Test post to show mr dave how its done :)

Running a blog?

Shall I start posting again? Who knows. Maybe...

Speaking of running, I have started going for runs. Well, I've done it once. On Sunday. Which means I have to go again tonight. Great. My thighs still hurt from Sunday's run. I say 'run' - more like a huff and a puff round the block with my eyes glued to my watch to see if I can stop yet. I'm doing an American training program designed to get lazy bee atches like me off their fat arses and running 5k in 30 minutes within 2 months. Ha bloody ha says my inner pessimist. Not too blooming likely. My record with exercise is fairly abysmal, and I have a notorious lack of will power.

However my inner optimist has me running the London Marathon next year, so we shall see who wins. The smart money's on the pessimist, but you never know, I have started biking to work, which surely counts as vigourous exercise, especially when you consider all the hills in Bristol. My personal bete noir is Angers Hill, a short cut between the Wells and Bath Roads. I could bike the long way round, but am far too bloody minded for that, and insist on forcing myself up this bastard of a hill every day, despite my poor little legs pleading for mercy.

So you never know. I might be one of those people in tiny shorts with a thousand yard stare after the Marathon next year, huddling in one of those tinfoil blankets and eating a banana. But somehow, I doubt it.

oooh hello!

Look, at this! This appears to be a blog belonging to me!

Awww, but see - there are cobwebs in the corners and whole watership downs of dust bunnies under the sofa. This blog has been sadly neglected. And it's all my fault. I could blame it on Blogger, who scared me away with their beta nonsense that didn't allow me to log in.

But I'd be fooling no-one.

Anyway. I'm Baaack! And I'm 30! Fuck me! Better start behaving like an adult then, instead of a mildly alcoholic 15 year old with a subscription to Elle Deco and a prescription for anti-depressants.

My actual birthday passed off fairly uneventfully - a day spent with the Boy, dinner at our favourite restaurant and then drinks with mates in our local. There was an all-back-to-mine to the French Fancy's where I threw all normal levels of caution to the wind and let Owl Lover ply me with absinthe and eau de vie till 4am. I'm surprised I wasn't blinded - certainly felt like it the next day.

The official celebration is Saturday. The French Fancy is 3 weeks younger than me, so we're having a joint do at Goldbrick House (v.posh and trendy venue). We actually sent invitations by post all proper like and have purchased new frocks for the occasion as well as inviting absolutely everyone we know. Should be blinding.

Caif. Or. Ni A.

Here I come!

This will be my last post from the chilly shores of Blighty for a while, for tomorrow I am off to the sunny orange groves and rainbow love of California for a whole month.

Today I am doing boring things like packing, going to the bank and popping into M&S to buy Les Parents the super strong tea they prefer. It's impossible to buy proper tea in the States, unless you find a specialist shop. Go to any supermarket and they will have a whole aisle devoted to 'tea', but it's not real tea. It's usually hippy crap made of dried orange peel and rosehips. Box after box, in cutesy cardboard designs.

I do like cups of hippy toenail clippings to send me to sleep and after dinner. Chamomile is good for settling stomachs and peppermint is nice if you have a cold. But nowhere can you find an honest to goodness box of fermented black tea. I realise Fairtrade and Organic is probably too much to ask, but Christ! Does no-one drink PG Tips even?

I have The Mank

And the Mank has me.

Bleaaatcchh!

snifffle

Yes that's me, wheezing into a snot sodden hanky, peering at you with red rimmed eyes through a fringe of unwashed hair. Glamourous ain't I? I've spent the last few day lying on the sofa feeling very sorry for myself and drinking orange juice by the gallon and commanding The Boy:

'Sweeeeetiieeee'

'Yes, my snotty angel?'

'I may be Dying'

'Nobody ever died of a cold my darling'

'Can you go and buy me some OJ?'

'I would, but I've just got back from work, I'm knackered and I haven't sat down yet. And I have a tiny tickle in my throat'

'Oi! I'm the only one whose allowed to be ill round here'

'Right you are my love. I'll just walk 20 minutes to the shop that stocks the good OJ shall I?'

'I am ILL. You cannot guilt me'

..and off he went. Bless him.

I hope I recover in time to fly on Tuesday. Flying whilst suffering from The Mank is not to be recommended. Although flying whilst suffering from a killer hangover is even worse. Remind me to drink Nothing on monday night.

Duuuude! California!

So, the past few days have been spent moping about and feeling sorry for myself, and broke. Which is crap. I hate not having a job to go to. It's not just the money, it's being mentally engaged with something, having demands on my time and being able to twirl, twirl, twirl around in a swivel chair. You see I made The Boy throw his away 'because it's ugly and broken and I hate it.' So the only place I can go to twirl now is an office, ever since Office Depot threw me out for twirling all their chairs to bits.

Which brings us to California. My parents live in California because me dear old dad owns a thriving construction business there. And now his PA's walked out. See where I'm going with this? My Pa has offered to fly me out to work for him for a month while he looks for a replacement. How could I say no? They have swivel chairs there.

Unfortunately I am going to miss The Boy an awful lot. But I'll get to hang out with Miss Wiggle and drink her new cocktail the French 75, which apparently involves vodka AND Champange. hmm.

Any San Francisco based readers want to hang out? I'm flying out next week.

Laid Off

I'm not going to post in detail about this because...I don't really want to. It sucks, I'm very depressed about it because I really liked my job. But they can't afford me anymore.

Anybody want to hire me?