Too Much of Not Necessarily Good Things

Its 10am. I've been awake for a grand total of two hours. And so far I have eaten-

* half a tub of strawberry ice cream.
* a bowl of pasta and tuna.
* half a bar of toblerone.
* two apples, an orange and a kiwi fruit.
* a wedge of chocolate cake, with cream.
* a slice of left over pizza.
* two mugs of Shreddies.
* too many choclate digestives to count.

As my lovely Alec flatmate put it: "Just who on earth binge eats chocolate gateau ?"
Not me, gov'nor.

But is it any suprise I feel poorly? Not in the least- thats more than I eat most days; and today is still young.
I may have to brave the gym once again, if this whole binge eating thing carries on. Not the same gym, obviously enough, after the embarassment of last week- I feel I definitely get my best workout in bed; its simple maths- I started uni a size 12, I'm now an eight (and this isn't solely due to my penchant for buying shoes over food. Priorities, priorities..).
Theres a reason why people who aren't getting laid are fat- and I mean hugely fat people, like my step mother, who's currently at the size 28 level.
But, jokes aside, I'll more on her another time- she's something of a grandiose topic.

I'm also having trouble facing traipsing down to the launderette, which means I have no clean knickers, and am now faced with a dilemma. Which is the most slatternly activity; wearing clothes and leaving the flat without knickers, or staying indoors in pyjamas all day?
I think the former, as my newly limited wardrobe is not just limited to me having no clean knickers- I also have no clean jeans and it's windy out there.

Of Heathens and Heavens

As I shuffled past the church on the way back from doing the whole student thing, he pounced.
"Good evening my dear! Just how are you today?"
I stopped, and tried to peek round the brim of my hat which cut my world view off at shoulder level. I saw the gleam of a cross round his neck and whimpered, pulling my hat down lower and tried to run* nonchalantly off down the street.
Until. Catching my heel in a gap in the paving, I stooped quickly to pull it free- and thats when he caught me
I squeaked, desperately avoiding eye contact "I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry."
"Oh, no problem. I'll walk you to... where are you going my dear? Home? Have you had a nice day at work?"
Five minutes later he was still latched onto my arm, and I was losing all resiliance- I'd have bought anything from him if he'd just promised to leave.
After another five minutes, I was well and truly lost, and had begun to talk back.
"And you know my dear, all Jesus asks is that you let him into your heart, and then he'll let you into heaven. Don't you want to go to heaven?"
"So, it has nothing at all to do with me being a nice person?"

He kept talking, and I caught sight of my appartment building, and sped up.
"I'm home. Thanks for walking me back.." I began the laborious process of detaching myself from my newly acquired Christian.
"Goodbye my dear. Don't go walking home in the dark alone again, ok? Just let me know and I'll walk you back, it's not safe."
Long pause, while I tried to work out just what I'd gotten myself into. And then he went on, "So I'll see you again sometime soon, ok my dear? Maybe in London, maybe in heaven."

A tall shape unfolded itself from the shadows around the doorway, and my beautiful Sophie flatmate stepped into sight- I've never been so glad to see her. I hurled myself at her, and gave her a hug.
Which somehow turned into a big kiss.
And really, with the whole flusteredness that brought on, I could have done without being called names by the Christian Stalkee, who seemed to lose all his earlier desire to save my soul, and was fervently condemning us to hell- in between dribbling slightly; girl on girl action, who can resist?
Apparently not the Pure of Soul.



* I say run..

Audience of One

Due to the tremendous staying power of my mystery bug, I've been receiving visitors at my bedside- very regal.

Which is where I extracted this admission from my friend- with the help of periodic bouts of sniffling and coughing. Some people will admit to anything with a largely incoherent audience of one.

Moi- "Hang on! Run that by me again."
Kate- shooting me a pissy look; oh, if looks could kill. "You heard"
Moi- "Yes, but I thought it might have been a hallucination, y'no how it is"
Kate- "Not really, no. The rest of us just get on with things when we have a cold. But fine- I've had sex with five people in the last three months, and I only know one of their names and no it wasn't the one I lost my virginity with. Happy now?"
Moi- "Not really, no. Go on with the one whose name you DO know"
Kate- "NO! Just ask him!"
Moi- Sniffling piteously. "I can't ask him, he'll think I care. We'll leave that- just remind me how old you are?"

She got her own back though, by managing to eat all the chocolate she'd brought me without me noticing- the girl has hidden talents, I'm telling you. She should have been a pick pocket, or an extortionist.

Oh, bless her, I just love having the moral high ground. It doesn't happen very often- although it's getting more frequent, due to this whole Committed Relationship lark.

But at least I finally know why she doesn't like gentleman friend J...

Truly poorly

"This is so nice", I snuffled woozily into his shoulder. A pause, where I try to work out if it would be bad manners to sneeze. "Do you think it's Spectrox Toxemia?"
Another pause, and I could sense his eyes rolling in disgust.
"No. And could you stop saying that? Even the doctor thought it was an STI."
"Oh. But if it was... would you risk life and limb to get me the antidote?"
"What? If you had an STI?"
"Why? Does bat's milk work for those too?"

He got up and left me then, but, as it transpires, this wasn't out of disgust- it was to find out what the hell I was talking about from my flatmates, all of whom are on the same wavelength as me. Although, this isn't necessarily A Good Thing; they're on such a similar wavelength that sympathy is minimal. I'd get far more interest if it really was Spectrox Toxemia, but I doubt any of them would bring me the antidote- I might get a tin-and-polka mug of hot chocolate though, if I was very lucky and providing an interesting case study.

I'm fully enjoying this- firstly, no ones ever held me when I was poorly, not even when I was a child. And while I can accept the comfort offered, I'm the first to admit I won't be doing the same thing for anyone else, unless they're very very lucky; the perks of such a job would have to be outstanding.

Somewhat late..

In the year 2006 I resolve to: Start smuggling contraband in baby diapers. Get your resolution here

Hmmm. I wonder if this thing predicts the future? Smuggling prozac, and cough medicine one day, nappies the next.
*on the ball*
Not that this is much use to me with my anti- kid drive, but if I ever get back in touch with the people from my high school I imagine it would come in handy.

Fifth Business...

... Or, "the inevitable fifth", who I haven't seen in about a month. Toby is our mystery flatmate. Clear signs of his presence assure us he hasn't died leaving us devoid of his share of the rent- like last night, when he seems to have decided to shave his head, leaving a gift of a full head of hair in the bathroom sink; I think its highly unfair that he's able to scare the living daylights out of a frightfully hungover me at the crack of dawn without even going to the effort of being there in person.
But in themselves, Toby sightings are rare.
When leaving for France, I took care to pack in advance- I know what I'm like, and have a tendency to leave everything to the last minute, and it never gets done. Then I spent too long saying goodbye to everyone and had to run out the door- and picked up the wrong bag .
Arriving in France, I opened my bag hunting for my toothbrush- once we'd found a hotelier willing to let us continue to live in sin in peace- and found... packets upon packets of that arch nemesis of dental hygiene, Shortbread.

Oh, yes- I'd arrived in France devoid of anything bar what I was standing up in.

I then spent the next hour trying to get hold of Toby-
"Tobes. Why the hell do I have a bag full of shortbread?"
"I can't explain it Im! It's just... I had a long drive, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and they were buy three get two free and.."
"And you didn't warn me why? You were there when I left!"
"But our bags are so similar, and.. OK. I thought it'd be a nice suprise for you on the plane, I know you hate airport food."
"And you didn't think I'd rather have clothes to wear?"
"Well you do wear J's jeans a lot..."
I hung up.

And then I spent the next week or so wandering around the city in a pair of J's jeans, rolled down to my waist and held in place with a belt and braces- the only shoes I had with me were four inch heels, so I'm now adept at walking in them.
Tick. Good thing.
Good thing I had my lucky beret with me, otherwise I'd have stood out like a mad woman among all them elegant Parisiennes.
Oh, and you know what song was playing in the hotel lift that evening?
Dude Looks Like a Lady. Oh, yes.

The Meeting of Paul

When I visit the hairdressers, all I require is for them not to laugh when I turn up with scary hair, and to set me loose on the London streets again with fabulous hair, and hopefully minimal bits of pesky hair down my back. Unfortunately, this seems to be too much to ask- apparently, this isn't a simple monetary exchange, it's also a test in social graces, on pain of being burned with the hair straightners-which happened twice, when I tried to read my magazine; Vogue, of course. My new hairdresser, Paul, is the conversational master of the city. He's also draw-droppingly camp, periodically breaking off in the middle of a sentence to sing along to Beyonce or Girls Aloud, dance moves perfect. And while in general I approve as this is what I spend too many of my nights doing since I got the Girls Aloud DVD, my tolerance began to wane after sitting in the chair for 3 hours, bits of shorn hair tickling my neck- I've had a phobia of hairdressers, after hearing that if a piece of hair lodges in your foot and manages to remain unnoticed for long enough, it takes root and grows. So you could, in theory, have a little bush of someone else's hair growing from your foot.
*shudder*

Incidentally, I whilst having my hair contorted into strangle and lack lustre shapes, I heard a rumour that Beyonce has had her bottom insured for many many millions of pennies- just as David Beckham's had one of his legs insured.
Why just the one? Best foot forward, and all that?
*shrugs*
I can't think what body part I'd get insured; I don't think any of its quite worth the effort to be quite honest, plus I doubt anyone would want to steal any of it anyway- apart from maybe my kidneys for sale on the black market. Although, that said, I'm quite keen to keep my internal organs intact; scars don't look good on me- I know, I'm missing one appendix. And yellow is such a good colour on some people.

But back to Paul. We spent the last hour of my stupidly long session- almost like psychotherapy, and almost as painful- debating the merits of the Big Brother housemates.
I feel like I've just lost about 50 points of IQ- not that theres anything wrong with "Celebrity" Big Brother, it's just I've had this conversation so many times in the last few days- Z list celebs are my favourite things in the whole wide world. Apart from maybe sponge cake, coffee and anime.

Religious Implications

I've always been fascinated by religion- I love the idea of completely believing in something, with no reservations or regrets. However, in place of a possible unswerving devotion I was endowed with high cynicism levels and a wariness of everything where the asking of questions is not encouraged.
"Hush!" She'd hiss during storyhour, "Don't question it!"
As a child I went to a Christian primary school; a school of such religious rigidity that a girl in my year was once expelled for a week for voicing the view that God was "a woman, a fat black one with beautiful big teeth." Ignoring the fact that this girl has gone on to become a dentist-in-training, she's also a religious drifter; a joyrider, she skims the surface, indulges her interest, brimming with an enthusiasm which fades all too soon to an all encompassing disillusionment.
When I was a little older; three cross country moves, a fifteenth birthday and lost virginity later*, I had friends at the near-by Catholic school. By the fourth year- while I'd gone on to discover an equal interest in men as well as women, one of my friends had been pregnant, one had chlamydia and the other had lost any romanticism she ever possessed- "love?" she says, "as if." Love is not the point; an ardent Catholic, she plans to go on to have children, a husband, share her life, but she no longer factors love into these equations- this is the girl with whom I once spent a rainy bank holiday afternoon planning our eventual weddings; I always said I wouldn't get married, whereas she planned to have a slinky, sexy white dress and confetti with her face printed on the one side, her husbands' on the other. I think we all dreamt of being swept off our feet- why settle?
I don't know how I escaped the trap, or even if I have. I've watched those around me, those with religious upbringings fall into a seemingly unbreakable mould; either an unquestioning belief in a higher power that offers guidance, protection and a sense of near universal belonging- this also seems to come with a pair of gratuitous blinkers and mild santimoniousness; or a fervent refusal to conform, which too often results in a sense of disconnection, disproportion and disillusionment.
I'm on the outside looking in at something I've never had and wouldn't want if I did- unquestioning obeisance has never appealed to me, even as a child.
But still, I'm somewhat envious.

But back on track- France. After a tense plane ride and a slight panic induced, admittedly, by my absent mindedness; forgetting about the whole No Mobiles in Planes thing, I tried to turn my mobile on. Which was fun. We landed in Paris and rolled up at a hotel, slightly damp and an hour later than planned. J held the taxi, on the offchance there were no more vacanices, and I ran in with a newspaper over my head. All very amicable, the lady behind the desk was lovely, asking me questions about Charles and Camilla and the like, questions heavily oriented towards their wedding- did I think they should have married in Church?
And then I dared to ask for a room with a double bed. Her eyes moved in a well practiced flicker from my face to my hand and back again in a second- and she refused, by the time honoured expedient of pretending not to understand what I was asking for.
Ten minutes of determined haggling and rephrasing later and my clothes were beginning to dry, steam rising.
"Mademoiselle, I can give you two single rooms for the same price." Heavy emphasis on the title- if I'd been a married Madame I'd have got the room I'd bloody well asked for.
"But I want a double..." I fled when she started tutting and muttering under her breath.
So our Paris jaunt was off to a grand start- next post; My Boyfriend moved Seats on the Plane So He Could See the Hostesses Better.
But it was still fabulous- oh, yes it was.


*and a hilarious electric toothbrush story later- this story stripped me of a chunk of remaining innocence; parents be warned about sending your children, the apple of your eyes, to boarding school armed with an electric toothbrush- it seems some people will try to get kicks off anything.

Francophonie

With thanks to Mimi in NY (my apologies, but my absolute bone-idleness means I've yet to figure out how to link within posts so please see links column) for reassuring me about my passport issues- one is going to Paris!
About two years ago I spent a year in France getting to grips with my French; it turned out that while I could have a detailed conversation about the environment Francais and the government's foreign policy, I couldn't get a cooked piece of meat for love nor money. I have, however, overcome that slight quirk- quand en France je suis une vegetarienne, c'etait plus facile- and am hugely excited about this impending jaunt.
I've never been to Paris. Ruon, yes; Nice, yes; Lille, yes; but never Paris. I have extensive plans for this five day visit, and may never come back- possible hypothermia not withstanding, how could I not love the idea of a place that has been described like the following;-

"Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine.. London is a teenager, an urchin, and, in this, hasn't changed since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman."

"In Paris, you learn wit, in London you learn to crush your social rivals, and in Florence you learn poise."

- Poise?
It looks like Florence is next on the list. A future of mini-breaks looms ahead of me- I also sewed* up a hole in my gloves, ironed a skirt and went food shopping this morning; 2006, year of impending domesticity.

*Which resulted in widescale sniggering, and threats about future gifts- a thimble, anybody?