Deep Thoughts of Cici

2009-06-08T21:52:00.002+01:00

Test post to show mr dave how its done :)

Running a blog?

2008-02-26T16:44:00.003Z

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!

2007-01-31T00:39:00.000Z

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.

2006-10-23T14:32:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-20T00:31:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-10-17T22:38:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-12T17:07:00.000+01:00

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?

3 Years

2006-10-07T18:12:00.000+01:00

Three years ago approximately, The Boy and I first got it on. Ahem. As we aren't married this is the anniversary we choose to celebrate. Not the first kiss, or the first time we met or any of that bollocks. No, we choose to celebrate the culmination of 3 weeks of furious flirting, driving our housemates up the wall, the first *blush* time, *simper* we, Did It. Yeah baby.

What can I possibly say without getting all gushy? Just that, you still make me laugh until the cider squirts out of my nose. I totally fancy you, you put up with I must admit, even to me, annoying moods. And I still want to jump your bones.

Happy Anniversary babe.

OMG!! I totally have a blog you guys!

2006-10-06T00:07:00.000+01:00

...I'd totally forgotten. Alright, I hadn't forgotten, but y'know. Busy living life and stuff. Okay, so that's no excuse, but you have to understand, I Am Very Lazy. I started this blog when I was unemployed, because I needed something to do, but now I'm like working and stuff, I have less time for blogging because I need all my spare time for watching TV and worrying about the end of the world. And turning 30.

Oh yes, turning 30. Ick. The French Fancy and I were watching a TV program a few months ago about modern motherhood, and we both suddenly realised, that as it was less than 9 months to our birthdays, We Would Not Have Our Children In Our 20s. Neither of us were planning to have children any time soon, but still...It was a shock. We will officially not be young mums. Which doesn't exactly bother me, as Chairman Ma was 41 when she had me (and 43 when she had The Advocate) But still, there is a sense of doors being closed. Options changing. I don't know if I can get pregnant the normal way anyway as I have PCOS, which has never bothered me before - but recently it has.

Anyway. You are all invited to the party to celebrate all this age related angst. Sometime next February.

Cinema

2006-08-06T19:29:00.000+01:00

You know what I feel like right now? No, don't you roll your eyes at me. It's not another drink, although that would be nice too. No, I'd like to stroll, hand in hand with the Boy to my local cinema and settle down to a nice Sunday evening flick. Arty or blockbuster, I don't much care. Perhaps Confederate States of America, that might be interesting. Or maybe Cars, the new Pixar toon that the Boy wants see as he's an animator.

What's the problem I hear you say? You can hop in the car and nip to Vue at Cribbs Causeway, a mere 20 minute drive away. Or Showcase, in the other direction. Yeah, s'pose. But I don't want to. I don't want to drive anywhere. I want to walk to my local cinema and then afterwards, perhaps have a cup of coffee somewhere local. I don't want to go to a big featureless out of town box that's going to show me 30 minutes of ads and be playing the latest Sandra Bullock on all 10 screens.

I want the Whiteladies Picture House. Built in 1921, it's a gorgeous Art Deco building, at least from the outside. (I have never been inside) It entertained Bristolians for about 70 years before being closed down, not long before I moved to Bristol. It was owned by the Odeon chain. No problem right? They'll restore it and open it up as a nice local art house catering to students and the local Cliftonians and Cothamists. Hah! It was sold to a developer with a restrictive covenant imposed by Odeon preventing it being used a cinema. So now, what I presume was the lobby is a restaurant/bar called The Picture House, about which I have heard good things (but that's a matter for Bristol Foodie) And the rest is boarded up and disused. I believe there were plans to turn it into a gym which seem to have come to nothing, largely I believe due to a vociferous local campaign to bring back the Picture House, although I may be wrong about this.

Time for another drink. And then a perhaps a walk to the video shop.

Nothing much to report

2006-08-05T23:42:00.000+01:00

I have been quite boring lately and do not have much to blog about. Siiigh. I mean, look at me, blogging on a Saturday night? How middle aged. The Boy is, as I write this, watching an extremely gory and poorly acted horror movie called The Devil's Rejects. I am not a horror fan, so I'm pretending I can't hear the screams.

The only new things to turn up recently are our absolutely hilarious disco wardrobes. There has been a permanent clothes storage crisis in the BG household ever since we moved into our current digs. I've flatly refused to solve it by purchasing wardrobes from IKEA because, y'know wardrobes? From IKEA? Not all that cheap. Especially when you consider they are made of cardboard. And I'm too cheap to spend £200 on a cardboard wardrobe that'll only last a few years. Another solution would be to buy old fashioned pieces from the 40s or 50s or older from antique/junk shops. However, I consider these not really suitable for modern clothes storage, although tres chic and far more appealing than IKEA. I have discovered in the past that they tend to be oddly arranged and often too shallow to take the width of a clothes hanger, which you might think you can live with, but usually ends up being incredibly annoying. Plus your clothes get all smooshed.

So, yes the disco wardrobes? Are vintage IKEA. Some neigbours are moving out and offered them to us for free. They are black, with fully mirrored doors and little metal handles. V.80's disco. That puts paid to my theory about IKEA furniture not lasting. The funny thing is, I do quite like them now, for all they are so tacky. I might tart them up with some different handles and I've always wanted a wardrobe with a lipstick red interior, but ultimately I'm just relieved all my clothes don't have a thick dandruff of dust on the shoulders.

Hot Hot Heat II

2006-07-28T09:53:00.000+01:00

Good grief! It's still really hot! Hurray! I love it actually, although it has been a bit too hot even for me on a few occasions. Top tips for keeping cool:

Wear a skirt. You too boys!
Cotton underwear. Save your nylon skank pants for winter
Drink lots of water. You can flavour it with Gin though.
Eat lots of fruit, fish and salad. Oh, I'm sooo healthy
Wear your shades and be cool, man. Even at night.
Sleep with only a sheet. Bizarrely the Boy still likes to sleep with our down filled duvet, which is just weird. I have the sheet only and our bed looks very odd.

How was you Ashton Court everyone? Did you get well and truly bladdered? I didn't! I was sensible this year and just as well! The Boy ahem, overindulged. Threw up everywhere and had to be dragged home by me. So I missed the Go Team! Nuts. But I saw The Smerins Anti Social Club. They were great weren't they? I had a lovely skank down the front all alone on Sunday and enjoyed myself immensely. I peed in the woods, had me a Pieminister Pie and generally revelled in the Ashton Courtness of it all.

I'm a bad, bad girl...

2006-07-20T01:13:00.000+01:00

...because I have been neglecting my blaawwggg. Slap on the wrist for me and I promise to never, never do it again. Imagine someone just hit me across the nose with a rolled up newspaper. ~There. Now I am punished.

Anyway WHY have I been neglecting you, oh my faithful reader? (there's got to be only one left at this point) Because - did you notice? It's really damn hot. At least everyone keeps bitching about the heat, but I? I am made of Sterner Stuff. This heat? This is Nothing. NOTHING. For I have lived in the City of New York, which at this time of year is a simalcrum of hell. The heat is damp and even stretching to get another glass of ice coffee is too much damn work. You can break a sweat just standing up.

Okay it's not the heat. It's....I have an actual, proper job like! I'm proper, me! I have been working on a temporary basis for an organic food company for the last 2 weeks, and I am being taken on! Hurray. I am going to be running the office, sorting out the accounts, looking after the website AND I also get to do fun stuff like develop new product lines, marketing and general strategy. As you can tell it is a VERY small company. In fact there a 3 members of staff including me. We all pitch in and get whatever needs doing done. The owner is not above mopping the floors and neither am I, although he has confided to me that he'd like us to start making enough money to employ a cleaning lady soon. shouldn't be too much of a problem!

anyway! Yay for me! I am quite pleased with myself, can you tell?

Rain, rain go away

2006-07-05T23:04:00.000+01:00

So, last night I came home to a completely weird message from Sailor Boy which effectively read: 'I am leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and I may never come back.' Sailor Boy you are such drama queen 'I may never come back'. Oh please.

After much frantic phoning round various mates, none of whom had any idea either, I eventually tracked down the SB himself. Turns out he's been seconded by work to Edinburgh and is simultaneously trying to find a new job, which will probably be in London. And therefore his ~~gingerness~~ 'strawberry blondeness' is unlikely to be seen again in these parts. So we managed to scrape together a small group of SB fans and met for drinks at the White Lion, the suckitude of whose service I will discuss on Bristol Foodie. Best view in Bristol though.

Oh Christ what was the point of this post again? Really I must think these things through before applying hand to keyboard. Oh yes the SB is fucking off to Edinburgh. Well, enjoy it dear, and expect me and the Boy for a weekend in August for the festival. I will miss your gobsmackingly awful jokes and I forgive you for the time you completely failed to drive me to work because you'd decided to spend the day in London and had forgotten to tell me, leaving me stranded in Clifton without a paddle.

Hot Hot Heat

2006-07-03T22:16:00.000+01:00

There's just something about hot summer nights that makes me want to go get sweaty in tiny nightclub pop boxes where I can indeed wave my hands in the air like I just don't care. So Friday evening me, the Boy and The Boy Who Cannot Love went to hear Jerry Dammers, ex The Specials, DJ some noice ska and reggae at Native a newish club on Small Street. Oh I do love a good skank. After a slow start, the club soon filled up, mostly with a slightly older crowd who were into The Specials first time round. I amused myself by pointing out possible conquests to TBWCL and The Boy found some bloke off his head on God knows what to chat to which he always enjoys. I bopped up and down and even got The Boy to dance with me which is something of an achievement as he always refuses to participate when I dance round the living room at home. Spoilsport.

We all got exceedingly drunk on Native's deceptively cheap jugs of beer and staggered out at 3am with our ears ringing when the ska somehow segued into drum n bass. Ick. I bloody hate drum n bass. The Boy needless to say was loving it but as I can't fecking stand the foul racket, an executive decision was taken to leave. The crowd was a bit crap anyway - too many women wearing flowered dresses and heels. To a club. I ask you.

Honestly darlings, and stop me when I sound pretentious, but you just don't get the same quality clubber in Bristol you do in New York. I do miss the sheer fabulousness of New York clubs even if I don't miss the eye popping drinks prices. Still - if you are young enough and fabulous enough it's not hard to get your drinks bought for you. I used to wear a pink fun fur mini skirts with platform shoes high enough to break my ankles in out clubbing. Oh shut up, it was the mid nineties, I was 19 and really skinny. Besides this was pre the Party Monster murder when night-life in New York was still crazy.

Bristol Foodie

2006-07-03T00:48:00.000+01:00

Bristol Foodie has launched. Don't worry I won't be neglecting Bristol Girl, but I am quite excited about Bristol Foodie. Those of you who know me, know I am passionate about food and so, a blog all about food was a fairly natural progression. There is some excellent food to be had in Bristol and I hope to talk about eating out in Bristol as well as reviewing sources of raw ingredients such as farmers markets and delis. I may also talk about my experiences as a domestic cook in a format similar to The Kitchen Diaries, with apologies to Nigel Slater. Bristol Foodie is being written in conjunction with Titsy Galore who is an even bigger food obsessive, not to mention a Leith's trained cook. Titsy is currently very busy with the opening of Bordeaux Quay so you will probably have to put up with mostly me to start with. If we're extra lucky the Domestic Goddess who is a real food writer (as opposed to a fake blogger one like me) might contribute something. Look out for an upcoming interview with Dominic Vyvyan-Jones the owner of The Organic Chocolate Cake Company and the tasting panel on bread from local bakers.

What would you like to see covered in Bristol Foodie? Any restaurants you especially loved/hated? An amazing deli/butchers/cafe you just discovered? Your source for merguez? The best place to buy fruit and veg? Hate Tesco? Where do you shop? Let me know, either by commenting, or you can email us directly: bristolfoodie at googlemail dot com

Hello?

2006-06-28T23:18:00.000+01:00

Hi, it's me here, how are you? Are you there? Hellllooooo? Anyone, anyone at all? Ok I'm starting to feel like I'm addressing the void here. Are you all reading me and not commenting or did you get bored and go read dooce? Because no-one has commented on about my last 5 posts. Including my long essay about my close escape from a call centre. Which I thought you might be interested in. No? Ok - but tell me if I'm boring you to death.

There's no point in me warbling on about my latest MySpace discovery or that Citalopram is a big pile of steaming elephant poo if no-one's listening. I mean if I wanted a completely private space to vent I'd go buy one of those 5 year diaries with a padlock on it. So please comment! De-lurk. Let me know you are here. And to make it easy for you - here is the question du jour.

What is/was your other halves (past or present) most annoying habit? And - what did /do you do that you KNOW annoy(ed) the hell out of them, but you did/do it anyway because.

I'll tell you my answers. The Boy WILL NOT do the washing up unless I nag him about it. Repeatedly. And me? Naturally I have no annoying habits because I am practically perfect in every way. But the Boy does get irrationally upset about this one teeny tiny thing. The hot water taps is one of those annoying taps that you have to really turn off tightly, other wise it will merely pretend to be off, and then about 5 minutes later will dribble back on again. The Boy is constantly reprimanding me for not turning it off properly. Which y'know whatevs. So minor compared to the washing up.

PS. I am working here for a while. Go order yourself a wedding cake and maybe Mr Top Hat will keep me on beyond the agreed 'until the work runs out'

Lily Allen is Gurt Lush

2006-06-25T20:33:00.000+01:00

I’ve just found Lily Allen who is apparently the latest MySpace discovery. Yawn. Bored though I am with MySpace and all its evil spawn, Lily is a gem. Boppy, poppy ska lite, she’s a middle class London girl with street and The Streets postures. The bling on her album cover is just a disguise – Lily is from Islington and you don’t get much more middle class than that. I should know, it’s where I’m from. Ahem. And yeah, I do live in Cotham, the Islington of Bristol. Once a nice girl, always a nice girl awriiight? So what if Lily is a bit posher than she makes out, it doesn’t make her album any less of a pleasure. And you’ve got to love the kid rhyming Tesco with al-fresco on LDN, the album’s most infectious tune and a charming paean to London in all it’s filthy glory. It's just begging to be played over a crap stereo while you laze in the park with a beer and an illegal barbeque. I love Alfie too, an exasperated elders sister's ticking off to her lazy, pot smoking brother. Lily Allen. The download of the summer.

The Festival Jacket

2006-06-23T11:15:00.000+01:00

This is the Boy's Festival Jacket. He's had it for far longer than I've known him. Note the dirty patches, the faded colour (it used to be dark blue), the kicky 80's styling. I have several times threatened to leave him if he didn't bin it, but he has always refused and has remained in our wardrobe taking up valuable space that could be better used by say, a jacket that not even a tramp would refuse to wear. In fact, the Eagle (whose sartorial choices occasionally verge towards the tramplike) once stopped by Casa BG for a drink. While we were drinking it started raining. When it was time to leave the Boy offered the Eagle the Festival Jacket as a means of keeping out the rain. He refused. The Eagle would rather get wet than be seen dead in the Festival Jacket.
So you can colour me surprised when yesterday, after no nagging, no threats of departure, the Boy voluntarily agreed to get rid of it. Why, after all this time? I have no idea. It may have had something to do with the fact I have always refused to be seen with him in public with it on. Maybe it's Midsummer Madness. Who knows. I just know I'm glad to see the back of it.

N.B. I now have an official blog email address. It's bristolgirl at googlemail dot com. It's in the sidebar too. Use it! I'd love to get me some email.

Notify List

2006-06-22T15:53:00.000+01:00

See over there on the right? Scroll down a bit - there! Underneath 'Previous Posts'. If you put your email in the little box, I'll send you an email every time I update the site with a new post.
Cause I'm a lazy blogger and don't blog everyday I thought, if I had any Imaginary Readers left you might like to sign up for it. Thisaway you don't have to check the blog for a new post, you can just wait for that email to roll into your inbox.

Aren't I nice to you Imaginary Readers? I make reading blogs eaaassyyy. And look! 2 posts in one day! And one of them is 1120 word long! I counted!

Call Centre Hell

2006-06-22T14:11:00.000+01:00

On Tuesday I got a text from one of the many agencies I am signed up with. It read ‘Inbound Call centre, £6.50p/h’. I have always specifically said I do not want to work in a call centre. I imagine them to be pretty decent simulacrums of hell. But the thing is, the BG household funds are perilously low. So I phoned the agency who told me where and when the interview was. Where was the interview? A 40 minute bus ride away that’s where. Worse and worse. So, yesterday morning I tog myself up some smart office-y clothes, and trot off to the interview.

I turn up at the company (let’s call it Kwik Kall) in plenty of time. Kwik Kall is headquartered in a distant suburb of Bristol in a large pre-fab building on an industrial estate. The building looks new and is smart and clean. There is a toothy American receptionist who directs me to take a seat with the other monkeys. I inspect the other monkeys. The other monkeys are much as I would expect: between 6-10 years younger than me. They are dressed in the synthetic office garb you can buy in Next and H&M which is the un-official uniform of low waged office slaves everywhere. I have always refused to buy it despite being a low-waged office slave and am therefore chicly dressed in red linen trousers, a striped white shirt and a tailored black jacket. I am the only one wearing a jacket. There are two pretty Muslim girls who are clearly friends, they giggle and whisper behind their hands whilst the rest of us covertly eye each other. I fish out a novel from my bag and start reading in order to pass the time.

Eventually a rep from the agency turns up and checks us off on her list. Then ‘Steve’ from the company appears. He’s young enough – early thirties with a fashionable spiky haircut of the type I loathe, although he obviously spends money on it – it suits him. He’s good looking and confident and makes cracks about the England – Sweden match from the night before to put us at our ease. We are herded up to a large room set up with rows of chairs and a projection screen. Steve introduces himself and some of the other staff members. They are all supervisors or managers of varying levels of seniority and Steve himself is the Ops Manager. A short presentation follows during which we are told that Kwik Kall is number 1 in its industry and we are given various statistics to do with sales and growth. The final slide is entitled ‘What Kwik Kall Can do for You’ Apparently we can have unlimited free parking and breakfast with the CEO. Goody Goody Gumdrops. We are told that free parking is one the top things requested by call centre staff. No doubt, but not much good to car-less moi. However it is interesting to see that some research has been done into the needs and desires of their staff. Cynically, this is because call centres have extremely high turnovers of people, as the job is both very stressful and very badly paid.

Once the presentation is over Steve asks us each to stand up and tell the room a little about ourselves and what we’d do if we won the lottery. Most people say they’d buy a house or go on holiday. One boy says he’d get the bank to convert his winnings into £5 notes so he could go and sit on top of a pile of money. A pretty, faintly punk rock girl says she is Swiss and is here to improve her English. When it’s my turn, I stand up and make something up about buying a house in New York. I say I’m from London and don’t mention my age.

Now it’s time for the one on one interviews. I am one of the last to be interviewed and I am led away by rotund, mildly smiling woman whom I judge to be about my own age. She tells me her name is Beth and takes me through the call centre which is a large cavernous room shared with the marketing and IT departments. There are workmen assembling more desks, and I comment that it looks like they are doing a big recruitment drive. Beth agrees but then says the Swindon lot are moving in soon as well. I immediately think of The Office and have to stifle a giggle. We go into a meeting room and Beth flutters about fiddling with the air conditioning and apologising for my long wait. She’s a lot more nervous than I am so I gently put her at ease by making a few mild jokes about interviews. I get a giggle and Beth finally relaxes and sits down. We speed through the interview which is a few very standard questions – where do you see yourself in 5 years time etc. I always answer this one differently depending on the interview. The truth is, I don’t really know. I suppose a somewhat truthful answer would be ‘earning a decent amount of money.’ We shall see. The answer to that question is one of the things I am supposed to work out this year.

Interview over, Beth walks me out and I make my way home. I’m supposed to find out today whether I’ve got the job or not. To be totally honest I would really much rather not have the job as it’s, well, shit. But the BG coffers are in dire need of replenishment and I can go on looking while I’m there.

UPDATE:
I didn't get the job, much to my relief. Unfortunately I was a bit too honest in the interview and didn't say I would be able commit to working there forever and ever. I said I could commit to it for about 3 or 4 months and I think dear old Beth cottoned on to the fact that I'm massively overqualified and under interested. Phew. Over-riding sense of having dodged a bullet there. I mean really - commuting out to Warmley every day? For the choice of working 8am-4pm or 12pm-8pm? For £6.50 an hour? I don't fucking think so.
I normally get quite upset when I fail interviews. Especially as until I started looking this time round, I had never failed an interview. This is completely true I'm afraid. So when i first started getting rejection letters it was more upsetting than I expected it to be. But this time? Nah.

I think this says it all

2006-06-19T16:34:00.000+01:00

Prom Queens

2006-06-16T00:06:00.000+01:00

Hic! Might have had a few too many Babychams with Titsy Galore this evening. hic hiic. Scuse me.

Am somewhat excited because this Saturday is the Communist State of Road we Used to Live On's bi-annual party. The theme is Geeks and Jocks which has been slightly amended to include Prom Queens. Well, we (Art Star, HeadGirl and I) have decided to amend it, and as we are all ex-inmates of the Communist State of... I think that that's allowed. And it means I get I to wear my fabulous 1950's party dress that looks like it's made from your Granny's chintz curtains. With a tiara. Oh Happy Day!

Plus, Art Star, the VP, the HeadGirl and Handsome Man are all coming in from London for the party, which makes it extra fun, as I haven't seen any of them, since, um. well it's been a while. (I might have been a bit desperately drunk the last time). Anyway, have laid in stocks of Gin and am contemplating the creation of some pleasantly exotic cocktails for the pre-ball drinks party. (do I sound like an alcoholic?)

Happy Birthday Student, you old fart/ young whippersnapper (delete as applicable)

Get better soon OwlLover. I am sending ~~gin addled~~ positive vibes your way. (man)

More LLAMA festival

2006-06-14T12:30:00.000+01:00

As you might have gathered from my last post, the Boy and I plus our friends Corporate Curls and her husband the Student went to the LLAMA festival at the weekend.

Because we are lame we didn’t set off till Saturday afternoon as we had to go to the supermarket to buy supplies. Curls tried to convince me to buy the sloe gin because ‘it might be interesting’ but I demurred, because a campsite with nowhere to buy booze is Not The Place To Find Out You Don’t Like the Only Gin There Is. No it isn’t. And camping without gin? Is like strawberries without cream. And then the Boy and I had an argument about whether meat would survive the journey in the heat. Which I won, but I now think he might have been right, it would have been okay in the cool bag. (Shhh.)

A torturously hot car journey across Exmoor later, we arrived at the campsite to find we were in the overflow space. Which was on the edge of a cliff more or less. And therefore incredibly windy. After putting our tents up in gale force winds which was only achieved without a full scale domestic on the part of the Boy and I by suppressing all our natural instincts so as not to embarrass ourselves in front of our friends, who were naturally a picture of marital bliss AND got their tent up in record time, alcohol was handed out all round. Frayed tempers darned, the barbeque was got going by Curls who made us some suitably greasy sausage sandwiches. Glory of glory the wind had died down. Bliss. There is nothing quite like lounging around on a hot sunny day with a well made G&T in one hand and a sausage sandwich in the other and nothing to look forward to but a music festival.

After some more drinks we ambled down the festival and ended up listening to some bloke from Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci play some odd little tunes on a keyboard. Quite charming but not as charming as GZM themselves whom I saw live once in London. Many drinks and packets of Salt and Vinegar crisps later and suddenly it was rather late, the music was ended and our campsite was the wrong end of a 1:4 gradient. Fortunately a mini bus had been laid on for us ~~drunk~~ tired and emotional festival goers to ferry us back to our campsites. The mini bus driver was called Keith Richards and was determined to fit at least 50 people into a mini bus designed for 12. This precipitated and amusingly frightening lurch up aforesaid 1:4 gradient road. Back at the tents, the re-appearance of gale force winds curtailed any further ~~drinking~~ socialising and I gratefully collapsed onto the air mattres*

The next morning (after a night of lying awake listening to the wind howl round our tent) we awoke to find the wind had died down and it was another glorious day. A peaceful morning ensued, punctuated by reading aloud the more revolting bits of the Sunday Mirror, (the only paper available in the campsite shop) bacon sandwiches and cups of tea. We struck camp and drove to Linton to park for the festival, where the Boy found a shop selling rather fetching straw hats. With some encouragement from me, he bought one although he (correctly) pointed out that it made him look like a Panamanian drug dealer called Carlos. The rest of the day was spent listening to psychedelic folk music, drinking cider and eating crab sandwiches and ice cream. I burned my back terribly but it was worth it. And that is how I spent my weekend.

*To quote the Domestic Goddess (one of my sisters, do keep up) 'After a certain age a woman needs a supportive mattress. I am one of those women. I do not do camping without an air mattress and a duvet.

Weekend at the LLAMA Festival

2006-06-11T22:37:00.000+01:00

This little boy was very grumpy despite the face paint.

Fabulous outfit. Check out those braces.

The Festival. This was the main stage. Yes, it was that small

Great tats

The Boy, Corporate Curls and the Student licking their cones

Don't you wish you were there? I do.