Benrik- whilst rocking the hobo look

Last Christmas I was bought a copy of Benrik's Diary 2005, and the year since has seen me use in it in a somewhat unorthodox manner- after flicking through it in a Christmas induced mulled wine and cooking sherry haze, I found an entry for "make a baby day". I pity any kids born nine months to that date; how rubbish would it be not to be the sole centre of attention on your birthday?
So, I tend to flick through the diary and undertake whatever task fate demands.
Today, I had to ask a stranger for their honest opinion of me- I wasn't allowed, of course, to get spruced up or do the whole hair taming thing so i just went for it.
Strange the sense of kinship one gets when hobbling down Petticoat Lane in a cut down prom dress with scary hair and smudged makeup from a hard night. Fortifying myself with a mug of coffee with rum shots- at 9:30am, admittedly, but it must be after 7pm somewhere in the world, I spied a lady with a Father Christmas hat giggling amiably to herself. Hurling myself out of the cafe door, I thrust the diary at her and filled her in on my task.
Silence.
Then, "You seem somewhat impulsive, quite quiet but a little vain, outgoing and independent."

Slight addiction now though, I'm dying to ask someone else. Impulsive and vain, me?

Elf Update

I know this is in no way shape or form a real job, but I can't help feeling blue about my future in the employment sector- understandable I think, since I'm currently being paid minimum wage to stand on a rotating barrel enticing people with my scantily clad self to panic buy stuff they will never in a million years need or use. Trust me on this- one may WANT a bath bomb with letters inside it (seasonally called "letters to Santa") but one will never actually use it, as one knows from experience that the letters don't dissolve into lovely smelling goo, but remain whole and stick in ones hair- it naturally ensues that one will then go to a party thinking one looks fab, then realise upon waking up hungover next morning that one has spent the entire party with the letter "M" stuck in pink on the back of ones head.
Not that I speak from personal experience, of course.
*cough*
But I wish my flatmates would take the picture down from the front door now- small hope though; my smashing Alec flatmate is talking about having it framed.
But back to the job; my boss bought me a pack of Lemsippy goodness yesterday. I started to thank him, until "It just doesn't look good if the Enticing Elf has a wad of used tissues tucked up her sleeve." Which is a fair enough point, but I'm not sure Lemsip is quite the thing for hypothermia; since wangling this job for myself I've developed an addiction to the weather channel, and am quite the supporter of global warming.

C'est la vie

So, my boyfriend took me out to dinner last night- saying he hadn't forgotten that I'm not a fan of eating out, but this was a special occasion. Terrified thoughts of shiny rings and actual commitment flitting round in my head- and dreading looming singletonhood- I wandered into the restaurant in my glad rags, dressed up to the nines; might as well go out on a good note, right?
Half way through the meal he slid his hand across the table, accidentally revealing That Old Tattoo* and a pair of plane tickets to Paris. I let out an undignified squeal and...
When I got back to the flat I turned everything upside down and inside out hunting for my passport, and found it stashed inside a shoe box, along with a pair of unworn and previously forgotten boots and a packet of juggling balls.
"Fuuuuck!"I said, and knocked an ever present cup of coffee flying.
It expires in March, and it turns out one needs six months valid time in order to travel- I've been meaning to update it for quite some time now, after That Incident where I had issues getting through customs after a swift visit to Greece and North Cyprus.
Now, exactly how do I tell him, and where will I have to take him in return? Please not Bournemouth, Please not Aberdeen, Please not Swansea, Please not Scarsborough.
Hmmm.


*He has a teeny tiny tattoo on his wrist of his one time girlfriends name. Apparently she bullied him into it, but I'm not so sure about this; it sounds a tad too much like pet ownership to me- identichipping, and the like. But I am, of course, completely fine with my boyfriend having the name 'Patricia' tattooed into his wrist. Of course.

Of Employment and Empathy

Following my nose- which has become very sensitive after years of living in various student hovels- I entered the shop.
"Scusi," I said, after having queued behind hordes of panic buyers. "Dyu need any staff?"
He looked me over appraisingly, and I began to wish I'd gone home first and brushed my hair and teeth, and hadn't thrown on the first thing I found on the floor; namely, a pair of my boyfriends jeans. I twitched uncomfortably, and tried not to mind his frank top-to-toe stare. I winced slightly, and tried not to giggle nervously.
"What size are you?" he asked me blithely.
Isn't there a law against this kind of thing? But if it'll get me a job, with possible staff discounts in the best smelling place in the city then.. Oh, if only my old driving instructor had had the same attitude- it'd make going back to my parents' for Christmas so much more fun.
"Size eight. Why?" He tossed his head towards the street, in the direction of the elf-girl with the slightly scary forced smile and blue hands.
"She needs replacing. Fancy it?"
I stared in horror. Its minus several million degrees outside, and he wants to pay me minimum wage to stand on a gaudily painted revolving barrel, wearing an admittedly fabulous and covetable green and white elf dress. Hmm.
Silence, and my eyes begin to water from a prolongued look of wide eyed shock.
He gave me a few minutes to think about it, in which time I bought my body weight in products. Paying the cashier, I decided I really needed this job.
He returned with the elf outfit, and smirked slightly at the bags as I tried (unsuccessfully) to nonchalantly hide them behind my back.
"I'll guess do it."

And that's the story of how I got my first job ever.
And possibly hypothermia, but at least I look good in green- and, as my lovely Alec flatmate pointed out, I'll have something to wear to the impending Christmas parties.
But only if my imagination fails me.

The Fickleness of Men

I recently referred to someone I distantly know as "lovely". Word got back to him rather quickly, and now he wants to sleep with me- completely lacking in subtlety, and wielding minimal charm.
"Hey beautiful, I want to get to know you better. Come to dinner with me? x"
I wouldn't refer to it as a bombardment of text messages and phone calls exactly, but there's certainly been quite a few.
Hmm.
I have a new pair of shoes that I'm simply dying to wear.
Should I go?

Stop it, please

I find it highly disconcerting that someone navigated to my blog using the search "mother/ no knickers".
And they didn't even bother to leave me a comment.

Extravagant Purchase of the Week Award

This week’s Extravagant Purchase Award goes to the Take That tickets I bought at the behest of my little sister- apparently Jason Orange is, like, sooo cute!
I really should learn to say no. I’ve never been a fan of Take That; I was always more of a Spice Girls fan myself- living proof that small children really do have no taste, and possess a pack identity that knows no bounds. There were those who listened to Steps on their tape walkmans and those who listened to the Spice Girls, and never the twain would meet- until about a year later, when it was universally decided by the primary school sisterhood that girl groups were soo frightfully childish. And then we moved on to… I hate to say this, but *cringe* Shania Twain.
But my old time pack identity isn’t the point of this post, so back to the rather more dubious tastes of my sister. It only took her a half hour of begging followed by the subtly worded threat of telling my parents about the Prostitute Incident before I agreed to buy the bloody tickets. Not being a Take That fan, I didn’t realise Fiona’s silence would cost me more than £300.
Not happy.
But at least I’ve found a home for the Jason Orange cardboard figure. Which is a plus.

So as part of my Absolutely Must Save Money drive, I’m staying in this weekend- although this isn’t entirely a bad thing, as tonight’s entertainment was supposed to be a Fame themed party, and my pink glittery leg warmers are nowhere to be seen. Plus I have even less desire to see fat people in hot pants than I do to go see Take That. And the partys being hosted by a rather ex-girlfriend who does insist on inviting me to party things. I sent J, along with my compliments.
Silver lining.


UPDATE: Flatmate Alec accompanied boyfriend J, uninvited and inviteless, to the party- drawn, I suspect, by the pervasive scent of cheap perfume and rumours of an open bar. Two hours after my abandonment, my AbFabSwankyNew pink phone went off. Flicking it open, I was faced with a horrendous photo- subject matter and focus, of a Larger Lady wearing hotpants.
I'm beginning to see a trend, and the pictures are becoming more numerous as more people arrive and as he gets ever drunker.
Downward spiral.

Of Prozac and the Possibility of Punctures

Today, the wonderful and astonishingly brave Dylan took me for my second driving lesson, having finally recovered from the first one.
Last time he attempted to teach me I reversed into someone's carefully tendered hedge, and this time round? The car slipped from first gear into reverse almost by magic- I have absolutely no idea how this happened, but I'm willing to believe it was a technical malfunction; in no way was reversing whilst queuing for traffic lights anything to do with me playing nervously and absent mindedly with the gear stick thing. Remember the Ann Summers advert? Although I think that was a hand brake, not a gear stick- its still close enough.
I'm easily distracted.
But everything worked out fine with the cars, noone got hurt and nothing was damaged- not a single solitary scratch. Which is good, partly because I have my doubts as to Dylans tyre changing ability- his skills lie in other areas, of course, and also because I spent most of the money sitting idly in my bank account on drunken eBay shopping, something which has rendered me with a life size cut out of Jason Orange.

**cough**

Unfortunately, Dylan still seems unreasonably keen on teaching me to drive, something which I gave up as a lost cause back in my heyday two- years ago, due to my complete incompetence. And, of course, my growing awareness that it was scary to watch, and doing bad things to the blood pressure level of my aging instructor, who still sends me Christmas cards every year. After all, as he said, "repeatedly staring death in the face causes one to become somewhat attached to their companion".
Yes, I really am that bad.