Rock Bottom..

... has been duly hit. The intellectual highpoint of my week?

Tom: *giggles slightly to himself as he fishes a Penguin wrapper from down the side of the couch* Ah. Listen to this- Why do Penguins carry fish in their beaks?

Chorus: *warily* Go on...

Tom: Because they haven't got any pockets.

*shocked pause*

Flick: Oh dear.

Me: They're just not trying anymore, are they?

Tom: Did they used to be better than that? Or have we just reached maturiosity?

Me: I like to feel we've all reached sophisticosity, which is the important thing here. But maturiosity? *starts biting nails*

Flick: No, we need another few years yet. *coincidentally, her hair was in pigtails*

Tom: So why aren't they funny anymore?

Flick: Never funny.

Tom: *thoughtfully* Is this like how yo-yos and pogues aren't fun anymore?

Me: Hang on... *fishes Theo's yo-yo out of bag* I always assumed yo-yos would be fun, but my mummy never bought me one of those singing flashing ones, so I gave up. *tries and fails to do something with it*

Tom: *takes yo-yo off me and starts doing complicated things* I always thought the fun part was getting it wrong. *spends next hour playing obsessively with it, while we recall old Penguin jokes*

Q. What kind of fish do penguins eat at night?
A. Star fish.

Q. What kind of music do penguins listen to?
A. Sole music.

See? Never funny, although it took us most of the afternoon to work that out. Did they ever try?

*horrified pause*

Flick: Oh my word. Shall we move on?

Me: I feel like a pillar of strength has been toppled.

Flick: I'd offer you a tipple, but you're still looking a bit green 'round the edges.

Tom: You know what else sucks?

Me: Vacuums?

Flick: *giggles behind her hands and puts on lisp* thounded like a DIRTY quethtion.

Me: *throws cushion at her, as she stares pointedly at me*

Tom: Well, OK. But you know what metaphorically sucks?

Flick: *sniggers endearingly*

Me: *throws another cushion* Black holes?

Tom: You know what isn't cool?

Chorus: Lava?

Hee. I like to think we've reached maturiosity.

When I was younger- we'll say six or seven- me and my best friend used to take it in turns to be poorly at school. We'd spend break time hanging upside down by our knees from the railings, or rolling down the hills. Sometimes, we'd run in circles until we fell over, or we'd eat our apples and down our milk quickly quickly quickly under the impression it would make us ill. Whatever we did, we did it with the goal of leaving school, going home.

Fourteen years on (god, now I do feel old. I really really hope that I've counted it wrong. Has been known) I still make myself dizzy sometimes, but in a different way and for a different purpose. I read somewhere that the difference between a fear of heights and a fear of falling is all the difference in the world; and I have the latter- it took some pretty hefty hands on experience that I have nightmares about, but I now know I'm definitely scared of falling. Not falling as in, y'know, over, but from. Something.

So when I'm scared about something, for instance, oh I don't know- starting a new job? Just to pluck a random example that has nothing to do with what I'm doing on Monday, I imagine the world.

Not as weird as it sounds, have faith. In the words of a friend- and this should have been consigned to the dead jokes list by now, as we killed it and danced about on its remains- the 'worlds like, quite big place, innit.'

So I picture the whole thing, and when I do it I feel myself falling again- it's a guaranteed way to make myself vaguely dizzy and go red (I use it on stage when my character needs to blush. But thats for another time), and then I feel insignificant. If you will, it's a way of distancing myself from the worry at hand; making it seem insignificant.

Which it is, really.

Once I think about things like this, doing things like starting a new job or- eventually- throwing everything over and going travelling, or pretty much anything else on this list.

And a few more things, like never ever using the word 'cunt' in front of my siblings again, no matter how hard I've stubbed my toe on the bloody impractical marble stairs.

And seeing the Scissor Sisters live, and, and, and... so many things! Including open up to people.

*pauses*

Back on track. When I look at things this way, nothing really seems like a biggie, which helps. Somewhat.

During school holidays, I used to sneak out of the house the same way- out of the window in the spare bedroom, onto the garage roof, onto the bins then make a bid for freedom.

The girl has no luck at all when it comes to things like sneaking out, giving the occasional blowjob. Unfortunately for Fiona, I was sitting out on the front steps at the time engaging in my first ever cigarette kiss- with Joel, of course- and she got busted.
The front steps are in a perpetual shadow, so she didn't see us, and I was inclined to just let her go and ask about it in the morning, but Joel temporarily stepped in as babysitter- he seems to think I'm the worst possible choice my mother could have made, regarding keeping an eye on her kiddies while she swans about the motherland.
"Is that your sister?" he hissed at me quietly.
"Um. Yes. Do you think she looks like me?"
"I remember, you used to sneak out that way too. Has your mother never caught on?"

I was a lot more creative than Fi though; it's impossible to climb back into the house, so Saturday mornings would inevitably find me up and about at dawn, bringing in the milk/ eggs/ with a headache that meant I'd had to go for a walk- whatever, but I'd always have managed to lock myself out.
Looking back, I have no idea why she never twigged; normal people do not get dressed up in Saturday night gear (for a more accurate image, think underage clubber) at that hour of the morning.

He stood up and yelled after her, "Fiona! Get back here right now, missy. Where do you think you're going?"
Oh dear.
So back she came, sullen and muttering under her breath, but my attention was mostly caught by her outfit. "Blimey Fi. Are those my boots? And my dress as well?"
Whereas I think Joel was staring at the way it fit her, because he started laughing. "Do you have any idea what you look like?"

Now, I get mistaken for a prostitute fairly often- I'm not sure what it is about me, but there's something that makes posh hotels bar their doors to me- 'Miss, we dont have that sort of thing here.' That kind of thing.

So I jumped in, quickly. "Um. Darling, I'm not sure that dress--"
"What do you think?" She asked, twirling slightly.
"You look hot."
She preened.
"But you're a bit too.. well, maybe just a touch too big for that dress, sugar." She stopped preening abruptly.
"But if you want to go out, go ahead. I won't stop you."

Success! She didn't go.

-----------

And then this morning I met her boyfriend. He came to call for her while I was out flirting with the postman; which essentially means I had him all to myself for about half an hour- well, until Joel chimed in.
He stuck his head out the kitchen window and asked the poor boy what his intentions were. Fi's boyfriend looked blank- he clearly hasn't been reading enough staple English literature- so Joel expounded his theme. "What are your intentions, sir?" He asked again. "Will you behave honourably or... dishonourably?" His voice dropped to a dramatic hiss on that last word.

And then Fiona's bit of rough surprised me.

"Why, you mean I have a choice?"

I'm in a bit of a snit, because I got my first rude comment. And no comments afterwards. And it was a post about my current neuroses, and the bitchy remark made me more neurotic (yes, it's true I don't deserve Joel, I believe I said that in a slightly wordier fashion. And please, write I not i, otherwise I will be forced to hate you and laugh and laugh until you arrive in the special circle of hell reserved for people who don't capitalise the first person singular). Which all makes perfect sense, yes? Oh, and Blogger's been a bitch.

I have a Batman action figurine who travels everywhere with me- as in, he moves house when I do, rather than I keep him in my handbag for emergencies. Actually, what kind of emergencies would those be? Theo is very attracted to this toy; presumably because I stupidly told him it was off limits, so he keeps filching it from under my nose when my attention is focused elsewhere.
Because, while I am on holiday and have nothing better to do, I haven't quite reached the stage where I obsess about the whereabouts of one of my toys. Ahem, ornaments. Models. Collectors items. *gives up*

This Batman toy is the most flexible figurine I've ever met- and I've been disillusioned in this field ever since I broke my Barbie's legs during a fit of boredom in the back of the car on a trip to the seaside. But Batman is not only poseable, he's also a very stalwart guardian- currently he's set to guarding the printer; presumably that's where Theo was when his fickle-o-meter ticked away from him.
The printer being on the floor, Batman has discovered a new nemesis. The cats, who artlessly topple him from his perch with a flick of their tails.

It's tough being a superhero when you're only six inches tall.

Well fuck me. I got the job.

EDIT: I can't believe I managed to persuade someone I was employable. Cannot fucking believe it. Even if they did ruin it slightly- "At W and Partner we believe it's not about how good you are, but how good you want to be."

Which is clearly tosh. Maybe it applies to the other candidates.

This evening I have to create a CV.

This is posing a problem, as I have no relevant employment history- being a Christmas Elf for Lush notwithstanding.

And no hobbies to speak of, as I have been informed that getting drunk, dancing on the occasional table, sleeping with most of the more beautiful people I meet, satisfying each and everyone of my hopeless addictions, putting myself first, falling off my high heels, behaving like the arrogant yet insecure thespian I am, writing the odd article for the local rag, watching too much anime, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw, being an inactive member of Amnesty International and capitalising on the credit I got from them when I was sixteen, being posh and just generally being a brazen hussy are not things I should inform potential employers about. If I want them to hire me.

I wouldn't hire me, to be fair.

I have an interview tomorrow.

Which is a good start, finance wise.

This morning my mother went back to the motherland, leaving me alone- and ostensibly in charge of- my younger siblings for the next two weeks.

Which in short means I've spent my Saturday evening cleaning out the kitchen cupboards. Ten minutes in I rang my mother-
"Anne**. I've just found a packet of soya mince dating from 1999."
"Oh. Has it gone off?"
"Well, presumably. I'm not opening it to check."
"Don't throw it out, kızim***! Just put it to one side and I'll look at it when I get home."

Urgh. I threw it out- along with pretty much everything else, even the box of ready mix semalina from 1995. It does, however, make a very good threat when it comes to keeping the dear children in line. My little sister, Fiona, is being contrary- something along the lines of "you're not my fucking mother, I don't have to listen to you." But her attitude has improved somewhat, after I promised that some of the food from the back of the cupboards will end up in her meals if she doesn't listen to me.

And really, what do you do when an irate parent hauls your fourteen year old sister home, after catching her giving her son a blowjob in the park?

Well, I laughed. Apparently not the right response.

And then I rang my friends to spread the word- I feel it's my duty as a) a good sister and b) the one she's been abusing all day to make sure this story doesn't creep under the woodwork. But one and all, they were slightly shocked- "Oh my god, so what did you do?" they asked me. I'm going to do anything. Except snigger about it from time to time.

I mean, most people don't get caught, so I kind of feel sorry for her. When she's not being a little bitch in my general direction. How old were you, the first time you did anything like that?




** Pronounced ann-ay. Turkish. Means mum.
*** My daughter.