) casting critical eyes over me. Any more and I may have to start charging admission. I think I may have to drink my way through it.

the calm before christmas

2008-12-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

Back from a festive trip up north to visit MC's family. Fortunately they are a fab clan - although manoeuvring the car in/out of the carefully landscaped driveway under the watchful eye of Mr MC is still scarier than any of my driving tests ever were.

MC and I spent what little time we had alone engaged in some hardcore heart-to-hearts, discussing that rather tedious yet hardy perennial of a bugbear: money. As with the rest of the world right now, it's a concern to say the least... And throwing a medium-sized wedding into the mix for 2009 hasn't helped our fragile peace deal when it comes to the M-word.

We have rather different financial priorities, and I have been spectacularly scathing about his, without realising how hurtful it was. It's a nasty family trait, this poisoned bluntness that seems to come all too naturally to me in recent years, generally after a drink. I have resolved to try to conquer it with immediate effect. The art of thinking before speaking urgently needs to be re-acquired chez zuzula.

As for our finances... Well, we'll see. I am going to bite my tongue and respect the decisions of MC just as he is tolerating my ever expanding wedding guest list (ahem).

One thing I will not be doing is wasting any money on thrift books. I have been charged with reading India Knight's latest offering - and by page 29 I'd lost the will to continue. Not only does 'the thrift book - live well and spend less' bear the unthrifty (thriftless?) pricetag of 15 quid, for which one gets such pearls of wisdom as 'go to a farmers market' and 'use freecycle' (well, duh) but the endless plugs for other equally expensive books and shopping websites, some openly run by friends of the author, are eye-wateringly anti-thrift (?) imho.

Further more I question the medical science behind shoving a load of ground aspirin pills on your face to kill spots: and what on earth putting cider vinegar in your hair has to do with saving money is beyond me.

It is beyond annoying that stuff like this is being peddled as people face fuel poverty in the UK. Surely the satisfaction achieved by saving a few pennies from sewing the odd button back on a designer blouse is not the sort of thing one should be crowing about in public at times like this.

I have yet to check the best-sellers lists but I sincerely hope this pile of expensively recycled advice hasn't found its way there. If you really want/need to save some cash, don't buy it!

Rant over :)

Late again

2008-12-17T07:33:00.000-08:00

Apologies for yet another blog hiatus: I am working my little socks off at the moment. I can honestly say I have never worked so hard in my life and, while it seems to be paying off, it's also one big slog. I can't remember the last time I had a lunchbreak and my much coveted 9-5 shift is inevitably slipping more and more into 8-7 territory.

I am now off for two weeks over Christmas so should be able to resume normal service here at last. I can't wait to spend some quality time with my blog again - I miss it, and you, so much.

Before I ramble on any further I must also mention a rather pesky bit of housekeeping. Where I work is clamping down on all things said in the name of The Firm. So it's more important than ever that all of you lovely readers in-the-know keep quiet here about my esteemed paymasters, because if it gets out on this blog, I'll be branded, edited and airbrushed faster than you can say 'goodbye zuzula'. Seriously. So please don't out me, okay?

For those who don't know - just sit back and enjoy the ride. It's honestly a lot easier that way.

Don't have a go at me for being lazy but I am going to break my 3 week silence with a meme. It's a very good one though - Geofftech tagged me a while back and I've been busy mulling it over ever since. You know the rules... if you want to have a go please do, and let me know here so I can check you out!

The meme is: 16 random things about me

1. I'm actually having to re-write this because I forgot to save the sodding word document I was doing it on. rather hilarious given that I'm supposed to be the office techie.

2. I can swim 140 lengths an hour without stopping but I can't run for toffee.

3. Losing my dad last year changed me forever. Not a day goes by when I don't ache for him. When I was younger we talked randomly about life after death once and he said if he could, he'd give me a sign. We were both utterly sceptical about it but he's given me so many. I'm really not sure what to make of it all.

4. I am a closet hypochondriac. I am secretly terrified that there's something seriously wrong with me and always fear the worst.

5. I love hearts of palm - I very rarely buy them because they're expensive and an eco-disaster. But they're so delicious.

6. My career is taking me into all sorts of uncharted waters at the moment. I am loving the tv thing but really what I want to do is retire to the seaside to grow veg and write novels.

7. I'd do anything to be 2 dress sizes smaller (except eat/drink less, obviously). Sometimes when something doesn't work out I blame my weight, even if it is utterly unrelated.

8. Wuthering Heights is my favourite novel of all time. When I was younger I yearned for the torrid destructive passion of Heathcliff and Cathy and when I got it, it nearly killed me...

9. ... But finally I've got it right. I have never been as deeply but calmly besotted as I am with MC. He's my lover and my best friend. I never believed I would find love like this.

10. I quit smoking 6 years ago but I still think a coffee and a marlboro light is the perfect start to the day... And a glass of chilled sauvignon and a fag is the best way to wind down after work. Sob.

11. I'm naturally left-handed but when I was small my parents and school made me use my right hand instead. I am now right-handed but think this is why I can't draw and why I also have a legendarily useless sense of direction... My brain is knotted!

12. I love speech radio and sudoku... And I'm only 31.

13. I have a birthmark on my bum - it's a perfect circle of dark skin about the size of an old half penny. I love it.

14. I have no double joints or interesting party tricks. But I do have a very husky voice that I'm told is quite pornstar (prob due to the aforementioned smoking).

15. I get as excited about christmas and birthdays now as I did when I was a child. I love celebrations!

16. I have 3 tiffany necklaces. The most recent was a romantic gift from MC. The second was a birthday present from a very old friend. But the first was a present to myself: after splitting up with my first big love I fled to New York and bought it as a symbol of self-esteem. I still wear it whenever I need a confidence boost.

Merry christmas folks...

Free drinks are a bad idea

2008-12-03T08:24:00.000-08:00

We had a bomb drill at work this morning. It involved a tiny flashing blue light which nobody saw, a tannoy announcement which nobody heard and then five minutes of standing in a drafty corridor outside the office. It didn't fill me with confidence.

Have the mother of all hangovers after the work Christmas party last night. We were only supposed to have a certain number of free drinks but then somebody figured out that by fluttering one's eyelids at the barman, one could get more (feminism eh?). I teetered home in the wee hours and have been desperately trying to remember what we all talked about ever since.

So the perfect moment to have to give a one hour presentation about the day job, then. I have no idea how I got through it. At least it wasn't on camera, I suppose. I really am my own worst enemy sometimes.

It's only 4.30pm. Sob.

camden sundays

2008-11-23T13:09:00.000-08:00

The wedding was wonderful. Flaky friend actually did put in an appearance, and was utterly charming and humble in a way that made me feel terrible for ever having questioned his friendship. He's a PR guru, that one. I reckon he could talk the world out of recession if somebody would let him.

Minor crisis of the evening was MC having his cash card swallowed by the local ATM. He was partied out before me, so without thinking I dispatched him home in a taxi with the rest of my cash and my card - only to realise at 5am when the rest of us finally called it a night that I had no way of a)contributing to our rather enormous bar bill and b) obtaining a cab fare. I am eternally grateful to my best friend for coming to the rescue on both counts - otherwise I would still be sitting in a strange south london bar wondering forlornly how to pay for the lashings of pear cider (why?) We had merrily guzzled.

Today I had arranged to meet the fabulous Peabody for a general mooch around Camden. In the depths of a rather horrific hangover the sensible option seemed to be to drive over there.

Error.

I soon descended into a whole new layer of hell as my satnav sent me in the same circle around primrose hill 4 times before proudly announcing that I had reached my destination when I blatantly hadn't.

I was by this point half an hour late, and Peabody, having randomly arrived half an hour early from considerably further away, was esconced in a chalk farm pub all alone. I was texting her to explain my predicament when the police pulled me over to tell me off for using the phone. It was the final straw. The hangover, the lostness and my brush with the law overwhelmed me and I grovelled tearfully.

They let me off and even gave me directions to the pub so all was okay in the end. After a couple of hours of aimless pottering around the market buying random tat, we popped to Amy Winehouse's local, the Hawley Arms, for refreshment. It wasn't too bad in there - lots of police outside (I instinctively put my phone out of sight, even though there are clearly no rules about walking and texting) - inside was fairly small and cheerful, full of expensively scruffy-looking media types drinking red wine and guinness.

Didn't spot the Wino, although just as we were leaving some pissed up woman screeched 'you stupid c**t' across the bar so maybe she was on her way.

fickle friends

2008-11-22T05:29:00.000-08:00

How do you tell an old friend that they are behaving like an arse? One of my friends is driving me mad. I've known him since I was 18. We've been through a fair bit together and he's always been a bit flakey but now it's starting to feel like an insult.

I haven't actually seen him at all this year. He gets in touch fairly often and says he'd like to meet up. But as soon as I suggest a date, he'll ignore it completely, only to text again 3 weeks later to say we really must get together... And so it goes on. I don't get it - if he doesn't want to meet me, why does he keep asking? It's never me who makes the first move, as it were.

Anyway he is part of a group of 4 friends (including me) who are all very close. This year he missed all of our birthday drinks by saying he would be there then mysteriously having to work late. On saturday night. In a shop. He's also blown out my engagement drinks and our friend's stag do, despite only being up the road at the time.

Today is said friend's wedding day and just this morning flakey friend texted (he never, ever makes or takes phone calls) the happy couple to say he'll be late - which probably means he won't turn up at all.

I'm not a stickler for etiquette but surely this is bang out of order. It's definitely not the behaviour of a good friend, is it?

Fancy schmancy

2008-11-12T09:22:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I went to an 18th birthday party. I cannot tell you how old it made me feel. It was officially fancy dress (although of course, we left that to the yoot) - and there really is nothing more entertaining than the site of nubile 18 year old girls dressed as bumblebees and Britney Spears (pre-breakdown) attempting to inconspicuously sneak out for cigarettes. When you're wearing big wings and/or carrying a giant plastic python it's kinda hard to sneak anywhere.

Still, overall the results were impressive. The boys were in heaven (MC was very constrained until he saw Catwoman in skintight PVC. To be fair even I could barely control myself).

Interestingly quite a few of the, um, larger contingent went as cats too - they must have been gutted. 'It's so they can wear black,' observed a very wise Astarael. And as for the size 14 Amy Winehouse - that was pure genius. Especially a few hours later once all the eyeliner had made a bid for freedom.

Oh - and dilemma of the day: what's worse, finding out that your boyfriend is in prison or thinking that you've been dumped because you haven't heard from them? This does not relate to MC who is a wonderfully law abiding citizen, of course. But it is, in all seriousness, a dilemma for someone I know. Sometimes I think I must lead a very sheltered life.

self-destruct

2008-11-07T09:23:00.000-08:00

I think I went a bit nutty last week. Various on-going irritations and other hormonal imbalances moulded themselves into one huge scary giant wine-fuelled Angry Zuzula at the weekend. Like a human hurricane I lashed out at the world and was surprised by how much it took before the world hit back. It’s not fair to test those limits. I don’t know why I do it. Well – maybe I do. Sometimes it feels like the only option. But it’s no excuse.

Anyway, I haven’t had a drink since. I think it might be wise to let the dust settle for a bit. But oh my – not drinking! What a revelation. I feel so much more alert, more active, more energetic. I’m eating less, my skin is better… it’s amazing. As I said to my lovely blogger friend Confuddled today, I am concerned that this new healthy lifestyle might just stick. How utterly ridiculous.

In other news – tomorrow morning I am having breakfast with Peas on Toast! I have no idea why she’s here, but she is… so it is my duty as a Brit to treat her to a good old fashioned English fry up in the best greasy spoon cafe in London. Mmmm. Bacon…

ladies who...

2008-10-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

Last night I rather spontaneously went to a gathering of chicks I've never met, who work in technology. A big step for me - I hate going to social things by myself. Once I get started, I'm fine, but the thought of walking into a room full of people I don't know and then starting a random conversation with them scares the life out of me. My usual style is to take a wingman/woman and spend the entire time with them, which I realise defeats the object of networking but is infinitely less scary.

Anyway I decided to give it a go and promised myself a swift exit if my courage deserted me. It's the initial bit - the 'hi, I'm Zuzula, who are you then?' bit that brings me out in a cold sweat. Especially when everyone else is already happily chatting and you're interrupting a conversation. I have hung around hopelessly on the sidelines before now, unable to enter the fray.

Pathetic, I know - which is exactly why I ended up in a Soho bar last night, clutching a glass of white wine while women around me chattered on about their latest technology start-up ventures. I was on the verge of giving up on the whole thing after just ten minutes (I really am that crap) when I was rather fortuitously rescued by one of the token three men in the room. I have long believed that I get on better with boys than girls - perhaps an unconscious rebellion against my single sex education - and this to me proved my point.

The Chap and I chatted away happily but, as is always the case, word was spreading about where I work, and before long I was mobbed by a couple of publicity hungry scavengers and torn away from my comfort zone once more. The Chap left shortly afterwards but not before pressing his personal business card into my hand, having already given me the company one. It was all very flattering - even if I am inevitably going to have to send him in your direction, Ms Confuddled ;)

After he left though, I met some other truly lovely people - some who are definitely going to be contacts and others who I hope may also become friends. I am determined to force myself to do these things more often - ultimately, it's good for the soul. Although hopefully next time I won't find myself chatting to a cheerful techie (her opening gambit was that she doesn't know how to make conversation, must remember that one) only to realise that a former fling is standing right behind her, taking photos. What the hell?

That was a shock to the system and a stretched my already exhausted bravado too far. I did what any sensible lady would have done at that point - I hid.

soggy

2008-10-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

Some tyrant - I forget who, it could even have been a former boss for all I know - once said that people are best motivated by being cold and hungry. Well since our heating packed up and MC ate the last biscuit I can say with authority that I am both - but still not in the least bit inspired to leave the sofa.

Winter has officially landed in London. It's dark, cold and even wetter than usual. By the time I got home from work this evening I looked like I'd been swimming. My chic little mini umbrella was about as much use as a thumbnail of loo roll against the elements.

My jeans and jacket are drip-drying in the bath. This means, naturally, that I am approximately 24 hours away from my first cold of the season. Splendid. I must learn to fly south for the winter like every other sensible animal.

Oh - one piece of good news to emerge from the swamp today... The TV people loved my little feature so much, they've asked me to do another. I have to admit, I'm chuffed to bits. This time apparently, I am to 'green screen'. What on earth am I going to wear?

Lingerie logic

2008-10-23T04:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve just received an email from John Lewis department store cannily offering a pre-Christmas ‘gentleman’s lingerie academy’ in order to help hapless males find the perfect seasonal present for their beloveds. The store is basically offering beer and giftwrap to lure in the menfolk – which is pretty much what we ladies do all year round to reel in the boys ourselves.

Their press release, somewhat impressively considering the subject matter and the intended audience, is about 10,000 words long. I’ll spare you all that though - the two bits of most useful advice, IMHO, are these, and I present them as a service to all readers of this blog hoping to please the ladies (it might even get you an extra shag this Christmas, who knows?)

1. Buying lingerie for your partner can be a minefield of unintended suggestions, and sizing is the most important thing to get right – a thong three sizes too big could suggest that your lady’s bottom does look big in this. So, if you haven’t remembered to check the size she wears, bear in mind that it is probably better to buy a size too small than risk offending your partner. Silk nightwear such as negligees and kimono style wraps are an excellent get-out clause that will never disappoint.
(hear, hear)

2. While checking her size, it is also worth noting what sort of lingerie your partner likes to wear – is she a sporty type, glamour puss, everyday Miss Practical or perhaps she has an entire lingerie wardrobe! Our Lingerie Advisers can guide and help you to decipher the different styles of lingerie from full cup, padded, balconette to plunge, underwired to multiway.
(as the recipient of a few teeny weeny bits of flimsy see-thru fluffy things in my time, I support this too. That said, there is a time and a place for everything, and a bumper pack of black cotton briefs simply ain’t gonna cut it at Christmas)

It’s that simple. MC, are you reading this…? ;)

15 seconds of fame...

2008-10-21T09:19:00.000-07:00

Well, 1 minute and 50 seconds to be precise. Today I made my debut on national TV - presenting my first ever little section of the show. It was of course about webbery. It was also pre-recorded (scandal!), and naturally I have put it up online (there must be some perks to being the only person in the office who knows how to update the website, right?) I can't link to it here for obvious reasons but if you're that desperate to see it, drop me an email and I'll send you the link.

Making it was surprisingly scary. I thought I was so used to being out of my comfort zone in this new job that nothing would phase me anymore, but there was a lot to think about and the person who should have been supervising my virgin TV effort was... well, largely absent, to say the least. Fortunately the rest of the team took pity on me as I grew increasingly vocal about all the things I didn't know how to do and it eventually came together just in time.

I have to admit that watching it go out was as exciting as it was cringeworthy.

I hope they ask me to do it again.

guys, what's up?

2008-10-12T16:25:00.000-07:00

I've just been out for a drink with my landlady who has inadvertently confirmed for me a baffling pattern. She is, as far as I can see, the archetypal eligible bachelorette. She's cute, slim, blond, wealthy (and no, she doesn't read this blog) and everybody she dates will not commit to her. I have heard the same story from 5 equally dateable women this weekend.One split with a long term partner because after 7 years he refused to move in with her. What's going on? I don't get why there seems to be such laissez faire around at the moment. If the financial crisis is as bad as it looks, we're all going to need bed buddies for warmth if nothing else this winter. Time to cosy up, I would have thought...

Walls have ears...

2008-10-07T07:02:00.001-07:00

In TV land it I have learned that everyone who's on screen - actors, presenters, performers, etc - are referred to as 'The Talent'. Hateful term but I suppose you can't really call them the eye candy. (Blonde Blogshell - you are of course the exception to all this darling!)

Anyway it's an unwritten rule that if you are not a member of The Talent yourself then You Must Not Upset The Talent. This means being nice and polite and friendly at all times - even if said showboater is unspeakably vile in return.

Yesterday, after a particularly unpleasant exchange with one of our 'talent' - who seems to have been rude to everybody else at some point so I suppose it was my turn - a sympathetic colleague sent me a commiseratory email in which she was less than flattering about said Ego-On-Legs. Only somehow, somehow, this email ended up in the team inbox. I have absolutely no idea how that happened. As she said to me afterwards... MSN from now on. Or is that under someone's watchful eye too?

waste of time

2008-10-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

So far today has been an absolute waste of time. The whole event is fit only to be filed under 'pointless-hours-of-my-life-i-will-never-get-back'. It's quite a big folder, as I suspect is the case with everyone who has a full time job. What's galling about today though is that it's not even office hours. I am wasting my own time. Ggrrr.

Firstly, the microwave caught fire.

Mother's reaction: 'what did you do to it?'
Z: 'I torched it.'

Honestly what the fuck does she think I did with it? All I was trying to do was heat some food, which I believe is the entire point of the thing. Anyway. The microwave was a gift from my 83 year old grandmother, who I am sure told me she bought it from Argos. Rather than upset her by telling her she'd given me an inferno as a housewarming gift, I decided to tactfully take it back and hope that, on account of the fact that it was still smoking, they wouldn't be overly fussy about whether or not I had the receipt. So I packed it up and carried the heavy box for miles, in the rain, back to the shop. Only to find she'd clearly got confused: the microwave isn't from Argos after all, and I have no idea where she bought it. Cue me lugging said heavy box back to the car again, still in the rain.

Then three cars - three! - in a row cut me up on the road, leaving me beeping and swearing and generally making every rude gesture possible, feeling like a raging bull. I saw red, I really did. I don't think I've ever had hardcore roadrage before but my God, was I incensed. My heart was pounding and it was all I could do not to just drive straight into the dimwitted wankers.

Decided to calm down by engaging in a spot of retail therapy, but of course, I couldn't find anything remotely attractive. Oh - and I've just got to the gym to use the spa (what could be more calming than that?) only to find the bloody thing is out of order. At least I can use the internet here which is more than i can say for home - yup, the Blackberry is on strike too.

I want to go back to bed.

Speaking of which last night I was flicking through the free channels, half pissed, when I found this random 'adult' show called Party Girls on Smile TV (not exactly a saucy name but there you go). It was quite possibly the least arousing bit of soft porn I have ever seen. Some heavily tattooed, orange Glaswegian lass wearing a very cheap wig and fake eyelashes writhing around on a sofa in Primark underwear pretending to talk into a phone which very clearly wasn't ringing despite her attempts to generate callers by licking the handset with pierced tongue. Still it did remind me to put out the recycling. I guess you get what you pay for.

time flies

2008-10-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I last blogged - I am ashamed of myself. It sounds so tedious to bleat that it's because I've been excruciatingly busy but sadly that is the boring truth. I have no more elaborate excuse to offer and I'm too tired to think of one.

I've spent the last couple of days locked away in a stuffy training room learning how to make stuff for the telly. The first day was very technical, both dull and difficult - a lethal combination. Today has been better but I feel like I have fried half my brain, and still I'm not quite sure what an oov is.

Having worked my little socks off on the website, the response from the team has been well, underwhelming to say the least. Maybe they hate it, who knows, but I wish they would say something - anything - about it. Sigh. They say that no news is good news I suppose.

Having a bit of a wobble this week actually. Everything is so new and my life is changing so fast. I feel like I need some time out to catch my breath. But you can talk yourself out of anything if you spend long enough thinking about it, and that, I think, is what I used to spend a lot of time doing. Maybe I need a holiday. Anyone fancy having a visitor? :)

Stuff n nonsense

2008-09-23T06:38:00.000-07:00

Lots of people have been asking me what exactly I’m doing in the new job. Well – in the absence of either a job description or, thus far, a contract (hmm) – it’s a bit difficult to say. Officially I am running a tv show website – which I am slowly getting to grips with. However in the last 2 weeks, in the name of work, I have also…

- Spent an entire morning in the studio pretending to be Jane Asher (don’t ask)

- Given up my shoes for three hours so that a presenter could look more fancy (does this mean I can claim them back on expenses?)

- Commissioned and produced a film and been asked to help produce a regular slot (I have never worked in tv before. I can’t stress this enough but it is falling on increasingly deaf ears)

- Traded jaffa cakes in exchange for technical wizardry from… well, just about everybody

- Upset traditional viewers with my (intentional) US spelling

- Drank red wine with the most stressed person I have ever worked with… who told me the team didn’t really get on with the previous web person. Aha. This explains a lot.

- Upset said former web person by getting rid of some VERY old links. She thinks they should remain. I think they are so very a) old and b) obscure that they are a waste of cyberspace. So far I have received one single complaint. Out of 1m viewers. Not bad eh?

- Discovered that everything I want/need to do seems to require a new training course. At this rate I will spend most of my time here in the classroom.

- Left work on time every day. Seriously. This is a complete revelation to me. People here work very hard but they do *not* work late. I actually have a life outside of the office (and it’s crucifying my bank account).

So, that’s me. How’s you?

red tape

2008-09-18T14:24:00.000-07:00

So, tomorrow I am going to make my first film. It's for the web and if I have my way it will only be 2 minutes long. I want to film this thing in the same place where we film the tv show - ie in the tv studio. Easy, non?

Non indeed. First, I need a film permit. A film permit to film inside a tv studio. Pardon me, but what else would I possibly want to do in there except film stuff? Isn't that kind of the entire point of a studio in the first place? But fine, I grit my teeth and fill in the form.

Next, the risk assessment. What could possibly go wrong during this 2 minute studio shoot and what am I going to do about it? There's a tick list. Is there a possibility that there will be a lack of oxygen? Venomous bites? Or, perhaps my favourite, bad communication from management? (Par for the course surely). Wtf. I find myself writing something about promising to ensure there aren't any cables lying around and wishing I'd never decided to do the stupid film in the first place.

Then, there's the cameraman. Are his lamps safety tested? I really am losing the will to live. I think I might just write something instead of filming it. At least I wouldn't have to risk assess my biro and notebook... Yet.

tick tock

2008-09-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

It's 6am and I'm annoyingly wide awake. There's a theme emerging here isn't there? I really must learn to wind down.

I'm on a big high though because I've found a fairy godfather at work who has taught me all sorts of new tricks and ways around a system I was beginning to think was unbeatable.I gave him jaffa cakes to say thank you. I learned long ago that biscuits open doors (not literally, cool as that would be). My predecessor, who sent me a note today complaining about a couple of missed fullstops (I shit you not) is going to go *mental* about what I'm going to do next. I can't wait! I make my first film on friday. I am absolutely terrified.

In other news (boys you might not want to read this) I'm in quite a lot of pain. I used a tampon yesterday with a plastic disposable applicator (environmental disaster I know) without noticing that the stupid plastic thing was broken. Ladies, I tell you this as a warning - if you're using those things take a good look at them first. I can hardly sit down at the moment. Ouch :(

long lazy sunday

2008-09-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

I've just come back from the local park fete. It was full of identikit yummy mummies cooing over organic lavender water and the like while their offspring clamoured to have their faces painted. Maybe I'm more of a city chick than I like to believe but these kind of events leave me cold. I don't want to join the residents association. I don't want to sign up to the local church and I really don't want to add my name to a petition for speed cameras every 3 metres along the road. I just want to, well, live here. I realise how mean-spirited that sounds, but I can't help it. I'm just not ready to join the local stitch n bitch club yet.

Anyway now I'm at a loose end and feeling even more petulant. I'm very bad at just chilling out - watching tv or reading a book for an hour. I'm so used to having a million things to do, and I always think I crave time out, but then, when I get it, I just don't know what to do with myself.

Sigh. What do you do to relax?

my first week in telly land

2008-09-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've ever worked so hard in my life. It's like learning to walk all over again - doing something familiar (writing stuff) in a completely unfamiliar way (for the web). I have learned that being around live tv is uber stressful. I have learned that politeness goes out of the window when you've got 2 minutes before you go to air and things aren't working. I've also learned that my predecessor pissed a lot of people off, which is either going to make my job harder (if they expect more of the same) or easier (if I can impress them).

Yesterday I went to a leaving drink and one of the producers told me he thought I was only 25. I nearly kissed him :) another said she is fairly sure that the bosses want me to produce a section of the show. Omg. My comfort zone is a long-haul flight away right now. But I'm thriving on it.

Life on Mars

2008-09-08T14:42:00.000-07:00

It may as well be. The new job is exciting, stimulating and completely alien to me. Spent a predictable half a day persuading IT to give me access to everything I need to have access to (this battle is ongoing).

First interaction with programme producer: hello. Are you literate?

Z: am I... Literate?

Producer: yes. Literate. Can you spell? Do you know where apostrophes go?

Z: um. Yes.

Producer: well have a look at this then. Have I got it right? It's about to go on air.

I think this is going to be a tough team to crack.

I didn't even have time to speak to my new boss. I have another 24 hours of induction before I am let loose and I'm still terrified. And the emails! I have an email lake. I am swimming in a sea of virtual notes about running orders, interview opportunities, breaking news. Fuck knows what I am supposed to do with them all. With a bit of luck I'll find out shortly.

birthday girl

2008-09-06T02:10:00.000-07:00

MC is preparing birthday breakfast in bed while I'm lying here decoratively blogging in fluffy pajamas (shit, has it got cold in London lately. Cold and wet. Bed is the only place worth being).

We're off to soho this evening for a spot of celebratory caterwauling in Karaoke Box. Seven friends and I will sabbotage various party classics and hope our booth is as soundproofed as promised.I might attempt a spot of live blogging/twittering if I'm not too pissed to remember.

Yesterday was my last day on the paper. Weird. I spent most of it packing and destroying evidence... It's amazing how much you can accumulate in six years. My colleagues gave me a marvellous send off including a spoof front cover with a fabulous charicature of me, in sky high heels, clutching a giant bottle of wine, a blackberry and a photo of MC. They have so got the measure of me...

one year on

2008-09-03T01:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the first anniversary of dad's death. I didn't handle it particularly well. I was an emotional ferrari all day - dry eyes to floods of tears in a couple of seconds.it was like super PMT. Anything set me off - driving over to mum's, a journey I have done so many times I could do it blindfolded (I even know where all the speed cameras are) I suddenly completely forgot which turning I needed to take. So I cried.

MC spent the day with us and even mumbled the Kaddish over dad's grave, bless him. He had to work in the evening and stayed behind for a couple of drinks afterwards. And yes, I lost it again. I felt so hurt that he didn't come straight home and I can't even explain why really. It's something he won't understand, hopefully for a very long time, I guess. I don't fully understand it myself and I've had a year to get used to it.

I guess grief brings out your inner child - fragile, vulnerable and in need of constant support. Unfortunately in the adult world this also amounts to the girlfriend from hell.

train musings

2008-08-29T04:33:00.000-07:00

I seem to have spent most of this week on a train to something work-related, clutching a succession of tepid cups of coffee that are more closely related to soup in consistency (starbucks, have a word. Please. A nation of commuters is begging you).

And here I am again, on my way to an event that is so completely over my head it's almost funny. I've been invited down to leafiest surrey for a demonstration of various technical wizardry. The guest list is like a who's who of british broadcasters... And moi. Hilarious. Ah well. It's a day out of the office. Only one week until I start the scary tv job (yup, the fear has kicked in now. Am terrified).

Down with the kids

2008-08-28T09:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked to write some online stuff for teenagers. Scanning the list I see the boxes this place wants to tick on its advice site include ‘ugly feet’,’stretch marks’ and ‘exes – how to move on’. I am trying not to dwell on the fact that the person who has asked me to write for him is also someone I happened to date briefly many moons ago…

Anyway I don’t know anything about teenagers. I am ashamed to say I have become one of those 30somethings whose acquaintances are either of a similar age to me or are still in nappies. So I thought I might just point the troubled youth of Britain in the direction of this. Because from what I remember the concept of how to avoid not getting laid (double negative but do you follow?) occupied most of the time, energy and conversation of my friends and I. Still does, for that matter.

Thanks to Almost Witty for sending it through. It has sucked hours out of my life today and been a very welcome distraction from the Powerpoint presentation I am supposed to be preparing for my boss. El Editor, it transpires, is not very familiar with preparing slides. I am also having to translate what he wants to say into communications jargon for the Big Cheeses he is presenting to. Thus the contents page is now ‘navigational signposting’ and our justification for doing something new because we think it’s cool is officially the result of ‘an audience-based editorial decision following in-depth consumer analysis’. I am rather enjoying myself.

Diamonds are a girls best friend...

2008-08-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

And I now have three of them on the ring finger of my left hand. Today MC and I celebrated the end of the gruelling TV conference with a very successful hunt for the perfect engagement ring. Ladies, let me tell you that wearing a succession of diamond rings (at one stage I had them on three different fingers - in the interests of comparing/contrasting, naturally) is undoubtedly the most fun I have ever had shopping. Ever. It's shallow and materialistic and Kanye West would go mad but nonetheless it made me feel incredibly special.

It's not as easy as it sounds though - buying a ring you intend to wear for the rest of your life is seriously difficult. You don't want something that's going to look shit next season. In the end (after I had milked the trying-on session for as long as was feasibly possible) we went for a simple platinum band with three small diamonds set in - I tried on a few traditional big rocks but in the end, they just weren't really for me. Bizarrely I actually have quite small hands and they were completely dwarfed by the bling. Perhaps that's exactly what's supposed to happen but it didn't feel right. MC bought a plain titanium band to wear too - a very metrosexual gesture but I love that about him. So yes. We are officially getting married! It is still sinking in, to be honest. But it is very exciting indeed.

(Oh - I also want to give a little plug as a thank you to the lovely, crazy jeweller who took us under his wing and found the perfect rings for us. He doesn't seem to have a website but if you're ever in Edinburgh check out Argentium at 106 Rose Street. That is all)

tv industry day 2

2008-08-23T10:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, today has been a lot more encouraging. Perhaps the hangover brought on by last night's mediumweight drinking has made me more placid but I am actually starting to warm towards the tv crowd a little.

I also finally understand the fuss about Clay Shirky (sorry gang, can't do links on blackberry but his name is oft bandied around these parts in the context of him being some kind of web guru. I thought he was all smoke and mirrors but actually the guy really does know his stuff. Clay, I apologise for not believing your hype).

Unfortunately this epiphany coincided with the realisation that my move into tv could be a very short lived one as according to him there's not going to be a tv industry as we know it for much longer. Marvellous.

Speaking of the big move, the industry grapevine must be working overtime because practically everyone I've spoken to, at the point of hearing my name, has said they have heard about my job. And believe me, I am small fry. They must really be scraping the gossip barrel this summer.

the tv industry love in (day 1)

2008-08-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

(Written on a blackberry as I refuse to pay 15 quid for the hotel wifi. Wtf?)

So I am up in Edinburgh, ordinarily one of my favourite places, for an annual meeting of tv industry execs (this probably means nothing to anyone except The Divine Miss M).Naturally, I am a mere scribe for the event, hence I suspect my desire to kill half the delegates already (and there is still a day and a half of this tripe to go).

On friday afternoon I attended a session about how to attract new people ('talent' is the lingo... Feel the pretentiousness) to the industry. It quite frankly made me feel like making a national tour of all of the UK universities informing bright young things not to bother.

First up: a production king who 'slummed it' away from his country mansion (I shit you not) to work 'undercover' (with a film crew naturally) in a hackney caff for 48 hours and find 'talent' that wasn't already sending him begging letters. His resulting appointment was, he said, 'raw' and had 'energy'. Yes but she is being hired as a researcher. can she use finalcut pro? Of course not. This is box ticking at it's very worst.

And then there was Smug Exec No 2, who is proud of the fact that she fished a media studies student out of Teeside and gave him a job as a runner on a bitchy london-placed production (probably on a salary designed to keep him 'hungry', quite literally). Has she really done this kid a favour? She's probably ruined his life.

The point is that it all comes down to who you know and they weren't even denying that. In the words of Smug Exec No 3: when you get a cv it's great to see what someone new has done, but it's also great to check them out with someone you trust in the industry, to whom you can ask the 'real' questions.

And don't get me started on Smug Exec No 4 (the least smug to be fair) who told the anecdote about someone who came to see her - this person had been on unpaid work experience for SIX months.

In my own little way I always, always look after our work placements and I also ensure that at the very least we pay their travel expenses (not meaning to sound smug but in my place this is no mean feat). It's no big deal... I don't go around giving speeches about it. It's just something that I quietly get on with.

jesus. It's going to be a long weekend.

hic

2008-08-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

Saturday was completely, unashamedly given over to drinking. My best friend and I had planned a summer party and with the added excuse of the engagement, we were seriously thirsty. It was originally intended to be an outdoor party in the park, with champagne and scrabble and the like. But British weather being what it is (shitty) we decided to compromise and re-diverted our party to a riverside bar in Tower Bridge.

As a rule I'm not a fan of chain bars, especially the more pretentious ones. But if you're ever in need of a good bar in the centre of town, you could do a lot worse than head to All Bar One in Shad Thames. It's right on the river, and right behind Tower Bridge itself; the trick is to walk past the bridge and then shimmy up a tiny little alleyway evocatively called Maggie Blake's causeway. You will find yourself suddenly off the tourist trail and on the river, with a selection of bars and (overpriced) restaurants at your disposal.

It was at the point when the sambuca shots arrived that the end was nigh. Three rounds later, each more imaginative than the last (who on earth downs double measures of Martini Rossi? Us, apparently) and it was definitely time to call it a night, despite the pleas of three boy mates determined to find a karaoke bar and party on. Perhaps at another time I would have joined them and who knows what would have happened. But I'm glad I didn't. Even though MC had to drag me away from the Veuve Cliquot we had diligently carried home (a lovely gift from Confuddled) when we got in....

cloud nine

2008-08-14T08:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, no announcement this time! The last few days have been lost in a vat of champagne and cake and congratulations and more champagne and more cake... you get the picture. Am slowly realising that while getting engaged may be lucrative on the free drinks front, it is going to be a nightmare on the actual wedding fund front. Fortunately for me I have met someone recently who seems to think I could make my millions as a voiceover artist. It is fair to say that a lifetime of whisky and cigarettes (well probably about 10 years in adult life) have given me sufficient vocal chord damage to leave me on the Madge Bishop end of the audio spectrum. 'The great thing about your voice is that, without looking at you, you could be either in your 20s or mid 40s' chirped my new fan. Talk about a back handed compliment.

Anyhow next week I have a session in a studio with a lovely radio producer chum and I have lined up a talent scout from *big talent agency* to have a listen. It does help when said vocal admirer is a senior TV exec I suppose. But still. Paid for reading aloud? I'm not sure...

An Even Bigger Announcement

2008-08-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

Okay guys, something really very weird is happening to me. My life has leapt from relative stasis to complete whirlwind. First the new job, after five years stagnating in my comfort zone.

And now this.

My friends.

I am getting married.

I never thought I would write those words. It is absolutely true - even though I am half cut after a lovely, celebratory, impromptu wine/cake moment in the office (and we're on deadline which actually makes it all the more endearing) so please humour the nostalgia. My oldest blogging mates - Peas on Toast, Fake Adult, Confuddled, Almost Witty, Peabody, The Leak, Mrs Pop and all you others (including you lurkers - Google Stats, my dears!) - will understand how much of a fucking miracle this is. The Old Blog was a quagmire of hilarious emotional fuckwittage in which I genuinely believed I would marinate for life.

MC and I went away this weekend to celebrate our anniversary (it was exactly a year ago on Sunday that we first met, consumed a vat of wine and ended up snogging like mad in a west london wine bar). On Saturday we realised that we hadn't done anything remotely practical like exchange gifts/cards. But we were away so rather than spend a whole day shopping on our own we decided to limit ourselves to one hour of intense gift buying. I went conventional... clothes, aftershave etc. He emerged with a giant bag of something, and despite my irratingly persistent curiosity, we both agreed to wait until the anniversary day itself.

That night we went out for a gut-busting curry. I awoke on Sunday morning after a bad night's sleep feeling grumpy, full and generally annoyed with myself for having scoffed so many bloody onion bhajis (and let's not even mention the naan). We were about to exchange presents when he ordered me into the bathroom while he 'prepared'. I thought he was going to go down to the breakfast bar to get breakfast in bed and was wondering how on earth I would manage to eat any more.

Finally he re-emerged and led me back into the room. Our bed - a beautiful four poster dressed in white cotton linen and chiffron curtains - was strewn with roses. So romantic, I thought. 'Can you read what they say?' he asked... at which point I panicked. 'I *think* so,' I said slowly, thinking, shit, if I get this wrong, and actually it says 'cup of tea?', I am so screwed. But no - it really did say 'marry me'.

Cue ten minutes of 'are you sure? Are you really sure?' and ten minutes of crying. Which was nothing compared with my family, who shrieked and sobbed and wailed their congratulations through the resulting phone calls (am still half deaf); at about midnight I resorted to text because the average conversation was lasting 45 minutes and I still had at least 15 other calls to make before the B List found out on Facebook.

We have no time, no date, no budget and no idea where to begin. But there is a hell of a lot of champagne to be drunk while we figure it all out.

And for my next trick…

2008-08-07T03:45:00.001-07:00

Finally I can share my news. I still can’t quite believe it myself but, in potentially the biggest blag of my career so far, I have managed to get myself a job in TV. Not only in it – but potentially on it! I may have to issue a blanket ban on widescreen when that day comes.

The fact that I have absolutely no experience in either TV production or presenting is apparently not a problem (I was brutally honest about that; there’s artful blagging and then there’s downright career suicide). I start in early September. I was petrified of telling my boss but he seems to have accepted the fact, although he did send a note round the team today saying that someone else would be taking on my current role ‘with immediate effect’ so I guess it kind of sounds like he’s fired me. Still. No more print deadlines! Hurray!

shhhh

2008-08-05T10:45:00.001-07:00

I have a very exciting secret. I'm absolutely bursting to share it with you but I don't want to jinx it. And no, I am NOT pregnant!

Hopefully I will be able to reveal all tomorrow :)

He says, she says

2008-07-31T01:53:00.000-07:00

I actually wrote this in a notebook last night because the internet had died at zuzula/mc towers. I originally intended to scan the paper and post that here instead of typing… but sadly the illegibility of my writing outweighs the authenticity of the post itself. So, this is what I wrote….

MC has ‘the boys’ round tonight (well, two of them. One very charming, who arrived bearing rose wine, the other a little more aloof. He hasn’t once made eye contact with me. Hmm). They have retired to the lounge, which has now become a den of kronenberg, leftover pizza, male guffawing and Rambo on DVD.

I, on the other hand, am reclining on the closest thing we have to a chaise longue, in the kitchen. I’m listening to Edith Piaf, leafing through Grazia magazine (which I generally find to be a mildly pointless read but it makes me feel stylish), enjoying a large glass of rose (see? charming) and having a very pleasant conversation on the phone with my grandmother about the delights of English honey.

So, the gender divide is alive and well… and actually I wouldn’t have it any other way. I really am getting old.

va-va-voom

2008-07-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

Man, it's hard having two jobs. Apologies to you all for neglecting you for over a week - you have been in my thoughts but I just haven't had a second to put virtual pen to paper and check in. However, as I sit here on a balmy Monday evening, approaching a 13 hour shift, working flat out on a publication which I swear would go to print more quickly if we were engraving it onto rocks (I'll leave you to guess which job I'm talking about), I have decided to take a mental cigarette break out here on my little internet fire escape.

I have learned a great deal this week. Firstly, you would not believe the motivational powers of a washboard-stomached, Parisian ex-streetdancing personal trainer called Thierry. How on earth else did I manage to sprint on the treadmill for half an hour and emerge with a smile at the end? Alas, this was a one-off free trial, and as he is usually £50 an hour I shall never again gaze into those big brown eyes and hear him say, in his husky French twang: 'Zuzula, you can do more than you think you can. Never forget that'. I won't, Thierry, I won't.

With this in mind I have decided to say 'yes' to everything this week. So when an academic I have been chatting to about techy work stuff emailed me today with an 'open invitation' to give a guest lecture at his very prestigious London university, I forced myself to respond with 'I'd love to' before turning my brain to the petty detail of what the fuck I am going to talk about. Who knows? Jack Kerouac wrote On The Road as a stream of consciousness from deep inside a haze of benzadrine. Perhaps I can attempt something similar. I won't, of course. But it's a nice thought.

looking up

2008-07-17T07:12:00.001-07:00

I’m loving the new blog job. After a busy day my blog boss thanked me for my hard work and told me I was ‘brilliant’. I floated out of work into the rain feeling fantastic. I can’t remember the last time my other boss said anything remotely complimentary to me. I think he once told me I was a strange mixture of brilliance and pathos (whatever that means), which didn’t have quite the same impact.

I decided to share this blog with the blog boss in the interests of openness (and also, let’s be honest, in the interests of not getting caught out, he is a blogger after all); I think he wishes I hadn’t. He said he ‘started to read it…’ and then trailed off at which point I realised that all the Angry Cervix talk probably wasn’t his ideal choice of lunchtime relaxation. If you are reading this, Blog Boss, apologies. I should have warned you that you might end up knowing more about me than is strictly necessary.

Anyway this week is turning out to be a corker. I am officially healthy and MC is finally getting the recognition he deserves at work. We are off to the seaside again this weekend (we may sound like minibreak maniacs but I have to make the most of it: MC only has free weekends for a few weeks at a time so it’s essential for me to drive him mad by booking them all up while I have the chance) and all is well with the world. If only I could create a hatrick of good news by winning the national lottery on Saturday night. Fingers crossed…

Grumpy

2008-07-14T09:08:00.000-07:00

I have been having an internalised strop of epic proportions all day. It started badly, when despite my best attempts to get into work early, I found myself spending half an hour wildly trying on outfits and then discarding them again, wondering who had replaced my carefully coordinated capsule wardrobe with a random heap of rags.

Once I finally got into the office, I tried and failed to explain a particular intricacy of Web 2.0 to a colleague of mine, who's further up the food chain than me, only for her to tell me proudly that she didn't know what I was talking about and why should she; because after all she's never even watched a DVD before. Yes, my jaw hit the floor too.... and so did my carefully crafted feature.

I also want to book a holiday but I can't take any time off because everybody has snaffled up the summer months; we are only ever supposed to have two people off the rota at any one time which would be fair enough if it were to actually work that way in practice. Interestingly the person who organizes the thing doesn't seem that bothered about how many staff are off at the same time as her. I notice there is one day when I am in charge of exactly half the office with a full deadline to manage. I am tempted to take us all down to the pub and see what emerges at the end of it.

And finally... I'm out of cash. Fortunately payday is looming large but I spent my slush fund on getting the Angry Cervix calmed down. A necessary evil I'm afraid. It is now three weeks since the NHS promised to send me details of an appointment supposed to take place within the next 28 days. For all they know I could be dead by now.

Tomorrow will be a better day I'm sure.

sex and music

2008-07-11T02:58:00.000-07:00

Are Arctic Monkeys successfully trying to become the new Pulp? Shooting up the ‘most played’ chart on my iPod at the moment is Fluorescent Adolescent . For some reason I never really appreciated it when it was being played to death on Radio 1 – actually that’s probably exactly why I didn’t pay it much attention. But the other day a work friend and I got very excited about a supplement in The Guardian about the lyrics of Alex Turner (yes, we are that sad) and it inspired me to pop along to iTunes and part with 79p for it (I wonder why they decided on that exact amount, by the way?)

I have a tendency to be rather snobbishly dismissive of young singer/songwriters. Especially, for some reason, the male ones. The sort who sing of love and loss when it’s blatantly obvious that the worst thing that’s ever happened to them was that time they forgot to hand in their maths homework (says this worldly-wide thirtysomething, cough). I imagine that, at the tender age of 22, young Alex is very much in the ‘fishnets’ stages of his sex life, or whatever the male equivalent is. Aussie Bum perhaps?

And yet somehow he does sound like he knows what he’s talking about. Every time I listen to the song though - and I racked up six repeats on the way to work this morning - I can’t help but think of Pulp’s track Live Bed Show.

You used to get it in your fishnets/
now you only get it in your nightdress (FA)

This bed has seen it all from the first time to the last/
The silences of now and the good times of the past (LBS)

See what I mean? Wonderful – but ultimately completely depressing, I know. Pulp of course is bleaker (well, we’re dealing with Jarvis Cocker here) but that whole idea of just not bothering anymore… I’m not looking forward to that. It’s hard to cohabit and still maintain that little air of sexy mystique (not that I ever had much of that) but it’s songs like these that make me determined to carry on trying (although MC did catch me waxing the other day – sexy? I think not).

What a load of drivel that was. Must be the eye-watering hangover that I am writing this through. Yesterday was my best friend’s birthday, and thus also the first night in a very long time that I didn’t catch the last Tube home at midnight on a school night. It’s going to be a long day.

Culture Shock

2008-07-07T03:59:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as a broadminded, liberal media type. But even I sometimes find myself so stunned by human nature that I barely know how to react to it.

Case Study 1: An old friend of my dad’s, The German, was over from Europe for a few days, and invited my mother to meet him for dinner. She promptly instructed me to attend too. I don’t really remember The German much; when I was about four years old he bought me a giant cuddly frog, all wrapped in shiny pink wrapping paper, and I thought it was the best present ever. Dad always spoke of him as a wealthy, chain smoking business man with a penchant for fine wine and fast cars (and, as it turned out, my food. I think he helped himself to pretty much everything on my plate, tsk). I vaguely remember him being at dad’s funeral and thinking that he reminded me of Mr Burns from The Simpsons.

Anyway, we arranged to meet for a curry. Mum told me that day that he would be bringing his partner, who I assumed would be some glamorous fraulein dripping in diamonds. The German and dad were vaguely contemporaries in years – he must be around 60.

True to form, he was exactly as dad described (with just a hint of Mr Burnsage about him). I was however completely bowled over by the current Mrs German who, it turns out, is a twentysomething glamour model from Eastern Europe. She arrived wearing a teeny tiny denim miniskirt and a vest top cleverly angled to display maximum cleavage. She’s a non drinking, non smoking vegan with long blonde hair who speaks very little English. This is how I found out about her um, profession:

Z: So, Mrs German, do you work?
MG: oh… yes…
The German: yes, she does. You know newspapers like the Sunday Times?
Z: yes….. ah, you’re a journalist!
TG: not quite, you know they have supplements? And some of them have pictures?
Z: yes…. You’re a photographer?
TG: no… Mrs German is kind of more in front of the camera
Z: (loud crash of dropping penny): ahhhhhhhh. You’re a model
MG (huge beatific smile): oh, yes! (this is clearly the extent of her English vocabulary)

I was temporarily gobsmacked. It was all I could do to avoid asking what she saw in the aging millionaire who quite demonstrably had his hand between her modelesque thighs at that point. Mum and I laughed long and hard once we got home. And downed an extra bottle of medicinal rose to get over it all.

Case Study 2: I went to the toilet at lunchtime today for a fairly routine evacuation. Only to be followed in by an infuriating Canadian temp we seem to have acquired, who proceeded to stand by the mirror plucking out grey hairs and rather loudly making a dinner reservation while I aurally accompanied her from the stalls. Why the fuck did she have to go to the toilets to do that? At the same time as me? If I’d been her I would at least have had the decency to leave before I’d emerged to wash my hands. Ah well. I hope I put her off whatever she was planning to order.

Case Study 3: this weekend MC and I found ourselves at a fete in the Midlands village of Goadsby Marwood – a name which is surely more reminiscent of a gin-soaked member of the Victorian aristocracy than somewhere to buy homemade jam. We were alarmed to pass, on the way there, a little church in which lifesized superhero figures were tied to headstones. For no apparent reason,

The ‘fete’ itself consisted of walking into people’s random garage sales in the pouring rain. Perhaps the highlight was watching my friend’s dog resolutely refuse to wag his tail, thus losing out on the prestigious accolade ‘Dog With The Waggiest Tail’ in the village dog competition, the contestants of which appeared to be almost entirely plucked from judge’s own harem of pets. I found myself getting sharp pangs of longing for my London home in the comfortingly anonymous smog infested concrete jungle. That was a rural retreat too far.

the cat sat on the mat

2008-07-04T07:04:00.001-07:00

I have spent the last 24 hours basically conducting an online writing-for-beginners class with one of our reporters. I am sure people pay dearly for these things in the real world. Perhaps I should investigate…

Anyway, this particular person has many talents. It seems though, that writing ain’t one of them which is rather unfortunate in my neck of the woods. Even more unfortunate because I am the person who usually ends up crafting her work into something less likely to give the editor a heart attack.

Sadly, she is all too aware of this. So she now has a new trick: putting absolutely everything into quotes. Perhaps she was a secretary from the 1950s in a former life; looking over her work is more like reading a dictation than an authored piece. I have mentioned this a few times but the point is not really sinking in. So yesterday I went for the Screamingly Obvious approach.

‘If I told you that the sky is blue,’ I said, ‘and you were doing a story about it, then you wouldn’t need to quote me as saying that. The sky is blue – it doesn’t matter who thinks so. If you wanted to use a quote from me I would need to say something that added some kind of background or colour or opinion, such as: ‘it’s because it isn’t raining,’ explains zuzula. Or somesuch.’

I feel like a primary school teacher. For this I spent three years studying literature. Sigh.

Ooh, in other news, I have been invited to edit a professional blog for six weeks! Predictably my boss won’t let me take a secondment so for the time being I shall effectively have two jobs, hurrah. But money for blogging… fancy that. I never thought people would want to pay me for my online witterings.

Hotels from hell

2008-07-03T02:07:00.000-07:00

When MC and I set about planning our little Welsh mini break, we found a B&B that looked perfect online. Near the town, near the sea and very reasonably priced. It was also extraordinarily difficult to book, which in my mind just made it all the more exclusive and therefore desirable. Nobody replied to our emails. The phone would ring through to a mobile which didn't have voicemail. After about 11 days of persistence (you can see where this is leading) I finally managed to speak to the manager and reserve a room. He told me that he's often 'working' in the pub and that's why he'd missed my calls. I remember thinking it was strange that he didn't seem interested in taking any contact details or, for that matter, a deposit. MC and I put it all down to rural charm and old fashioned trust.

We arrived to find ourselves in the smallest double room known to man. Turning on the sink tap in the microscopic bathroom resulted in some rather putrid smelling water coming up out of the plug hole in the shower. The door handle - which looked as if it had been attached by chewing gum - was falling off. There was also something suspiciously pube-like on one of the pillows - and on our way out that evening we noticed water flooding through the ceiling into the breakfast room from the bedroom above.
We lasted one night, on the promise of an 'upgrade' the next day. We got back to find that our suitcases lying in our uncleaned room, with the door wide open. Our new room had stained sheets. It was 11.30pm. MC and I were drunk and tired. I thought I would just close my eyes and think of The Dorchester.

But MC sprung into action and somehow secured us an amazingly swanky new room in the most gorgeous B&B ever, right across the street. The Hellhole manager saw us leaving and didn't even ask for any money. It's not usually a policy of mine to name and shame, but if you ever find yourself in the gorgeous fishing town of Tenby, play mini golf, visit the Caldey Island monks , sunbathe on the beach, drink wine in small bottles (lots of), have dinner in the Plantagenet and try not to get shat on by seagulls (unlike us) - but don't stay at The Lynmaure Hotel. Apparently one of the owners died at Christmas and the other hasn't been seen since. You have been warned...

holidayette

2008-06-27T11:30:00.001-07:00

MC and I are off to the seaside for a few days. We're going to drink cider, eat candy floss and generally act like tourists without shame. I can't wait. This week has been utterly exhausting and I will be glad to see the back of it. Have a fab weekend y'all.

what would Zuzula do?

2008-06-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

Unbelievably, this was what my boss told a colleague who is being rocket-propelled out of her professional comfort zone, by him, right now, to think about. In all honesty it's not a bad thing - if she were in a rut that was any deeper she'd probably find oil down there. I'm not sure I'm the best role model right now though (this coming from the same boss who, approximately two weeks ago, told me I was 'off the rails').

And what indeed would Zuzula do? Well. Zuzula would quaff a large glass of sauvignon blanc before attempting to bluff her way through the challenge ahead with a heady combination of bullish charm and mild peril. It hasn't failed me yet.

In other news, this morning I saw the doctor. Turns out that, in a virtual homage to the vagina dentata (anyone seen Teeth yet?) I have an 'angry' cervix. Gggrrr. I am being referred to a specialist to find out exactly what it is that's pissing it off so much. The doctor said it's more likely to be 'a nuisance' than 'anything sinister'. Let's hope so. It's quite special to know that even my cervix is annoyed with me.

Too much information

2008-06-24T07:36:00.001-07:00

(disclaimer: not for the squeamish)

Thankfully I am overall in fairly good health (touch wood). As a result I rarely come into contact with the UK's famously, um, underfunded, National Health Service, although each time I do it's routinely excruciating. At university, every single complaint was diagnosed as potential pregnancy. Laryngitis? Are you using condoms? Twisted ankle? Have you considered the contraceptive pill? Seriously.

And let’s not forget the horrendous embarrassment of the male doctor forced to give me a rather intimate examination earlier this year. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone quite so mortified at the prospect of me getting my kit off.

So it is with great trepidation that I find myself once more on the road to certain humiliation. Following a light spot of adult entertainment at the weekend I discovered that I was bleeding. As it’s not *that* time of the month something has clearly gone awry. For various tedious reasons (namely the number of times I have moved from place to place in recent years), my GP is miles away from my current abode, and getting an appointment there is more difficult than getting a table at The Ivy on BAFTA night. They only take appointment bookings at 8am. And with over 10,000 patients on the books, it is absolutely impossible to get through on the phone. Your only other window is 2pm when you may/may not get an emergency appointment some time that afternoon. But as I can’t exactly get there in my teabreak this is not really an option either.

So I did the next best thing. We have a national helpline staffed by NHS nurses, called (unimaginatively) NHS Direct. After giving four different people my address about six different times (apparently in case I passed out during the call and they needed to send an ambulance. Safety first! Jeeez), I finally got to explain what the problem was. The nurse, to be fair, was fabulous. Kind, reassuring, and the purveyor of some very weird questions. Is the skin peeling from my hands and feet? (is she running a manicure/pedicure salon as a sideline? I know our nurses are appallingly paid, I suppose I should applaud the ingenuity). Have I had any ‘internal investigations’ lately? (she KNOWS about the trouble at work!) and my ultimate favourite, was I having ‘natural sex’ at the time? I was tempted to make some wisecrack about that being a matter of opinion but managed to resist.

But yeah, there’s no escape, I need to see a doctor. My wonderful mother, of all people, has managed to burrow through the endless bureaucracy and get me an appointment on Thursday. I can’t wait.

Back in the room

2008-06-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

Just returned from a blissful, broadband-free break on the Isle of Wight with my best friend, Ms Handbag. The primary reason for our visit was the festival - definite highlights were The Zutons, James and The Police; the less said about Iggy Pop and the Sex Pistols, the better. Overall it was great fun, but Ms H and I are clearly getting a bit crabby in our old age because, boy, did we find plenty to complain about.

The festival itself has got a bit big for its boots. What started out as a fairly small, cool homage to the 70s has inevitably sold out. there were some 80,000 people there this year, meaning that even the simplest trip to the fetid portaloos took at least 30 minutes. At one point we queued for over an hour to get drinks and were quaintly horrified by the amount of rubbish strewn as far as the eye could see. I'm sure this sort of thing didn't used to bother me.

One of our friends who was camping had £200 lifted from the pocket of his jeans as he slept, which is definitely not in the spirit of things. We couldn't even be too smug about our hotel accommodation as on the first night we ended up on the nightbus from hell. It took 90 minutes to go 10 miles up the road, looping interminably around a deceptively small town called Sandown. I honestly don't know how the driver managed to make a short journey so long without driving into the sea. The entire island is only 71 miles (metric folk, go figure) in circumference.

Anyway being the shamelessly fairweather festival goers that we are, Ms H and I had gorgeous rooms in a lovely little B&B on the clifftops of Shanklin, where I inexplicably managed to blow £210 in 20 minutes in the town's one and only decent clothing boutique (oops). We had cooked breakfasts every morning, then retired to the poolside for a couple of hours sunbathing and general hangover recovery time before inevitably heading off and beginning all over again.

On our last night (we stayed on after the festival had ended), even we couldn't face any more alcohol so we stayed vino-free in a lovely old country pub, then returned to the hotel bar to drink decaf coffee and play cards. Good clean family fun, for a change.

We really are getting old.

MC bites back

2008-06-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

MC has joined the blogosphere! I am afraid...

Hovis Presley

2008-06-09T07:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent a good four hours sitting in traffic. Fucking south circular. The journey to my grandma's house is only 20 miles across London but if I manage it in two hours I feel like Lewis Hamilton. I might as well walk.
Anyway I soon tired of all the music stations (note to London radio stations. Can you please stop playing Timbaland’s stupid track Apologise every ten seconds. Enough already) and turned to the more cerebral Radio 4.
I got there just in time to catch the tail end of a wonderful little documentary about a northern British comedian I had never heard of. Annoyingly I only caught his first name – Hovis. However, I am a journalist, so, determined not to be beaten by the 8000 pages of Google containing mentions of the bread brand, I tracked him down.
And so, dear readers, I present to you, the late, great Hovis Presley. And courtesy of him the most lovely poem I’ve read in a long time:

I rely on you

I rely on you
like a Skoda needs suspension
like the aged need a pension
like a trampoline needs tension
like a bungee jump needs apprehension
I rely on you
like a camera needs a shutter
like a gambler needs a flutter
like a golfer needs a putter
like a buttered scone involves some butter
I rely on you
like an acrobat needs ice cool nerve
like a hairpin needs a drastic curve
like an HGV needs endless derv
like an outside left needs a body swerve
I rely on you
like a handyman needs pliers
like an auctioneer needs buyers
like a laundromat needs driers
like The Good Life needed Richard Briers
I rely on you
like a water vole needs water
like a brick outhouse needs mortar
like a lemming to the slaughter
Ryan's just Ryan without his daughter
I rely on you

© H Presley 1994

Of course after about five minutes of this charmingly obscure little cultural interlude the show ended and Gardeners’ Question Time started. I’m relieved to report that I’m not THAT old. Yet.

musings in a short skirt

2008-06-04T06:58:00.000-07:00

I am accidentally wearing an indecently short skirt in the office today. I'm sure it wasn't quite this small when I put it on this morning. Ah well. It's having a funny effect on my male colleagues. They have all had a good look - some furtively, others less so - and then been completely flustered upon making eye contact and realising that, yes, I did just catch them checking out my legs.

I'm writing a feature about different online identities and I'm almost tempted to 'out' the blog. It annoys me sometimes that I can't own up to it. I tell people that I blog and then go all coy about the blog address. It's been my guilty little pleasure for a long time and I'm not really sure why - after all, I'm a writer, and this is writing, right? But it just feels more open somehow, more candid, this way. I've blogged before about how Zuzula has taken on a life of her own and it would be a shame to take that away now. Besides, I wouldn't be able to brag about my bedroom skills in front of my peers, would I? And I certainly wouldn't be able to slag off my boss. Which wouldn't leave me with a great deal of material.

Anyway I'm not completely hiding my light under the proverbial bushell it seems (whatever a bushell is). According to google stats my little blog had 1500 visitors last month. That is just insane. Rather hilariously, one visitor found me by typing 'being a dissapointment' (sic) into Google. Thanks guys! I mean. Give me some credit. At least I can spell.

If I'd known you were all coming I'd have put the kettle on... I guess you'll have to make do with the short skirt instead.

domestic bliss

2008-06-02T03:27:00.000-07:00

MC and I are now officially living in sin. The big move involved seven car journeys between our respective abodes and the new pad (round of applause to my little Peugeot 206 for being positively tardis-like with the backseats folded down).

The flat is currently in a state of carnage. The only possible explanation is that The Packing Monster shamelessly broke into my old place and replaced all my treasured, beautiful belongings with a pile of useless old tat. Do I really need fairy-shaped biscuit cutters? And why did I bring that old throw which I know has never been the same since my best friend, bless her, accidentally dropped her dinner on it five years ago?

Unfortunately for all concerned the real icing on the cake about the upheaval was that it coincided with the worst bout of PMT I have ever had. I rarely get it, if at all. But Sunday afternoon was a real tantrums and tiaras affair – especially when MC tentatively reminded me that I’d promised we would go to the cinema that evening to see the new Indiana Jones film (hint: don’t bother). Poor MC must have wondered what on earth he’d let himself in for. So I made amends at bedtime by, and I quote, giving him the ‘best’ bj he’s ever had.
*proud*

london life

2008-05-30T04:35:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had a second interview with a very strange little east london outfit who seem really keen to employ me but have yet to tell me what it is they want me to do. Progress of sorts: they have actually committed to emailing me a job description (which naturally hasn't arrived yet) ahead of our third meeting. I am not holding my breath.

Anyway far more excitingly I then met up with the delectable Peas on Toast for the first time after avidly reading her blog for years. I felt like I'd known her forever and within minutes, we were gossiping away like a pair of fishwives, indignantly waving around large glasses of vino. It was wonderful - and suddenly it was 3am.

Poor Peas exchanged her swanky hotel for my sofa and about 3 hours later headed off for the long journey to work.

I, on the other hand, decided I couldn't face it, and am still here, languishing on Peas' sofa, wondering how long it might feasibly take for, ahem, the boiler to be mended. Perhaps it'll be an all day job....

standing in the way of control

2008-05-21T02:44:00.000-07:00

I have written something that I feel strongly about and I have a nasty feeling it may end up costing me my job. The people I wrote in support of love me; the people I wrote about are extremely pissed off. I can and will back up every single word but unfortunately for me the pissed off people are the ones who hold the paystrings. Isn't that just typical? We shall see. I can't really say much more right now, other than it is something I felt could not remain unmentioned. I do not have the support of my editor this time. The moral high ground is proving to be a rather lonely place.

rent-a-gob

2008-05-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

I have just had to give a radio interview about the joys of HDTV. I tried to get out of it, on the grounds that I could write on the tip of an eyelash what I know about the damned thing. But for the purposes of this particular show they didn't mind, and so for one day only I am their official expert. Isn't it funny how these things work behind the scenes? Perhaps I should listen a little less carefully to what i hear on the wireless in future. Shamelessly though, I rather enjoyed the experience - so if anybody wants an interview on anything at all, get in touch. I am officially a media whore. Next thing I know, I'll be applying to go on Big Brother... possibly around the same time that Hell freezes over. I can't believe that's coming round again. Is there seriously anybody left in the country that actually wants to go on that show?

In other news, MC and I moved our first carload of stuff into our new home on Saturday. Books, candles and pot pourri (me) - cult action figures, comics and movie posters (him). It really is going to be an apartment of two halves...

My night with Neil Diamond

2008-05-15T04:33:00.000-07:00

Stricken with a summer cold, half way through a gruelling week at work and exhausted after a two hour appraisal, there was just one appointment in my diary that I was absolutely determined not to cancel.

Neil Diamond was coming to the BBC and I had somehow managed to guestlist my way to the hottest ticket in town. He may be old enough to be my grandfather (‘my vanity is greater than my accuracy,’ he said modestly when it came to discussing his age) but I grew up listening to the legendary crooner (with worldwide album sales of 125m I can’t possibly be alone in that) and I was not about to miss the opportunity of hearing him perform live.

He received a standing ovation when he walked out on stage. ‘You can remain standing,’ he rasped in that husky Brooklyn twang, at which the female half of the audience forgot about their hot flushes and swooned. Admittedly his dance moves these days are limited to a bit of well timed finger pointing and the occasional knee bend but somehow it all still works – and it’s electric to watch. Even us, the usually cynical hack pack, were up and dancing by the time Neil got to Forever in Blue Jeans – which he enjoyed so much, he did twice. ‘I used to like that song a lot… I’d like to keep it that way,’ he wheezed at the prospect of singing it one more time for the delighted crowd.

I have interviewed many a precocious one-hit-wonder who has recoiled in horror at the thought of being in actual contact with a ‘fan’. They should all take a leaf out of Neil Diamond’s book – a legendary songwriter with 40 top ten hits under his belt who managed walked around the radio theatre, dancing with the audience, shaking their hands and serenading them. Yes, by the end of the second rendition of the energetic Blue Jeans we were as exhausted as he was and it was a relief all round when he launched into a long introduction to the title tune of his new album, Home before Dark, as everybody caught their breath back. We didn’t even mind the mild evangelising that went along with it (he attributes his talents and success to God).

The thing with Neil Diamond is that you probably know more of his tunes than you realise. Even if you can only think of Sweet Caroline right now. He finished his BBC set with I’m a Believer, a hit he penned for The Monkees in 1966 which has been much covered since. And then he was gone. No encore – to be honest I don’t think any of those present, including him, could have coped with the excitement.

The middle-aged audience glided out onto Regent Street feeling like teenagers and vowing never to wash the hands that Neil Diamond had touched again. I did something that any self respecting thirty-something should do after seeing such an icon live in concert. I phoned my Mum.

past, meet present

2008-05-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

This morning I was happily walking to work with MC when I saw a familiar figure ahead of me. It was the significant ex, and he was literally about ten paces away from meeting the current beau. I was completely freaked out about it. I'm not really sure why - the ex is part of another life, and not one I'm particularly keen to revisit. But the thought of two people meeting with one thing in common - me - makes my toes curl. So I slowed down, and took an early turning into work, and watched gratefully as he receded into the distance. I didn't tell MC because I couldn't even explain it myself. I've met the ex's girlfriend and been fine with it so really, there shouldn't be an issue. But somehow, there just is.