TheCatGirlSpeaks

Conversation 16

2012-01-17T19:45:00.003+02:00

Some more Little Letters today.

Dear Students, I'm marking as fast as I can. You emailing me to see if you've passed and can have the afternoon off isn't helping.

Dear iPhone, I know you're on your last legs. Please, hold on until May.

Dear Sales, I'm so over you. Let's have some nice new stuff. Not summer frocks, mind. It's still freezing.

Dear Boots, I spend a lot of money with you. A lot. So when I find that my Advantage Card is faulty, and hasn't recorded any purchases this year - despite the points balance showing up on my receipts - it makes me sad. No, of course I don't have the receipts for the hundred or so pounds I've spent. And no, I (mainly) didn't pay with a card so I can't provide a bank statement.

Dear John Lewis, in sharp contrast, your customer service is excellent. Thank you for sorting out my toilet seat woes so promptly.

Dear The Depressions, I hate you. You make me the very worst version of myself possible, all anxious and introspective. I can usually manage you, as you're always lurking, but just now I'm struggling.

Dear January, why aren't you over? You are miserable. You are really not helping with The Depressions.

Dear RH, I love you, you are amazing. Even when I'm being anxious and introspective, and questioning everything, you take it in your stride. You're my best friend, and I feel so, so lucky to have you. Thank you for putting up with me being a complete mentalist.

Conversation 16 - The National

We Rule the School

2012-01-11T22:04:00.003+02:00

Back to work. Back to work with a bang and slap, because, by some mean irony, we go straight from lovely, lovely holiday, to one of the two busiest periods of the year. I've gone from happy and relaxed, to mega stressed and furiously irritable in a flash. I suspect PMT has its nasty little hand in the mix, but the fact we now have a massive 12 weeks until the next break certainly doesn't help.

Work is proper bobbins. Fact.

Yesterday, I read a puff piece in Grazia about some woman's working wardrobe, and how if she doesn't feel good in what she wears, her day's spoilt. My usual approach to work clothes is to migrate things from my non-work wardrobe once I get fed up with them, but today I decided to experiment. So last night I painted my nails with Chanel's Dragon, and selected my outfit with care. Today I went to work in a short black dress, printed with galloping horses, wine coloured opaques (for a pop of colour, as they say in the fashion mags) and my black Chelsea boots. I put on my Alex Monroe necklace, and some Tatty Devine swallow earrings. Not dis-similar to my usual work garb, to be honest, but things that I'd usually save for socialising.

I looked good. I felt good. It lasted for about 20 minutes, while I walked to work (and my fab outfit was hidden by my parka), and then my good feeling vanished the minute I walked through the doors.

Thanks, Grazia, for leading me to downgrade one of my nice outfits which is now tainted with work, and forever relegated.

What do you wear to work? Do you keep your work wardrobe strictly segregated from your "real life" clothes, or swap in and out?

We Rule the School - Belle and Sebastian

Expectations

2012-01-05T18:53:00.006+02:00

My holiday's creeping to a close. This makes me sad. To cheer myself up, on a day that was possibly as cold as I've felt in a long time, I had lunch with my friend S. We ate soup and paninis, and huge slabs of carrot cake, washed down with juice, and then coffee, and it was lovely. More lovely for me than it was for S, I suspect, who had to go and be sick several times during our meal.

If I'm sick, it's the end of the world. I cry. S takes it in her stride, because this is what's happened pretty much every time she's eaten since she had a gastric band fitted about six years ago.

When I first met S, she was a size 24, and 4ft 10inches tall. She's now a size 14. At a size 24, her health was severely impacted by her weight, and her mobility was beginning to become compromised. Now, she's like a different person. She still has some way to go to reach what's medically deemed a "healthy" BMI, but her life, and health, have changed beyond recognition.

But, oh, the complications. She's been hospitalised on numerous occasions, after the band became blocked, leading to her suffering with severe dehydration. There's the ongoing reflux issue, which is part of day-to-day life for her now. There's the swathes of loose skin she's been left with. And then there's the fact that she received next to no support in terms of what she should and shouldn't be eating, and that the band's much more keen on allowing her to eat vast slices of cake than healthy bowls of home-made soup.

S had her band fitted on the NHS. I'm not sure she would get that now, as things have tightened up a bit. Between the band and all the subsequent care she's received, the costs would be into tens of thousands. If she reaches and maintains her goal weight, she may be entitled to cosmetic surgery to reduce the loose skin.

Each month, I weep at the amount of money which goes from my hard-earned pay packet on tax and National Insurance. I'm certain S, who's worked since she was 16 and is now in her late 40s, does too. I can't help but wonder, though, if there's not a better and cheaper way to tackle weighty issues like these. Should cosmetic surgery really be available on the NHS? Who decides when a cosmetic issue becomes a health issue, and gets funded accordingly?

Expectations - Belle and Sebastian

A Parting Gesture

2012-01-03T22:00:00.004+02:00

I'm never going to be one of those girls who throws herself into a love affair and declares "This is IT!". I'm always going to be more about the slowly, slowly, softly, softly approach. Sometimes it worries me that this cautious way of being means that I haven't met the right person - maybe if that's the case, I'd meet The One, and throw caution to the wind.

I don't think that's it though. Once I read some piece in a magazine where the person being interviewed said the biggest realisation in their life had been knowing that they'd never be more than 80% sure about anything. I think that's me. So, while there's no doubt that I love RH, and that he's my best friend, and that I can't imagine a future without him in my life, there's been no rush for things to move forward in terms of living together, engagment or the like.

But. Last month I took, for me, a huge step. I had a set of keys cut for the Cat House for RH. I know, you throw-caution-to-the-wind types are laughing at me, but for me, it was significant. It was, I admit, partly driven by the fact RS who has my other spare keys is travelling a lot, but still.

Until yesterday, RH's keys have only been used while I've been in the house. If he's nipped out for milk or something. Yesterday, he had to get up early to catch a train for a football match/day's drinking. I stayed in bed. And when he went to let himself out and lock the door, we discovered his key for the interior door didn't work. I had to get up, and this made me very grumpy indeed.

I'm really hoping that he just couldn't operate the complicated five lever lock on the door, and that this isn't a bad omen.

A Parting Gesture - The Bluetones

Spend, Spend, Spend

2011-12-28T18:23:00.004+02:00

It's that lull between Christmas and new year. Betwixtmas. I'm off work, but most people I know seem to be back, including RH, so, it comes down to a choice between lying on the sofa stuffing my face with cheese, chocolate and Christmas cake, or the sales. I choose shopping over eating. Most of the time.

Except, I'm crap at sales. I earn a decent salary, so if I want something, I buy it when it's full price. RH and I ventured in on Boxing Day (he's a good shopper, but did have to be placated with a Nando's for a late lunch) and I bought some towels. And a full price dress. Today I took a wander down to John Lewis. I bought a Chanel eyeshadow, full price, some tealights, full price, and a candle, also full price. All around me people were scooping up armfuls of stuff and gleefully rushing to the tills.

Really? I thought.

Anyway. Christmas was a bit weepy by myself during the day, but I had a perfect night in with RH once that was past. He excelled himself with the presents, again. I got my Alex Monroe necklace, a Tatty Devine brooch, a glorious Rob Ryan vase, and the Temporary Secretary fox bag. We drank champagne, and my new underwear went down very well, thanks for asking.

I've never understood the fuss about new year's eve, and last went out when I was about 22. This year will be no different, but I will be welcoming 2012 with RH by my side, and possibly having a second attempt at flicky eyeliner, a la Sali Hughes' Guardian column. We're going to do a roast, and have more champagne.

See you on the other side!

Spend, Spend, Spend - The Bible

Coming Around Again

2011-12-22T13:27:00.003+02:00

I've seen a raft of people re-publishing their first ever blog posts, and reflecting on what's changed. But I'm not going to do that, because my first blog posts were, frankly, crap, and I actually went back and deleted some of them anyway. Instead, here are five things that have changed in the five years I've been writing this blog, and five things that haven't.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

1) I'm no longer dreading Christmas. In fact, I'd actually go as far as to say that I'm looking forward to it. I'll still be on my own for the bulk of the day, but will be spending the evening and boxing day with RH. I'll be wearing my sparkly Christmas frock, and some rather special new underwear I got from Figleaves. I'm dubious about some of the gifts I have for RH, but I'm certain he'll enjoy unwrapping me.

2) I've moved down a completely new career path. It's been harder than I expected, and if I'd known just how hard, I don't think I'd have bothered. I hope to return to my original path again when (if?) the economy picks up.

3) I've put a lot of my old fears about relationships aside. Not all of them, mind, but a good amount. This is partly to do with having a bit more faith in myself, but mainly to do with RH having faith in me, and me in him. I'm loved, I love, and I love it.

4) I've embraced technology. Call me a late adapter, but it took me until this summer to get on board with Twitter, and until 2010 to have an iPhone. Better late than never, no?

5) My style's gone full circle. I now rarely wear trousers or jeans, and the largest section of my wardrobe is composed of dresses. Which is kind of how it was when I was at university, oddly enough.

Just the Way You Are

1) I am still living in the Cat House. When I bought it, I didn't expect to still be there almost 15 years on - I was a student when I became a homeowner - but one never knows.

2) My hair's gone from Louise Brooks-esque bob, to a jaunty crop, and now back to the bob again. It fell out when I first started this job (hence the crop), and I'm hoping that never happens again. It was awful.

3) I'm still over-spending, all the time. I am truly a weapon of massive consumption. I keep saying it has to stop, but I have no willpower.

4) Despite it being disgusting, anti-social, and dangerous, I still smoke.

5) I'm probably about a stone lighter than I was back in 2006, and even then I wasn't exactly huge, but I can't help fretting about my weight. I suspect this one will never change, regardless of what else happens. I need to keep reminding myself, a size 10 - a 12 on a bad day - is NOT fat, no matter what the media tells me.

Coming Around Again - Carly Simon

Get The Party Started

2011-12-10T21:33:00.005+02:00

Forgive me, bloggers, for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last post. I fear this blog is turning into a series of excuses.

Today, I will mostly be talking about two things. Christmas parties, and shopping.

Ding dong merrily, tis the season to don one's sparkly frock and come over all inappropriate at the office party. Across the country, amateur drinkers will be puking on their shoes tonight, having had their fill at a free bar, mopped up with a couple of sausage rolls or a bite of chicken satay. But oh, not me. Because at my work there's no Christmas party. Bah humbug. Instead, there's what's billed as a "cheese and wine evening" - presumably so as not to offend people from other religions. I like wine, I like cheese (although blue cheeses, tragically, give me migraines, despite being delicious) so what's not to love? I'll tell you what. It's held in the staff canteen. It starts at 5pm and finishes at 6.45pm. You have to pay to go.

Really? Call me a dog in the manger, and my colleagues do, but I'm not attending. The real reason for this, however, goes somewhat deeper. Back, back, back in the mists of time, I actually temped at my current workplace while I was between jobs in the glamorous world of television. And during that spell of temping, I attended said cheese and wine evening. In advance, a colleague told me that there's always someone who gets so drunk they're sick, there's always a fight, and there's always someone who ends up snogging someone they shouldn't. Yup. Me. All three. And to make it worse, the person I snogged was a girl.

So, no more cheese and wine evenings of shame for me.

To make up for my non-work party, I have embraced the blogger cliche and bought myself this little dress from Toppers.

I'd tried it on several times, and rejected it as indecently short, then it sold out, and I felt sad. So when it came back in and I was still hankering after it, I said, sod it, and bought it anyway. I'll wear it on Christmas day with opaque tights and biker boots, so hopefully it won't be too slutty looking. I also purchased this cosy parka, egged on by RS. Sensible, but still chic, no?

My other big purchase was a Cambridge Satchel Company satchel, which is a bit of a mixed bag (ha). It's certainly a thing of immense beauty - I got the navy 15" one - but actually getting it was a real bind due to poor communication, and it being sent out to my workplace with no name on the package. And even though it's MASSIVE, it's actually not quite big enough for all my junk, as the leather's so rigid. I'm hoping it will give a bit though.

In other news, RH and I received our first joint Christmas card yesterday. I didn't even flinch.

Get The Party Started - Pink

Breaking Down

2011-11-10T22:59:00.002+02:00

This has been one of the worst weeks I've had in a long time.

On Monday, I discovered that a proposal's under consideration at work which would see my job effectively become redundant within the next two years.

On Tuesday, I came home to find a letter from my upstairs neighbour advising the roof needs hundreds of pounds worth of repairs.

Yesterday a student made me cry.

Today I had expensive and painful dental treatment, and I need more in a fortnight. Then the Sainsbury's delivery man brought a load of substitutes, including four bottles of wine at double the price of what I'd actually ordered.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Surely things can only get better?

Breaking Down - Florence and the Machine

We Are Nowhere and It's Now

2011-11-01T21:56:00.003+02:00

Blimey, 14 days since my last post. Can you believe it's the first of November already? And did you think I'd vanished again? Nope. I've just been mega busy. So, here are 14 things from the last 14 days.

1) RH and I had a FABULOUS time in Edinburgh at the lovely Hotel Missoni. We ate and we drank, we saw a gig, we did a tiny bit of shopping (or really, I did) and also separately caught up with friends over Saturday lunch. Oh, and I saw Nick off The Apprentice in the hotel bar.

2) I'm sad The Bachelor's over. I'm sadder still that he picked the terrible Carrianne.

3) I'm already starting to struggle with the dark nights (afternoons here, let's face it), and the clocks only went back on Sunday.

4) Discount codes have been making me happy. I've bought two fab frocks from Warehouse in the last week, both with 25% off.

5) Work is killing me. Too much, too many, and too, too hard.

6) I need a mass of dental treatment. A shameful four fillings to be precise.

7) On Friday I started Christmas shopping. How very organised! At that point, I didn't know about all the dental treatment.

8) I'm loving Deborah Lippman nailpolishes. I'd highly recommend Waking Up In Vegas; the perfect grey.

9) I'm very much looking forward to I'm a Celebrity - Get Me Out of Here starting, soon.

10) My Twitter addiction's grown. I'm delighted to have reached over 100 followers since starting in the summer. I know, small fry to most, but little things... You can follow me via the button on the sidebar there.

11) RH has the man flu. My well of sympathy is running dry, and I'm desperately hoping I don't catch it. Vicks First Defence is being snorted at an alarming rate.

12) I've stopped eating bread in a bid to try and sort out my IBS, which is going a bit nuts with all the stress at work. I've lost a couple of pounds, but god, bread substitutes are rubbish, and nothing quite beats toast.

13) I'm swithering and dithering over whether or not to see We Need to Talk About Kevin, and The Help, both films of books I loved.

14) I finally have a working DVD player, courtesy of my mum and P who have something like 27 of them. Now I just need a copy of the 30 Day Shred.

We Are Nowhere and It's Now - Bright Eyes

Gone to Shit

2011-10-18T20:30:00.004+02:00

The best laid plans, they say, are apt to go wrong. This week, my precious holiday week, is a good example of that.

First, there was my friend P, who has the dreaded lurgy, and thus had to cancel our long-planned lunch today. And secondly, there's my mother. I try to limit contact with my mother to neutral territory. Going to her and P's love-nest, which bears no resemblance at all to my family home, and has all traces of my dad eradicated, always makes me feel a bit sad. So, despite her campaigning for me to go out to have dinner with them this week, I'd made my excuses, and we'd agreed to have lunch in town. I booked a lovely restaurant for 1pm tomorrow. Except, rather gruesomely, my mother emailed to tell me she has roaring cystitis, and piles. I don't even want to think how that came about. So, I've had to cancel evening plans with another friend tomorrow, and am schlepping out there to have dinner with her and P after all.

Excellent.

Add to that the crappy weather, and the fact that I was verbally abused by a homeless person who was treating Waterstones like her living room, and it's not going brilliantly. Not to mention my upstairs neighbour who's knocking down a wall - every blow he makes feels like it's going through my skull.

Let's hope no-one else (especially me) gets ill, and that my hairdresser doesn't end up being snowed in or something.

Gone to Shit - Lightspeed Champion

Breathe

2011-10-13T22:24:00.003+02:00

Tomorrow, after nine long weeks of work, I'm on holiday. Yippee! Only for a week, which is going to fly by, but god, I need it. I knew things were always going to be challenging for those who made it through the cuts, but I'm not sure I had a clue how hard they were going to be. Everyone's feeling under the cosh, and I think I'm possibly a bit worse off than others, given that my maternity-leave-loving colleague is now not returning until February, and even then only two mornings a week. (If you missed that saga, we started work at the same time in 2008, after three months she was pregnant, off for a year, returned pregnant on a two-day week, and is still off. Meanwhile, muggins here's picking up the slack. Bitter and childless? Moi?)

I'm looking forward to a week of catching up with friends, and less so, my mother. I'm desperately looking forward to a weekend away in a swanky hotel with RH, and slightly less so, to seeing Bon Iver live. The posh hotel's compensation for the gig I don't especially want to go to. I'm looking forward to not having to get up when it's still dark, and I'm looking forward to having time to do something in the evenings as opposed to a bit of work, dinner, make my lunch, paint my nails, sort out my clothes for tomorrow, then bed. I've barely even read a book in weeks.

I may be dragging my ass out of bed tomorrow, but man, I will be skipping out that door when the clock strikes 4.30. Skipping.

Breathe - Sleeper

Obstacle 1

2011-10-01T13:41:00.002+02:00

If I had to write a list of points that would make up my perfect partner, RH would tick many of the boxes. He's funny and kind and generous and clever. He's an amazing kisser and gives the best cuddles. We just "get" each other. We have similar educational backgrounds, and moral compasses, and our value systems are pretty much identical. Sure, there are elements of my "list" that I've had to compromise on - he's not quite as handsome as some of the other boyfriends I've had, he doesn't particularly like dogs, and he's, frankly, absolutely useless at any form of DIY. Those points I figure I can live with. He may not be drop dead gorgeous, but he he's tall with a lovely smile and big blue eyes, and the fact he understands and supports me even when I'm being completely mental tops the ability to put up shelves.

There's one area, though, that we fundamentally, utterly, disagree on. And that's the TV. I will happily and greedily mainline a diet of utter trash, while RH likes to watch things which have meaning and educational value. Take last night, when my (solo) viewing schedule was thus: 7 - 7.30, Emmerdale, 7.30 - 8, Corrie, 8 - 8.30, a quick hoover and polish while a gardening show was on, 8.30 - 9, Corrie again, 9 - 10, Big Brother, 10 - 11, The Bachelor. There was more Big Brother after that, but I had to go to bed. That, to me, was a great evening's viewing. Coupled with a Pizza Express pizza from Sainsbury's and some Cadbury's Giant Buttons, a pedicure, and a couple of magazines, all in my Meerkat pyjamas, it was a perfect night in.

Now we're into the autumn schedules, my heart sings - oh, X Factor, oh (hopefully) I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. And that's not to mention my new favourite TV channel, "Really", which mainly features old episodes of Snog, Marry, Avoid. Really, there's no reason to go out any more.

RH loves sport. All sport, but especially cricket (yawn) and football. I hate it. Is this the man equivalent of trash telly? And is it normal for couples to have such opposing tastes? How do other people manage if they do? One thing's for sure, if (when) we start living together, we will absolutely definitely need two television sets.

Obstacle 1 - Interpol

I've Been Let Down

2011-09-26T20:19:00.003+02:00

Shall we have a little update on the Warehouse/courier situation?

When I placed my order on Tuesday, it was after 4pm, meaning "next day" delivery wasn't available. I could, however, select a "nominated day", and chose the next available option - Thursday. On Wednesday I received an email from Warehouse saying the parcel had been sent out, and that if I clicked on a link the following morning, there should be a designated one hour delivery slot. Happy days.

Except, it wasn't so happy after all. Because on Thursday morning the link showed the parcel was awaiting despatch. So I phoned Warehouse, and was told that they couldn't guarantee delivery to certain postcodes, and, despite being in one of Scotland's biggest cities, mine was one. (I can understand this if you live in a remote island, but really?) In fairness, it does say this on the website's small print, but it wasn't mentioned to me when I spoke to them on the phone the previous day. Anyway. I was told that orders could be delayed by a day, and I should have the parcel on Friday.

What do you know? On Friday the status was the same. And when I emailed Warehouse I was, essentially, told to suck it up. The courier company don't deliver on Saturdays, and I wasn't at work then either, so I figured it would be today. But, you guessed it, the status is still at awaiting despatch. I emailed Warehouse at 8.30am asking for a definite delivery date, and now, almost 12 hours later, I've had no reply. I've tweeted about it in various conversations, and received messages from @warestyle, but clearly social media and customer services are two different departments with zero communication.

Long time readers of this blog will know my wardrobe's primarily composed of Warehouse goods. The girls in my local shop know me by name. This is my first experience of buying online from them (the dress wasn't available in store, or at least my store), and one I definitely will NOT repeat.

Meanwhile, here's lovely Sarah in the dress. I hope it looks as good on me.

I've Been Let Down - Mazzy Star

It Beats Me Every Time

2011-09-20T20:08:00.002+02:00

Working full time and online shopping can be a gamble. Last week, I ordered a dress from Warehouse. On the website they say that some items may require a signature. And today, it transpired that the item I'd ordered - despite being standard delivery - did. So I called the courier company, and I asked them if they could re-deliver to my work address. They said they could only do this with written permission from the sender. Ludicrous, no?

I've had experience of this company, Yodel, before, and it wasn't good. On that occasion the website I'd ordered from gave the option of specifying a "safe place" for delivery if you're not in, which I did. The courier left a card through the door, which again gave the option of specifying a safe place for delivery. I did this, and they left another card through the door. We played out this charade a third time, and the courier then left a note on the card to say he wasn't allowed to leave the parcel without a signature. I eventually had it re-directed to my mum's, and by the time I saw her, and discovered the dress was miles too big, the window to return it had passed. RS loves it though.

I phoned Warehouse, who told me that items ordered with next day delivery, which costs more, are sent with a courier which doesn't require a signature. Which to me seems arse about tit, but never mind. It transpired that the simplest option was to have Warehouse re-call the dress from the courier company, and for me to re-order, next day delivery, to my work address. My work won't be very keen on this, but I can't quite see another option.

Interestingly, Warehouse are part of the same umbrella brand as Oasis. Last time I ordered from Oasis the courier didn't even attempt to deliver to my house - he just left the parcel lying at the foot of the communal stairs, despite my being home. I almost fell over it when I went to take some rubbish out.

Warehouse were very helpful on the phone, and admitted the courier service was a problem. So why do they use them? And why aren't they more specific about what does and doesn't need a signature on their website? It appears the courier offers a service for people who either don't work, or work from home, which seems a fairly flawed business model to me.

What's the bet I either don't like the dress when it appears, or it doesn't fit?

It Beats Me Every Time - Peter, Bjorn and John

Dear Prudence

2011-09-15T22:34:00.008+02:00

Some more Little Letters today:

Dear Hairdresser, you are a genius. I wish you weren't so expensive, but I suppose you get what you pay for.

Dear Warehouse, you are taking all my money. In the last fortnight I've bought this, and am waiting on this arriving. It's a good job I got a nice big rebate from the electric people, isn't it?

Dear Twitter, I can't really get to grips with you, and I don't understand your etiquette. When I pluck up the courage to tweet someone and they don't reply, it makes me sad, and I wonder if I'm making a huge cyber faux pas.

Dear Brother, your Facebook updates about all your foreign holidays (mainly paid for by your wife's family) only serve to annoy me. I have hidden you from my newsfeed.

Dear Mother, bragging about my brother's good fortune makes me want to scream. Why can't you be proud of me, and what I've achieved under my own steam?

Dear Sainsbury's, I thought you offered delivery slots so people could book convenient times. If I book for 9 - 10, I don't want the driver to ring at 8pm saying he's coming now.

Dear Work, You are killing me. Really.

Dear Big Brother, X Factor, and The Bachelor, I'm ashamed that I like you so much. You make me feel dirty, but I can't help myself.

Dear RH, I love that after seven years (okay, on and off, one year really) you are still making me mix CDs. Don't ever change.

Catxxx

Dear Prudence - The Beatles

A Knife for the Girls

2011-09-10T19:37:00.004+02:00

Today, I am mostly feeling fat, with a side order of "meh".

I got up this morning, and I weighed myself, like I do every Saturday. I weigh 10stone 7lb, which is a perfectly healthy weight for someone of 5ft 6, giving me a BMI of 23.something, and exactly the same as I've weighed for the last year or so. I pottered around the house for a bit, before painting my nails (the lovely, gorgeous Peridot from Chanel's new collection - beautiful) and then having a bath, followed by a shower, and getting dressed. I'm wearing this dress from Warehouse, in UK size 12, with a crocheted Urban Outfitters top over it, in size small, and a Topshop vest under it, in size 10. When I go out shortly, I'll put on a vintage Berketex suede coat, also in size 10.

On paper, that all sounds not exactly slim, but certainly not huge either. So why do I feel it? And why do I feel like I could stay in and put my pyjamas on instead? I'm not even going out-out, just round to RH's where he's cooking dinner. He wouldn't care if I was a size 30, or if I did actually show up in my pyjamas and Uggs. Why is it that my weight is the thing that dictates whether I feel happy or sad, even if it's actually exactly the same as I usually weigh?

Answers on a postcard, please.

A Knife for the Girls - The Long Blondes

The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils

2011-09-06T22:47:00.003+02:00

When I'm having a bad day at work, I try to remind myself of the things that are good about my job. I can walk there in 15 minutes, I can pretty much wear what I like, even rebelling against the "no jeans" rule (black skinnies are kind of trousers, no?), the holidays are good, I get a lot of presents, and, of course, I'm sharing my wisdom and shaping young minds. Ahem. Seriously though, most of the time I love what I do, and I'm fortunate enough to be appreciated by the students I teach, who are, in the main, smart and funny and keen to learn.

The bad parts of my job are plentiful too though. There's constantly being on my feet, running from place to place and not being able to have a proper lunch or teabreak, the talking non-stop, often at a higher than usual volume (you say projecting, I say shouting, potato, potato), and the out of hours working can be a killer. But the worst thing of all is the germs. They are everywhere. The lifts are crammed with bodies, and people are sneezing and spluttering all over the place. Grimsville.

And so, a short month after my return to work, where I had a stinking cold, I find myself re-infected. Excellent. The first "class cold" of the academic year. I wonder how many times it will do the rounds before Christmas?

The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils - The Smiths

Do You Remember The First Time?

2011-09-02T22:12:00.004+02:00

School started properly for me this week, and frankly, I'm exhausted. It's been nine weeks since I last taught, and I'd forgotten how tiring it is. And that's not taking into account the sea of unfamiliar faces with new names to learn, and the strange, fragmented, timetable I keep forgetting. I'm glad the first week's over, and I'm hoping next week will be easier.

All that said, there's something I quite like about this time of year. The new stuff may make me weary, but it's a little bit exciting too. The first of September has been and gone, and while it feels like summer never really arrived here, I'm quite looking forward to nights cuddled up on the couch with the curtains closed and the candles lit. I've never really cast off my opaque tights this year, but I'm starting to crave chunky cardis and my lovely vintage suede coat. I have my beady eye on a gorgeous cable knit number in Toppers at the moment.

Tomorrow marks a year since RH and I had our first "proper" date - who knew I could make it this far? I couldn't have done it without his endless patience! Having engaged in multiple social activities last weekend (dinner and cinema), and given my knackered state, we're opting for a night in - he's cooking, but I'm providing the champagne. On Sunday I'm dreading lunch with RH, my mum and P. Eeep. I don't much care what my mum thinks of RH, but I'm afraid I'll revert to my usual sulky-teenager state around her, and RH might not like me when I'm like that. I don't much like myself when I'm like that, if I'm honest. I'm also uneasy about P tagging along - he's not my dad, and it kind of feels like he's muscling in on that role. Hopefully it will be short and painless.

In other news, a seagull shat all over me as I walked home from work on Wednesday. Apparently that's lucky, but I suspect only for the dry cleaner, since I just collected that coat from there about three weeks back. (At least it wasn't the aforementioned suede one.) But you never know, do you?

Do You Remember The First Time? - Pulp
(I've been earworming various Pulp songs since seeing coverage of them live at Leeds/Reading last weekend. Love. Jarvis, I SO would.)

One Day

2011-08-28T22:21:00.003+02:00

It's been a busy old week in the Cat House. Following Tuesday's pregnancy testing excitement, RH and I went to see Interpol on Wednesday. They were excellent, and my ears are yet to recover. On Friday RS came round for food and wine, and then yesterday RH and I went for dinner, before going to the cinema to see One Day.

Today, I am mostly going to tell you about One Day, which is one of my best beloved books. I was full of anticipation, and a little apprehensive. Because a film of a book can kill a book stone dead. In this case, the concept of a day a year for 20 years worked brilliantly in the book, but I was unsure how that would translate to the big screen. Reviews I'd read made me anxious, and I actually suggested to RH that we should sacrifice the tickets and skip it, but he insisted.

So. Reports about Anne Hathaway's accent are entirely justified. Why they didn't just make Emma American, I don't know, as nowhere in the film do they discuss her Yorkshire roots. Characterisation is weak overall, and you're left wondering exactly why Emma likes Dexter, who is essentially charmless, if utterly dishy. Emma's portrayed as the little woman, hanging on for him, there's no mention of her political leanings, and the things which make her seem real are a little lost. The whole "affair with the headmaster" bit is skipped - as are a lot of parts of the book - which leaves her looking drippy.

The year concept works okay, but the length of the film means some years flash by - one's simply a shot of Emma swimming. Eh?! The narrative which gives an insight into the characters is pretty much lost, and while the dialogue tries to cram in enough to encapsulate the characters' characters, it doesn't work brilliantly. The letters early on in the book give a real flash inside Emma's head particularly, and it's a shame there couldn't have been a way to get parts of this in.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. And yes, I wept. Not as much as RH, mind, but he wells up at an ad with a cat on it. I'm glad I saw it, but I think the trick here has to be to see it as a film in its own right, not a film of a book, which is harder than it sounds.

One Day - Bjork

Pennyroyal Tea

2011-08-23T22:40:00.005+02:00

Since RH and I got together, or got together "properly", last year, we've been less careful about contraception than we should be. Which is unusual for me, as I'm generally of the checking-the-condom-for-leaks-the-minute-after-sex school of thought. I'm very thorough about counting days and monitoring my cycle, but often we'll take risks, then have a conversation about what would happen if It happened. There's been much brave and romantic talk about having a baby together - despite the fact I can't even get to grips with us living together at the moment.

When we were away at the end of the summer holidays, there was a moment, at a bad moment, and there was a conversation. There was a decision to make about emergency contraception, and a decision to go without and wait and see, and that everything would be alright, whatever happened. There was idle chat about baby names, and my preference for a girl.

We waited, and we saw that my period was late. It was late while I was home alone, with RH off in London watching cricket - surely the most boring sport known to man? It worries me how much RH is like my father - and left me climbing the walls. It was late, and all my dreams and all my talk meant nothing, and I realised that actually, at this point, I absolutely do not want a baby. It was late and I found myself idly browsing through my options online, and wondering if I could live with myself terminating a pregnancy - a pregnancy which could well end up being my only opportunity to have a baby with the man I love.

Anyway. RH came home, and we did a test, and it was negative, and immediately after that, my period started. So that was £10 well spent. But still. It has been a bit of an eye opener. Meanwhile, I'm wondering about the coil.

Pennyroyal Tea - Nirvana

Hiding Tonight

2011-08-17T21:45:00.003+02:00

It must be four years since my mum and P got together. For the most part, I see little of either of them. When my mum and I meet up, I prefer to do it on neutral ground, and I avoid going to the house as much as possible. (It seems to be in a state of constant regeneration anyway. The last project was a vast conservatory, costing more than £50,000. Apparently the next's to be the removal of the new bathroom which was installed less than two years ago, and replacing it with a wet room.) I can't remember when I last saw P; I think it must have been on Boxing Day.

Imagine my surprise, then, when P popped up in my dream last night. And in that dream, I'd stolen him away from my mum, and he was living with me - even though I don't have a conservatory. I woke up feeling completely confused, and a little bit dirty. P is 69-years-old, and has a vast grey beard. Not to mention, obviously, the fact that he's engaged to my mother. Wrong, on so many levels.

Some say that dreams are our subconscious bringing our hidden desires to the fore. I prefer to think it's the Night Nurse. Either way, I really, really hope it doesn't turn out to be a recurring one.

Hiding Tonight - Alex Turner

After the Flood

2011-08-15T20:51:00.003+02:00

Today, I dragged my weary body out of bed just before 7am, and was at work by 8.30am. Given that the earliest I'd been up in six weeks was in time for Homes Under the Hammer, this wasn't brilliant. Especially since I'd slept for about seven minutes, between the fear of not being able to wake up on time, the dread, and the coughing. I gave thanks to Chanel and Clarin's Beauty Flash Balm, otherwise I'd have been scaring the jannies.

Arriving in the building, I made straight for coffee. My work doesn't allow staff to have kettles, fridges or microwaves in their offices, allegedly for health and safety reasons, but in reality, to make everyone pay through the nose to get fed and watered. Given the nature of my job on a normal day (and given how tired I was today), hot drinks are essential, and usually I actually bring a flask of hot water and have herbal tea. Today, I wasn't organised enough. So imagine my astonishment to discover that the price of a black coffee in the staff canteen had risen from 50p to £1.35.

I'm no mathematician, but dear God, that's some increase. Our last payrise was 0.75%, which I appreciate is a lot more than some people got. I'm anticipating this year's is going to be massive. Meantime, tomorrow I'll be more sorted in the morning and get that flask filled.

After the Flood - Chapel Club

1, 2, 3, 4

2011-08-11T17:34:00.004+02:00

Six weeks of holidays - almost over. Here's how they break down stats-wise.

Ten dinners - although three of those were in Pizza Express. (Loving those sales promotions.)

Eleven lunches - including my first ever visit to Nando's.

(Currently too afraid to step on the scales*.)

One boyfriend lost, and quickly found again.

Three films (Bridesmaids, Beginners and The Zookeeper) and one to go (Beautiful Lies) on Saturday.

Twelve books read, some better than others. Too many magazines to count.

One concert - Laura Marling. Two Fringe Shows - Dobby from Peep Show, and a burlesque thing.

A massive (and actually quite shameful) seven new dresses, two new cardigans and one new blouse. (My mum bought me two of the dresses in Whistles' sale.)

Three return train journeys.

Two meetings with my mother.

One absolutely stinking cold.

Nine weeks of work until the next break. Sigh.

*Okay, I just did. Three pounds up on my usual Saturday morning weigh-in. Still a healthy BMI, but not brilliant. That was at 5pm after a million cups of tea, plus breakfast and lunch, and I'm pre-menstrual, so hopefully the damage isn't too great!

1, 2, 3, 4 - Feist

Bitters and Absolut

2011-08-08T21:23:00.003+02:00

RH and I have been away, on a mini-break. I was, I'll admit, more than a little apprehensive, as it was four days in one another's company without anyone else. I was a bit worried we'd run out of things to say. And while I'm certain that us getting back together was the right thing, I still have all the questions in my head, and all the infuriating internal chatter. But I think it comes down to this: I'm happier with him than without him. I'm less anxious and mental with him than I have been with anyone else, and that has to mean something. The fact he's so patient with me definitely helps. We've agreed to live in the moment and not dwell on the past or worry about the future. I'm trying, but it's hard.

Anyway, turns out all my fretting was in vain. We had a brilliant time. Our journey got off to a bad start when the woman next to me on the train threw up all over the aisle (worst journey ever) but from then on in it was plain sailing. We went shopping, we saw a couple of shows, and we ate and ate and ate, in lovely restaurants. And Nando's. We drank too much wine, and lots of good coffee. I need to get myself seriously back on track now we're home. We did not run out of things to say to one another. I saw Tourettes Pete from Big Brother on a train. RH saw a football person, but I've forgotten who. No-one was sick on the journey home.

I say no-one was sick on the journey home. I mean no-one actually vomited. Because the cold that was threatening me last week has now hit full tilt, and I spluttered for two and a half hours, feeling very sorry for myself. Week six of the holidays looks set to be spent in the company of Day and Night Nurse. Excellent.

Bitters and Absolut - The National

Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)

2011-08-01T20:11:00.004+02:00

A few weeks back, when RH and I were - ahem - separated, I made an appointment to see a psychic. RS and I have seen this person twice before (more if you count aborted attempts when she was unable to read us for whatever reason) and on both occasions she mentioned RH by name. The first time, around five years back, she told me he was The One - I was incredulous. The second time she told me he was just coming back into my life - I was again incredulous, as we'd not spoken in months. But he did, very shortly after our visit.

Generally this woman's booked up months in advance, but I was lucky enough to get a cancellation for this Wednesday. At the weekend, I told RH I was going. Like most men I know, he has little time for any sort of "mumbo jumbo" (his term, not mine), so he was not impressed. Later, he asked me what I'd do if she told me my future husband was a short, blonde man, and that he'd be coming into my life soon.

What a question. Not least because I'm not attracted to men who are blonde, or men who are short. I realised that as well being likely to drive myself crazy with introspection if this was indeed her prediction, it would break my heart. And I figured I didn't need a psychic to tell me how I feel. So I cancelled the appointment.

I'm going to see Zoo Keeper with my friend J and her daughter on Wednesday instead.

Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra) - The Vaccines

We Could Send Letters

2011-07-29T22:53:00.005+02:00

Some more little letters today.

Dear Hair,

I'm persevering with you, but growing out this bloody crop is proving a real pain in the arse. I hope my lovely hairdresser can cut you into some sort of actual style on Thursday instead of just a mop.

Dear Summer,

You've really let me down. Frankly, I'm beyond disappointed. I may be looking forward to getting back into autumn/winter clothes, but I'm not quite ready to give up on you just yet.

Dear Money,

Why do you disappear so quickly? And why do you mainly seem to end up in Sainsbury's, even though my cupboards are always empty?

Dear Body,

I know, you're being punished with too much eating out and too much wine, and I'm sorry. You're punishing me in return by being all spotty and cellulite-y. There are two more weeks of the holidays to go, and we'll be back on track. I promise.

Dear Blog Readers,

I know you're out there, StatCounter tells me. Leave a comment, say hello!

Dear RH,

Thank you for putting up with me. You're amazing, although you refuse to admit it. You have no idea just how special you are, and I love you.

We Could Send Letters - Aztec Camera

Chickfactor

2011-07-28T13:07:00.004+02:00

Tonight I'm having dinner with S, one of my oldest friends. We were at university together, but she's lived in London since we graduated. S is up in town for a few days, and I can't wait to catch up with her over a pizza and a few glasses of wine. There's one flaw in this plan though - she's bringing her child, a boy of ten, and dinner's at six. Which may restrict our chat a bit.

It's struck me over the last few weeks just how much my social life is structured around children, despite having none of my own. I'm not complaining (much) - it's just weird how it's not been something I've really noticed before.

Example 1 - RH and I are off for a mini-break next weekend. (Yay!) We've arranged to meet some of his friends from uni for lunch. But we're going to their house in case their two-year-old needs a nap.

Example 2 - two weeks ago I took a train to visit a friend who's recently adopted two very beautiful children. The plan was I'd get there about 5pm and once the kids were in bed we'd have a takeaway and a few drinks. She was utterly exhausted - the children have quite challenging behaviour - and after an hour, so was I. I was on the train back by 7.30, leaving behind a bottle wine and several packets of Percy Pigs with neither a drop of food nor drink having passed my lips.

Example 3 - over lunch on Tuesday my companion literally threw her coffee cup down and ran out of the door to pick up her son from a summer activity, leaving me somewhat bewildered, and picking up the bill.

I could go on, and on. I won't. It's made me think, though. If you can't beat 'em, should you join 'em?

Chickfactor - Belle and Sebastian

I Speak Because I Can

2011-07-25T15:59:00.006+02:00

Since being on holiday, I have been mostly spending money like it is water. Not even always my money, sometimes I have been spending my credit card's money, which will bite me on the ass later. I know, I should think DEBT and not credit, but really, I just like stuff. I have been spending lots of money on socialising, and I have been spending money on makeup, clothes, nailpolish and perfume too. Here's a rundown of some of the lovely things I've bought.

1) Chanel No 19 Poudre. I'm a big Chanel fan. There's one consultant at my local Boots shop I'd count amongst my actual friends, although she might not feel the same. I've worn Chanel No 19 on and off for years, and it's a go-to summer (ha) fragrance for me. Favourite consultant gave me a sample of this re-vamped version, and I was sold. Literally. I wore it to go out with RH on Saturday, and he wouldn't stop saying how much he loved it. New start, new perfume.

2) Dresses, from Oasis. Oasis are one of the few shops which make dresses which don't show my pants. Fact.

3) A cute blouse from H&M. Pussy-bow neck and pink polka dots. Seriously, how perfect?

4) OPI nailpolishes in Sparrow Me the Drama (pink) and A Grape Fit (violet). I never have naked nails, and my collection of nailpolishes is probably worth hundreds of pounds. I constantly investigate cheap brands, but generally find them rubbish, so return to my favourites - Dior, OPI, Nails Inc and Chanel.

5) A lace collar, which I'm hoping will look brilliant over the polka dot Oasis dress.

6) Underwear. Last year, I got measured, and it was a revelation. After years of wearing a 34B or 36A, it transpires I am actually a 32D. Gosh. Naturally few stores stock this size. I got two cute Freya bras and shorts/thongs (I'm a recent convert to the short) to match from Figleaves, in the sale. They did the trick.

7) Bobbi Brown eyeliner. I'll be honest, this has been my least winning buy. I thought I'd be transformed into a siren. In actual fact, it makes my eyes sting. Rubbish. And it cost almost as much as a dress when you count the brush that goes with it.

8) Clinique bottom lash mascara. A revelation, as usually I don't bother. This was free as I had a voucher from the BARB panel.

All that probably makes me sound quite glam. In fact, I'm sitting here at almost 3.30 in my pyjamas, glasses and unwashed hair, crippled with period pain. I must haul myself into the shower, and then to Sainsbury's.

I Speak Because I Can - Laura Marling

A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off

2011-07-22T22:19:00.003+02:00

I'm halfway through my holidays, and can't quite believe how the time's flown in. Today I popped in past work (twice, actually, as I left my iPhone there the first time) to reset my email password, and wished I hadn't. When the holiday's over, it's really going to be over.

This week has been spent eating and drinking - the complete opposite of last week, which was spent in my pyjamas, smoking, and crying. I had lunch with P on Monday, drinks with K on Tuesday, lunch with J on Wednesday, and dinner with RS last night. Today I had no-one to play with, but took myself to the cinema, where I saw Beginners. I drank coffee and ate popcorn, by myself, and had a little cry at the end. It was bliss - what is it about daytime cinema going that feels so indulgent?

Tomorrow I'm going to see Laura Marling, with RH. I can't wait to see him, but feel incredibly nervous too. He's - quite fairly - said I can have his forgiveness, but I'll have to earn his trust. I've made a resolution to try and live in the present, and not let the past impact me, or worry about the future. Which is possibly easier said than done, but I'm really going to try. I'll be wearing this - cute, no? And hopefully some new underwear I've ordered (to sweeten him up) from Figleaves. If the Royal Mail get their act together.

A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off - Magnetic Fields

Rip It Up And Start Again

2011-07-17T19:04:00.002+02:00

Today I am going to talk about hair.

When I started my current job, three years ago, I had a swingy, sharp, Louise Brooks bob. And about six months in, my hair started to fall out. Stress, apparently. So, I did what any woman would have done - wept, panicked and then had it lopped off into a cute pixie crop. A few weeks later, Posh Spice followed suit. Copy cat. I've kept that crop since (so easy to dry and style, but oh so expensive to maintain!) but a few months ago decided it was time to grow it out, and go back to the bob. My hairdresser's fab, and cut me in a "transitional" style to avoid that mullet thing, but my god, it is taking SO BLOODY LONG. I look rubbish. I am itching to phone and say, I give in, chop it back off. I'm holding out, but it's like I'm having a bad hair life. Why does it grow so slowly?

Contrary to the hair on my head, every other bit of my body sprouts hair at an alarming rate. I recently had my eyebrows threaded, and the lady asked if I wanted my top lip done too. Er, no, but thanks for asking. I can shave my underarms in the shower before work, and be sporting five o'clock shadow by about lunchtime. The perils of being dark, I suppose. In Caitlin Moran's brilliant book, How to be a Woman, there's a whole chapter on hair maintenance, specifically grooming of the bikini area. Here she asks why females are suddenly considered slovenly if they dare to have pubic hair. I've often asked the same question myself. Because I am a woman, not a five-year-old girl. That's not to say I don't like to be neat - I just don't want to be totally bare.

And people, because I am cheap, I decided to have a bash at the home bikini wax last night. Never, ever again. One side worked out okay, but on the second, I hesitated just a bit too long. Pain. I now look like I've been given a vast love-bite, possibly by a wild animal. And let's just say skinny jeans are out for the next couple of days. It's a good job I am not actually planning on wearing a bikini, no?

Rip It Up And Start Again - Orange Juice

Writing to Reach You

2011-07-16T19:29:00.005+02:00

Little letters - a concept I've stolen from one of my favourite bloggers, the lovely Helen at Clear Your Heart. (I hope she doesn't mind.)

Dear Rain, I am sick of you. Yes, I know you are needed to make the grass grow and the flowers bloom, but you need to give me a break sometimes. Really.

Dear Shops, I am so, so pleased you're starting up with the autumn/winter stuff already. The Rain means there's not been much call for summer clothes anyway, but I do look so much better in A/W stuff.

Dear Upstairs Neighbour, your music is FAR too loud, and I hate being wakened in the small hours by you having sex. Please move. Soon.

Dear Weight, I thought you'd be less after a week of barely eating. Either my body's in starvation mode, or wine is more calorific than I thought. I'm blaming PMT.

Dear Laptop, you are too slow. The way I have to spend an hour coaxing you into action is not on.

Dear RH, I love you, and I miss you. This is the first Saturday night we've spent apart in months. We'd have been doing that anyway, because you're away at a wedding, but I'm tearing myself in pieces wondering if you'll meet someone else. I hope you'll forgive me and get in touch.

Love, Cat

Writing to Reach You - Travis

Surly Girl

2011-07-15T15:19:00.006+02:00

I have spent most of this week sitting around in my pyjamas, smoking. Which was not how I intended to pass my well-earned holiday time. My mood is sad, and bad. I am beyond ashamed of how I behaved on Sunday, and hate that my last sentence uttered to RH involved the word (which isn't even a word) "cunting" and my throwing my precious Rob Ryan/Tatty Devine necklace at him. Oh yes, I am Queen Bitch. Really.

My usual approach when I break up with someone is to systematically eradicate all traces of them from my life - which is what RH was referring to before the necklace was thrown. I delete phone numbers, emails, and throw stuff away. I want that person wiped out, dead to me. Curiously, I haven't done this. RH's toothbrush still sits in my bathroom, his face still smiles from my iPhone when I press the home key, and his emails, cards and texts are intact. And I still have my necklace.

I'm not sure if this is meaningful. I'm not sure of anything, to be honest, except how terribly, terribly ashamed I am of my terrible, terrible behaviour.

Surly Girl - Aberfeldy

Sorrow

2011-07-12T19:53:00.007+02:00

This morning I received an email from RH, telling me he'd been shortlisted for a post he'd applied for. It was immediately followed by a second message, saying sorry, it was just force of habit that I was the first person he wanted to tell when anything happened. It made me cry. And so, to a list, of all the things I'll miss about RH.

1) Falling asleep with him.

2) Waking up with him.

3) Kissing him.

4) Having sex with him. Lying in bed afterwards, talking nonsense.

5) Seeing him come round the corner of the stairwell after waiting eagerly between his buzzing the door and arriving.

6) Squabbling about what to watch on TV.

7) Going to nice restaurants. And not going to nice restaurants - staying in and having chicken Kiev and oven chips.

8) Wandering round town on a Sunday afternoon after spending the morning in bed.

9) Exchanging hundreds of pointless emails every week.

10) Knowing he was on the end of the phone if I needed him, and that he'd (generally) take my side if someone was being horrible to me.

11) His smell - Tom Ford for men, bought by me in Harvey Nichols.

12) His height - he can open my kitchen window without clambering up/using a hook.

13) Him.

14) All the stuff that was planned, and won't happen now.

Let's temper that with a list of things I won't miss:

1) His snoring.

2) His constantly flicking the telly onto sport (any sport) as soon as I leave the room.

3) His calling me "his little seagull" which is a terrible in-joke. I hate it almost as much as I hate actual seagulls.

4) The rants about Fearne Cotton/the state of my kitchen/Facebook.

Hmmm. But how much of the first list is about missing him, as opposed to being part of a couple?

Sorrow - The National

All Time Low

2011-07-11T13:15:00.003+02:00

Yesterday, after ten glorious months, RH and I broke up. Or rather, I snapped, told him it was over, and to get out, and never to contact me again. Let's just change my name from Cat to Cunt, shall we?

What went wrong? Hmmm. I'm really not sure. For a while, I've been asking myself why, when he's offering everything I want (marriage, babies, forever) does it just fill me with the fear? Surely if he was the right person for me, I'd be leaping at that prospect? My mum told me a story the other day that really sent me into a funk. Last year her partner, P's, daughter, C, left her husband. Within a couple of months she'd filed for divorce. Within another couple of months she'd met someone else. A couple of months on, they'd bought a house together. Forward another couple of months, and she was pregnant. A fortnight ago they phoned P and told him they'd got married. C is the same age as me. When you get to our age you can't hang around. So why did I want to?

All the questions were going round and round and round my head. They were driving me, frankly, mad. I didn't doubt that I love RH, and I didn't doubt that he's my best friend. I did doubt whether the relationship was right (why wasn't there a big sign saying THE ONE?) and then I started to doubt whether I was in it for the right reasons.

Contrary to my usual behaviour, I've actually been better about talking to RH about how I feel - usually I just bottle it up. So we'd talked about my anxieties. RH was - as always - absolutely brilliant with me, and totally patient. Yesterday, there was another state of the nation type chat, involving tears, and later, he said that he wondered if this was really good for me.

And that was it. Tipping point. I went into ice woman mode, and told him that it was over, and I wanted him to leave. He wanted to discuss things, he wanted to hold me, he wept. I sat, like I was made of stone, unable to look at him or touch him. I knew if I did I'd be lost. So, eventually, he did leave. And I still feel lost. Funny that.

I've not heard from him and I doubt I will. I feel a bit numb, to be honest. I alternate between thinking it was the right thing (albeit handled in the worst way possible) and that it's better to be on one's own than in the wrong relationship, and thinking I've thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe I'll never know. Meanwhile, I'm on the heartbreak diet, and hope to shed that pesky half stone at last. Although I'm not sure replacing food with wine will really work that well.

All Time Low - The Wanted

In the Company of Women

2011-07-07T19:47:00.003+02:00

Today, lunch with my mother. It was the first meeting since the Easter holidays, and I was utterly dreading it. Actually it was relatively (geddit?) painless. I was wedding-d to within an inch of my life, which I was expecting, and there was much tongue biting, which kind of goes with the territory. My mum doesn't realise that I'd already seen the wedding in all its ostentatious glory on Facebook, so I had my own opinions on the dresses and the decor. But I kept them to myself. Aren't I good?

I came away with two rather brilliant Whistles dresses, both reduced from over £80 to £40 in the John Lewis sale. Both size 10 - even better! We had a brief argument about her paying for them (an improvement than our last visit to John Lewis - in the aforementioned Easter break - which culminated in her storming off in a huff) and I allowed her to win. She claims she likes to buy me things, and who am I to deny her that pleasure, even if it makes me a massive hypocrite.

So, that's that done, for a while. Next step, introducing RH to her, which I've managed to put off thus far. I'm sure he'll be charming, but I'm concerned he'll like me a lot less when he sees me revert to my 14-year-old self.

In the Company of Women - The Long Blondes

I Will Follow

2011-07-05T14:09:00.003+02:00

Following a mild harassment campaign from Mr Farty, I am now on Twitter. I'm yet to get to grips with it fully, and have an embarrassingly small number of friends (is that what they call it, or am I getting confused with Facebook, which will always be my real love?) but if you'd like to add me, I'm @catgirlspeaks. You too can be entertained by my musings on ironing, the weather and nailpolish. I bet you just can't wait.

I Will Follow - U2

Start a War

2011-07-02T19:36:00.003+02:00

In May last year, I finally got round to getting an iPhone. And even though I had to get a student to show me how to use it, I quickly fell in love with it. Music, phone, Facebook and email all in one - what's not to like? I've never really bothered with apps - mainly because the Switch card registered to my iTunes account had expired - so probably haven't even seen its full potential.

In the Christmas holidays, disaster struck. Or rather my super-clumsiness/lack of spatial awareness struck. I knocked a bottle of nailpolish remover over it. Powerful stuff, that. The screen fizzled and died. I panicked, and made an appointment to see a "Genius" (URGH) at the Apple store the following day. Fortunately, it was under warranty, and since I kept quiet about the nailpolish remover and pleaded ignorance, it was replaced free of charge. Hurrah for Apple.

RH has been scornful of my iPhone love affair. His ancient phone worked perfectly well, thank you very much, and he was resistant to my efforts to get him to join my gang. So when he had a call saying his contract was coming up for renewal, I was surprised to hear he'd signed up for an iPhone himself. A newer, better model than mine.

And what do you know? Turns out that boy just loves him a gadget. He loves him some apps, and has installed about 45,000. He loves him some Twitter, and follows sports-people I've never even heard of. He loves to sit around in his pants and play scrabble on the damn thing, and not make a start on the tea like I'd expected him to do.

I rue the day I encouraged him. Really. Where did I put that nailpolish remover?

Start a War - The National

Stretch Out and Wait

2011-06-30T22:13:00.003+02:00

Tomorrow at 5pm, I finish work, for six weeks. Goodbye office. So long marking. See ya, early mornings. Tara rubbish work clothes. I can't wait. For the last few weeks I've been scoring off days in red marker on a "get-up chart" that Colleague A kindly made for me. I'm not quite sure what my manager made of it when he popped in to see Colleague B this afternoon, but who cares? There is one left, and I'm so looking forward to crossing that baby off.

Holiday plans? Lots of long lunches, lots of catching up with people, and a few days away with RH. We've also talked about spending more nights together through the week in an attempt to discover if we'll end up killing one another. Even that prospect scares me silly. For one, I'm precious about my space, and scared that we do bring out one another's murderous tendencies (or thoughts, I think we'll probably manage to keep away from actual bodily harm). I'm scared it won't work out, and we'll realise we're not destined to be together - although if this happened I'm certain we'd manage to stay friends. And I'm scared I don't want it as much as RH. I'm quite happy with the way things are (for the reasons noted above) and wonder if I should be more desperate to move our relationship to another level. What if this means it's not right? You know I like to worry. After all the years of to-ing and fro-ing, I'm terrified of it all going wrong and losing him. Eeep!

On a less navel-gazing note, I'm growing my hair out of the pixie crop I've been sporting for the last few years (I had it done just a few weeks before Posh - she copied me) and it is driving me proper mental. I know I just need to persevere, but, urgh.

Finally, my lovely friend Katy has started a new blog which you must read. Now, please!

Stretch Out and Wait - The Smiths

The Chocolate Girl

2011-06-25T16:34:00.002+02:00

I am naturally a very greedy person. If I didn't keep myself in check, I'd be vast, and likely to be approached to appear on Embarrassing Fat Bodies. Vanity, however, generally keeps my greed at bay, and I try to eat sensibly, and stick at a healthy weight and size 10/12. I cook mainly from scratch, take packed lunches to work, and have an evening exercise regime which stops my bingo wings from flapping too much.

However, when faced with temptation, I am weak. This has been a very bad week foodwise. Work's been particularly stress-y, it was RH's birthday on Thursday, and last night RS and I had a major pizza and plonk fest. Then there have been the gifts. Currently in my kitchen there are the following items, calling out to me: One huge box of Thornton's dark chocolates, a milk chocolate champagne bottle with my name iced on it, a box of fudge, a family sized bar of Dairy Milk, two different types of cheesecake, and a massive bag of hand-cooked kettle chip type things. All of these have either been presented to me at work, or brought round by some well-meaning person while visiting.

I am uncomfortable with this sort of food in the house. All of it's currently unopened, but I know that as soon as a seal's popped, I won't be able to help myself helping myself every time I pass through the kitchen for a cup of tea.

This afternoon I cleared out my wardrobe and filled a bag for the charity shop. I wonder if they accept foodstuffs?

The Chocolate Girl - Deacon Blue

A Fortnight's Time

2011-06-19T21:14:00.003+02:00

Ah, it's been a busy old week in the Cat House.

RH and I went to see Morrissey. He was amazing, full of good chat and good tunes, and looking fantastic. I'd been a bit concerned about lacklustre reports from the first gig of the tour, but it was definitely worth the mad scramble to get there after work. I embarrassed RH hugely by taking pictures. It's just a shame I hadn't figured out how to use the zoom on my iPhone camera before the gig. I've only had it a year. We stayed overnight, and had horrible, horrible hangovers yesterday, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

My mum and I are friends again, even if I've had to endure a lot more post-wedding post-mortem than I'd have liked. My brother's off for the world's most expensive honeymoon. I'm not jealous. Honestly.

A naked man saw naked me making bacon sandwiches in my kitchen this morning. I looked up, and saw him watching, nakedly. He waved at me. He actually waved. He stopped pretty sharpish when RH walked in. Until a couple of weeks ago, our garden had huge trees which meant no-one could see in. The trees have now gone. I need to remember that.

I've ten more working days, and then I'm off for six weeks. Can. Not. Wait. Really. This time of year is always frantic, but I can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel.

How are you?

A Fortnight's Time - Maximo Park

Now We Are Married

2011-06-11T17:51:00.004+02:00

Today my brother got married. I didn't go, which means that my name is mud - as muddy as the grounds of the castle the wedding's being held in, judging by this rain.

It's about three and a half years since my brother and I last spoke, so all negotiations were conducted via my mother, which was incredibly stressful. I decided I'd go to the ceremony, and that would be that. My mother decided that was embarrassing for her, and called me a lot of horrible names. I dithered and I worried about what to do. Ultimately, I made the decision not to go at all, and hang the consequences. My mother hasn't spoken to me since. I'm dealing with that.

One thing's certain, if (when?) RH and I get married, we'll scoot off to Vegas or Gretna, then throw a party. We definitely won't have a wedding list or three (!) separate showings of presents. We certainly won't brag on Facebook that our shoes cost over £400, like my brother did.

I've spent most of today working, and tonight's an evening in with takeaway pizza, wine and (genius) The Cube, but we'll raise a glass to my brother and his new wife, to my mum, who I hope hasn't cut me off altogether, and to my dad, who I'm sad wasn't around for the big day either.

Now We Are Married - Goodbye Mr McKenzie

(I Hate) Everything About You

2011-06-07T21:39:00.002+02:00

Bad mood Cat. Things which are pissing me off today include, but are not exclusive to:

1) People who cycle on the pavement. If you're old enough to have tattoos, you're old enough to cycle on the road.

2) The weather. Where did the summer go?

3) My workload. Stressing. Me. Out.

4) My credit card provider, who lowered my limit because I (very carelessly and stupidly) forgot to make last month's payment. This little display of spite pushed me over the - new - limit, because they didn't tell me they'd changed it. And then, when I phoned to make the payment by Switch, they took it THREE times, and are now claiming not to have taken it at all. Bastards.

5) Spiders. Everywhere in my house. I have no real gripe with them, to be honest, but their sheer numbers are somewhat worrying.

6) The Royal Mail, who consistently deliver (geddit?) the poorest service in the world. Off with their heads!

7) My mother.

8) Hemlines in the shops. I don't want to show my pants, but nor do I want to be swathed in fabric to the ankles. Where have all the just-above-the-knee dresses gone?

9) My Freeview box, which needs re-scanned about five times a day as the channels mysteriously relocate to new numbers.

10) Just about everything else, actually.

(I Hate) Everything About You - Ugly Kid Joe

The Giantess

2011-06-04T17:03:00.005+02:00

For two days this week, summer arrived. Fleetingly. It's gone again now. But as always, I battled with my wardrobe. Because while I LOVE the sun, my autumn/winter clothes are just, well, much better. I'm all about the little dresses with brogues and opaques - I yearn to waft around in floaty maxi dresses or denim shorts, but it's, sadly, not quite me. My summer wardrobe tends to comprise dresses worn over leggings, or skinny jeans with tops, either with ballet pumps or sandals. (That said, there's always room for an opaque tight in so-called-summer here anyway.)

After a pleasant spell of sunbathing in the churchyard (I know, ever the Morrissey fan) with Colleague B, I decided a dash into Topshop was in order. I came away with one dress and two tops, all in a size 12. Once home, I tried them on, and found that the dress was huge - and far too short for a lady of my advancing years - one top was far too big, and the other was a bit on the neat side. This all from one shop.

Today, I stumbled upon The Campaign for Clearer Sizing, which encourages shops to indicate actual measurements on their labels. Retro Chick helpfully includes a table, with a breakdown of a size 12 in various high street shops. My stats come out, as of five minutes ago, at 34-28-37, and I'm generally a 10 on top, although know some stores come up small, but need a 12 for my childbearing (ha) hips, but, oh, wouldn't it be nice not to have to drag two sizes into the fitting room?

The Giantess - Bombay Bicycle Club

Blindsided

2011-05-30T19:26:00.007+02:00

A few weeks back, RH and I made a pact not to go out socially until after the Morrissey concert, and economise. Morrissey requires a train journey and an overnight stay, and the tickets were not cheap. There's also a weekend away in July which is going to be expenny, so this seemed like a good plan. (As part of my economy drive, I've even been bringing lunch to work, although I still hanker after M&S's selection.) And thus far we've stuck to it.

This has required some skilful negotiation over the television schedules (as well as many games of Scrabble). While RH and I agree on many things, we squabble bitterly about the box. I like, essentially, any form of low-key trash, while he hates it. He likes any form of sport, while I hate it. All of it. If this living together thing comes off, we'll definitely need a spare room. On Saturday evening, I made the ultimate sacrifice and allowed him to watch the football. The trade-off was that I'd be allowed to watch Britain's Got Talent this weekend. Ah, compromise - the key to a happy relationship. And some of those footballers were pretty hot.

This afternoon, I received an email at work, with a link to a menu for a lovely restaurant. It said, "Forget the budget, let me take you here on Saturday?" Of course, I gleefully accepted. It would give me an opportunity to wear the fab new frock I took delivery of last week. (Oh, come on, you didn't think I was being that good, did you?) Later, another message arrived. It said, "Booked. I won't have to see Cowell's smug face after all".

I've been Had. With a capital "h".

Blindsided - Bon Iver

Next Exit

2011-05-26T20:02:00.004+02:00

When I began my current job, just over three years ago, another member of staff started shortly after me. She made it clear that one of her primary reasons for applying for the job was the company's generous maternity package. After three months in post she was pregnant, and soon departed for a year's maternity leave.

Her full-time post was never covered. The nature of the job means that I couldn't pick up all of her duties, but some of them got punted my way. Agency staff picked up some of the rest. She returned to work at the beginning of last year, reducing her hours to two days per week. And she returned pregnant. In her two days, she mostly surfed the internet - mainly because she wasn't given much to do - while the rest of us seethed silently as we ran ourselves ragged. She went off on her second maternity leave, and I've not really heard from her (other than a congratulatory text when the baby arrived) since.

Her two days a week were never covered. The nature of the job means that I couldn't pick up all of her duties, but some of them got punted my way. Agency staff picked up some of the rest. I heard yesterday that she's planning to return to work in September or October this year, reducing her hours to two mornings per week.

You know the rest. How can a full-time post suddenly become two mornings a week?

So. Remember that baby question from the other day? Something else to consider...

Next Exit - Interpol

Baby, We'll Be Fine

2011-05-23T20:09:00.003+02:00

Two weeks before my 25th birthday, I signed the deal and held the keys to the Cathouse in my grubby little paw. A homeowner! At 24! Before then, I'd lived in a flatshare with a man who had a habit of making treacle toffee at midnight, and leaving the pans out for me to scour. I should thank him for prompting my getting on the property ladder when prices were cheap. Instead I maintain a genuine hatred for him.

For 13 years, I've lived on my own. I've done exactly what I want, when I want. And in the course of those years, I have become set in my ways and selfish, with a whole host of routines that are less than palateable to other people. So, conversations with RH about the possibility of us moving in together scare the living daylights out of me. And that, of course, makes me over-analyse - why can't I be like the people I read about in magazines who meet someone, move in together six weeks later, and are married within three months? Does it mean he's not the right person for me?

Round and round and round we go.

And as well as the house question, there's the B-A-B-Y question. For years, I've yearned for a baby. I've felt as if I've been punched in the stomach every time someone announces their happy news. But in the last six months or so, my baby-hunger's dimmed to a rumble. Which is odd, because this is the closest I've come to being in a position to seriously think about my future as a potential mummy in a long time. Could it be that what I longed for wasn't a child, but a stable relationship?

Sooner or later, these questions are going to have to be answered. It seems like a relationship comes to be like a shark - keep moving, or die. I'd rather the dying part didn't happen, which leaves me with the moving forward. And that, my friends, is frankly terrifying.

Baby, We'll Be Fine - The National

Surfacing

2011-05-21T21:03:00.004+02:00

15 months out, 15 things that happened while I was gone. Ish.

1) RH was offered a job on the other side of the world. Which put everything into perspective. He accepted it. (I cried.) Two months later he was made redundant. Sometimes fate works in mysterious ways.

2) I had drunken, ill-advised sex with a colleague. Remarkably, we have managed to act like it never happened.

3) After much soul-searching, I declined the invitation to my brother's wedding. My mother hasn't spoken to me since, but I knew I'd made the right choice when I saw my brother bragging about the £400+ shoes his wife-to-be had bought for him to wear on Facebook. I bought them a champagne cooler thing.

4) I decided to quit smoking. And failed.

5) I bought far too many frocks and fripperties. My latest is this lovely dress, which I wore with a camel cardi, navy tights and brogues for lunch today. Summer is yet to arrive in the Cathouse.

6) I spent Christmas day with RH, and not on my own. It was lovely. He bought me this. Which is possibly the nicest present in the world, ever.

7) I'm sitting at a pound heavier than when I posted on this blog in February last year. But, you know what, I'm okay with that.

8) I fell a little bit in love with The Vaccines, and Chapel Club. Morrissey, however, still occupies my heart. I'm off to see him next month and can't wait.

9) I survived "cost cutting" at work, and feel grateful to have kept my job. Even if it does mean I'm working twice as hard.

10) I didn't watch the Royal Wedding, but did sport this amazing Tatty Devine necklace on the day. Love.

11) I've developed a "thing" about Cath Kidston. I dream of living in a Cath Kidston-ised home. Until then, I'll make do with a purse, shower gel and handwash.

12) RH and I went on two "mini-breaks" together, where we stayed in posh hotels and drank champagne. I'd never been away with a boy before, so this is significant.

13) My flirtation with Facebook turned into a full-blown affair, which was perhaps partly responsible for my blog holiday. I'm still a Twitter refusnik though.

14) The world of blogging has moved on. Now it's all about PR, outfits and giveaways. Does anyone still want to read text-based blogs?

15) I need to update my links. Where has everyone gone?

Surfacing - Chapel Club

Belong

2011-05-19T19:30:00.003+02:00

Well, hello.

It's been a while. More than a while. Miss me? It was all about a knee-jerk reaction to something which happened at work, and made me paranoid about being "outed". But more than a year on, I'm a bit like, so what, I've got nothing to hide. And I've missed it. So I'm back. Back, back, back.

What's happened in the last year? A lot. Far too much to go into in one post, so I think we'll just carry on as normal round here. But there's one significant thing which I should update on to make sure future posts make sense. RH and I are back. Back, back, back. And this time it's serious. There's a long story there, but it's time for me to start cooking dinner, so I'll summarise - it's been almost nine months, I'm very happy, and there's talk of moving in together. Turns out what I thought was missing was right under my nose the whole time.

But enough of that. How are you?

Belong - Pains of Being Pure at Heart

Cherry Coloured Funk

2010-02-06T14:13:00.003+02:00

All week, I have been "good". Which is a ridiculous way of saying that I have made healthy food choices, and done a lot of exercise, as opposed to saying that I have restrained myself from murdering someone.

I have stir-fried chicken and vegetables, I have snacked on clementines and raisins and cherries, I have doubled my usual evening exercise routine, and I have taken the stairs and not the lift. That last may have been due more to a highly inconvenient mechanical fault than anything else, but still - every calorie counts. I've kept a food diary, and even admitted to that one small slip with a Kit Kat. But it was a two-fingered one, and only wafer thin.

So, when I stepped on the scales this morning, I expected to be pleased. And I was not, because I remain at 10stone 6. I have not lost a single pound.

I am putting this down to my digestive system being rather sluggish this week, and that I'm on day 24 of my cycle, meaning that under normal circumstances, my period would be due shortly. I am not beating myself up for being a failure. I am not using this as an excuse to hit the chocolate aisle in the supermarket. Let's face it, I'm not actually fat - I'm writing this in size 12 jeans and a size 10 top, and according to the NHS's calculator (probably more reliable than Special K's one) my BMI is 23.4 - so it's not the end of the world.

Is it?

Cherry Coloured Funk - Cocteau Twins

White Winter Hymnal

2010-01-30T14:41:00.002+02:00

Yesterday I woke up to find it had snowed. And as the day went on, it snowed and snowed and snowed. So much so, that we were let go from work at 4pm, which happens once upon a flood. Or once upon a blizzard, in this case. So, we trotted straight to the pub, and it was all very jubilant.

Today, I feel less jubliant, although remarkably, not at all hungover. I've a stack of work to do before Monday, and my tonsils are disgusting. I'm gargling with TCP, and crunching homeopathic remedies, whilst trying not to crack any more teeth in the process.

On the plus side, I've been paid. Hurrah for having money in the bank. I have a new cardigan from Miss Selfridge, and new shoes from Topshop, which I might be able to wear if the weather picks up, and the fridge is full. Full to brimming with healthy choices, because the new eating regime begins on Monday. January is just too depressing to diet, but since I'm sitting at 10stone 6, meaning my BMI's up in the high 23-point-somethings, February needs to bring changes. My fighting weight's around the 10stone 3 mark, so a few weeks of sensible eating should do the trick. Just as soon as I've finished off that M&S Swiss Mountain Bar.

White Winter Hymnal - Fleet Foxes

Hope You're Holding Up

2010-01-20T21:54:00.004+02:00

For several years now, I've been buying the same black, skinny jeans from Oasis - they are called "Cherry" and a size 12 is a perfect fit. I can get away with them for work, with boots or pumps, provided they are very black. (Or at least no-one's challenged me yet - ha.) As soon as a pair starts to fade, I buy another, and stash them in the wardrobe. I had a £50 Oasis voucher from Christmas, and because my current pair are looking a wee bit grey at the seams, and in the absence of anything more interesting in the shops, I bought a pair today.

And guess what? Cherry's grown tall. About four inches taller, actually. I checked, and they don't come in two lengths, so I've not picked up tall people's jeans by mistake. I checked them against my existing pair, and it's not that I've shrunk. Now, I'm not especially short. At 5ft 6, I'm actually slightly above the UK average. These jeans have always been a wee bit on the long side for me, allowing for a little ruching at the ankle, which looks fine. Now, they look odd. It rather begs the question, why are Oasis making jeans for women who're just short of the six foot mark, when the average height in the UK is actually 5ft 4?

Answers on a postcard, please?

Other stuff?

The menopause test was negative, or positive, depending on how you look at it. I am, of course, worrying it was a dodgy test. My tooth's been fixed, even if I had to re-mortgage my house and promise F, the demon dentist, my first-born child. (I am keeping the faith.) My tumble dryer's knackered again, but the nice engineer's promised to come and look at it, free, on Saturday. (I am keeping the faith in nice tradesmen, too.) This blog's been nominated for the Scottish blog awards, which was nice of whoever did it, although every blog in Scotland seems to have been nominated too, but still. (Vote for meeee.)

Oh, and finally, after months of waiting, RS and I are off to see the psychic tomorrow night. Exciting, no? I hope she has good news, because work is seriously pissing me off at the moment, and I'm rapidly losing the faith in that department. I'm so stressed my right eye's developed a tic. And that is so not a good look.

Hope You're Holding Up - Blood Red Shoes

January, February

2010-01-13T22:47:00.003+02:00

For the last few months, my periods have been erratic. Initially, I've put it down to my flirtations with Yasmin. Latterly, I'm worrying. This month, 36 days. Which, given that I've been regular as clockwork since I was about 13, is giving me the fears. Normal people would worry that they're pregnant. Since I am not having the sex (and am actually afraid I may never have the sex again) I am worrying I am hitting menopause.

I checked with my mother. She had two periods a month for a - ahem - period when she was 44, then normal service was resumed until she started the menopause proper at 47. At 48, she was on HRT, which she has only recently stopped.

I'm 36. Could it be?

So. I bought some tests which check levels of hormones. I'm to do one on Friday, which - now my period has finally appeared - will be day three of my cycle. If it shows a high level of FSH, it doesn't prove I'm in menopause, but it does prove I've greatly reduced fertility levels.

I'm a bit scared. If it's bad news, how am I going to deal with it? Is it better not to know? It's not just the fertility thing, it's a whole can of worms health-wise, not to mention the ageing effects. Given that I bought the tests online, perhaps they're not even going to be accurate, although if the result's bad, it would prompt me to go to my GP.

Do you know what? I want RH.

To add to my stomach cramping and stomach churning woes, I chipped a tooth tonight, whilst crunching a tonsilitis fighting homeopathic pill. A front tooth, although thankfully on the bottom. So that's pretty attractive, and likely to be pretty expenny, assuming F, the demon dentist, can squeeze me in at some point soon. (The sooner the better.)

Ah, January. Can't beat it. Truly the armpit of months. Surpassed only by February.

January, February - Barbara Dickson

A Snowflake Fell (And it Felt Like a Kiss)

2010-01-09T14:25:00.004+02:00

First week back at work: done. Why is it that four day weeks feel longer than five day weeks? Despite my dread, it's probably been good for me to get back into some sort of a routine, albeit one which has been disrupted by the weather. I am becoming a weather bore. I really am my father's daughter. But we're now onto the fourth weekend of snow, with no end in sight, and it's really doing my head in.

The news coverage has both amused and angered me - England in Snow Shock! Er, yes, but it's been going on since the 18th of December here, and it certainly hasn't been headline news. As a friend pointed out to me, Scotland only gets mentioned if Andy Murray wins something. People joyfully proclaiming on Facebook that they had a "snow day" pissed me off - business as usual here. I just hope my workplace has a contingency plan for all the people who've not been able to make it in for exams...

I now officially hate my Ugg boots, since they've pretty much been welded to my feet for three weeks. I would like to burn them. I've tried doing little dresses with opaque tights and Uggs, but can't quite help looking a bit like a refugee. On Thursday I bit the bullet and bought myself some cute, colourful wellies from Office. I wore them yesterday with black skinny jeans, and took proper boots into work. They leaked. I am cross. They will be going back. Yesterday I got some lovely knee-high boots from Carvela at John Lewis, in soft, soft leather, with a decent sole on them. Good with jeans tucked in, nice with skirts or dresses. And in the sale, so hurrah. They're almost too nice to wear outside where they'll undoubtedly end up knackered.

Anyway, I thank the Lord for Sainsbury's home delivery, Celebrity Big Brother, and for good books. I am not leaving this house again until Monday morning. Maybe the weather will change before then, and we'll have boiling hot rain. Fingers crossed.

A Snowflake Fell (And it Felt Like a Kiss) - Glasvegas

Not Fair

2009-12-30T13:40:00.002+02:00

It is stupid to be annoyed by things outwith one's control. However, I cannot help but be outraged by the weather, and more specifically, the Council's inability to respond to it. It's now been almost a fortnight since the snow started, and I have seen not hide nor hair of a gritter. My street is pretty much sheet ice, and given that I'm city centre, it really doesn't seem good enough. A friend's husband suggested that we're now in a situation where the Council place bunkers of sand around the City, and we're all responsible for gritting our own areas. I don't buy this. One, I've certainly never been told this. And two, the nearest bunker to me is about ten minute's walk away, which is not ideal.

I sound about 92, don't I?

Add to that the number of social cancellations due to adverse conditions, and my holiday is not going as well as anticipated.

You may have guessed from my silence that there's been no word from BJ. I should have known better than to second guess him. If nothing else, he's entirely consistent in his inconsistency. I'm disappointed, and disappointed in myself for being such an idiot. Anyway. Line drawn under that one.

To add to my woes, I've had a house like a Chinese laundry, and crispy towels. Nice. Finally, an engineer is here as I write this, but I fear it's not going to be cheap.

I'll be glad to see the back of this bloody year. Let's hope 2010 brings better things, for all of us. See you on the other side.

Not Fair - Lily Allen

Helpless

2009-12-23T13:05:00.005+02:00

Oh, the weather, the weather. It's a proper winter wonderland, and I do not much like it. Travel chaos, shoe problems, and nights out cancelled due to the aforementioned. I have no idea why the local council's not better prepared, and it drives me bonkers. I would like it to stop, now, please - much as it looks pretty, it is doing my head in.

The last few days have seen a series of domestic irritations, besides the weather. Firstly, on Saturday, the fridge light went. Initially, I panicked, thinking the whole thing had gone on the blink, but following some scientific tests (well, they work for the IT department at my work) I realised it was simply the bulb. I give thanks to the power of Facebook, an ex-boyfriend, and an old, old friend, and it is now fixed, for approximately £3. Result.

Oh, I was smug. Smug, I tell you. Until last night, when I realised the dryer part of my washer/dryer was not drying. Turning away, happily, but not heating. This has happened before, and I'm willing to bet it's the same thing - the trip switch has tripped. Then, a man fixed it in about 15 minutes, and charged me £40. Fresh from the fridge fixing, I thought I'd do it myself. So, I hauled the machine out, into my tiny kitchen, ripping the floor in the process. I humphed and heaved, and I cleaned out the filter. And then I sat on the floor in a pool of water, and wept - for I was simply not strong enough to get the machine's lid off.

Do you know, I have never felt so useless? I have never felt more crap about being single, or wanted to have someone to put his arms round me, and say, don't worry, I'll sort it out.

I have the card for the man from last time. But unlike normal places, I don't get paid until a week today, so it's going to have to wait.

Anyway. I'm off to meet RS for luncheon shortly, even if I will have to wear my Uggs. I'm quietly dreading Christmas day, and even more quietly wondering if I'll hear from BJ. We'll wait and see, shall we?

Helpless - Then Jericho

Don't Flake Out on Me

2009-12-10T21:21:00.005+02:00

There are six more get-ups until I finish for just over a fortnight. Much as I loathe the festives, it can't come soon enough. I can't quite seem to shake this horrid cold, work is proper bobbins, and I am absolutely longing for a break. I've not got much planned, other than catching up with friends, but it's going to be so nice just to have some time off work. Once again, I'll be spending Christmas day alone, in the Cat House, and I'm fine with that. I've had invitations to join various friends, but I figure it's a family time, and it would feel intrusive. My mum did invite me to spend the day with her and P, but I figure they're their own little family now, and I'm not part of that, and don't want to be. Hopefully at some point I'll have my own family, but until then, I'm okay with flying solo. I don't even like turkey much anyway.

Is it wrong that I'm hoping BJ gets in touch? Don't even answer that. I know, it is utterly tragic. We'll wait and see, shall we?

Meanwhile, M&S have not been in touch, and I am not impressed. If one unhappy customer tells 20 people, let me tell you that this unhappy customer has told at least 100, and has told all of them to tell all of their friends. Not that it will make much - or any - difference to the M&S fatcats, but it makes me feel a wee bit better.

Don't Flake Out on Me - Hefner

Misery

2009-12-03T14:36:00.002+02:00

This week has passed in a haze of soggy tissues and hacking coughs. The dreaded lurgy has once more come to visit the Cat House. I've been off work since Tuesday, and have been told not to return until Monday. Who am I to argue with that? The pleasures of daytime telly aside, it has been particularly miserable. And I'm certain that the magazine articles about embracing festive fashion did not mean channeling Rudolph.

Anyway, amidst the darkness, there came more darkness, in the form of a not very nice letter from M&S. M&S were, they said, sorry to hear I'd found a "foreign object" in my vegetables. If I brought my receipt to the store, M&S would be pleased to offer me a double refund.

This, I think, is utterly preposterous.

M&S's policy is to offer a double refund to any customer that's unhappy. This suggests that finding a maggot in one's veg is akin to not enjoying a melting middle chocolate pudding, or having flowers that don't last seven days.

The thing that gets me the most though, is the business about the receipt. Who on earth keeps receipts for food? And even if you did - maybe some people do - the implication that you need proof, that you might be lying, is really not cricket.

This is war. I've written another letter, mentioning in passing Environmental Health, and the local paper. I've also dropped in that I'll be using this as a case study in classes of a company whose wish image and actual corporate image do not match. How will they like them onions?

Just as soon as I'm well enough to stagger to the post box, I'll get that off to them.

Misery - The Beatles

Caterpillar

2009-11-28T22:52:00.003+02:00

Today, I completed my festive shopping. You have no idea how proud of myself I am, since I am usually the person running around on Christmas eve. I didn't even buy myself any presents. A result, indeed.

Feeling smug, I walked home, anticipating the cosy night in I had planned. Bath, pyjamas, M&S food, X Factor, and then I'm a Celebrity. Later, a couple of glasses of wine, then bed, knowing a long lie was ahead of me.

My nice evening was ruined - ruined, I tell you - by the discovery of what appears to be a HUGE maggot in my fresh peas and corn from M&S. It was like being in a bushtucker trial. Only dead, because at least the microwave nuked it.

Urgh.

Call me an old lady, but I actually wrote M&S a not very nice letter, put the maggot and the packaging in an envelope with it, and marched to the post box, with a parka and Uggs over my pyjamas.

I'm hoping they send me a hamper.

Caterpillar - The Cure

Before I Fall to Pieces

2009-11-23T22:27:00.007+02:00

In the last week, I've visited the doctor, the dentist, and the optician.

I went to the doctor because they would no longer authorise repeat prescriptions. So that was relatively simple, if a little bit time wasting. I did, however, have an interesting chat with my GP about Swine Flu. Apparently there's less than one in a hundred people testing positive for it round these parts, although how representative that actually is, I'm not sure, since the general advice for people presenting "flu-like symptoms" is actually to quarantine themselves.

I went to the dentist because I'd rubbed the enamel off two teeth with heavy brushing, near the gum-line. Who even knew that was possible? Anyway, F the demon dentist patched them up with white fillings, and sealed them with a laser. Hello to my new best friend, the electric toothbrush, and goodbye to a reasonable amount of currency. I've been warned never, ever, ever to use a whitening toothpaste again, ever. On the plus side, my other teeth and gums are apparently looking good, so that's something.

I went to the optician because I was overdue a lens check, and a sight test. And the news here was not great. My eyes have deteriorated by 1.5 and 0.5 in the right and left respectively. Which is mysterious, since one's eyes are supposed to stabilise when one passes puberty, but does account for the nagging headaches I've been having of late. The dryness in my right eye's becoming even more problematic, which I knew, and is literally a pain. The upshot of all this is that I need two new pairs of stronger glasses (which are actually even further behind my current prescription than my lenses) and special super-high water content daily disposable contact lenses.

Being blind is super expensive. To have my "house" glasses re-glazed with bog standard lenses will cost £125. To have my decent glasses re-glazed with thinned down, coated lenses (avoiding the bottle bottom look is important) will cost £165. To have special super-high water content daily disposable contact lenses will cost £39 a month, compared with my current £20 monthly disposables.

Needless to say, I'll be managing with what I have until The Festives are out of the way.

I'm falling to bits. It's not brilliant.

Other than that, a handy hint. Do not try to cheat washing instructions by chucking black mohair cardigans in the washing machine. Take it from one who knows.

Before I Fall to Pieces - Razorlight

Does it Matter Now?

2009-11-21T19:30:00.003+02:00

I arrived home today to find a message telling me a girl I'd been at school with, T, had added me as a friend on Facebook. I've not seen her since we left school, but as we'd been through both primary and high school together, I decided to add her. Out of nosiness, I had a gander at her information and wall, and was surprised to discover she had an 18-year-old and a 14-year-old. Blimey. I also realised she was friends, on Facebook at least, with loads of other people who'd been in our year at school - all the cool girls I'd been a bit in awe of. (I never really came into my own until university.)

Facebook does lend itself to stalking somewhat, and I discovered that the majority of them married young, had children, and are now divorced. There seemed to be a bit of a Facebook reunion going on, with lots of chat about drinking "mixies" in the park and the like. I was never really part of all that, but it took me right back to being at school, and feeling like I was on the outside looking in.

God, nothing like the people you were around when you were 16 to make you actually feel 16 again, is there?

Anyway, call me horrid, but I was a teeny, tiny bit pleased to see that the years have been far kinder to me than they have to them - no sleepless nights, you see. But, really, why do I even care about how my life compares with people I've not seen in something like 18 years?

Does it Matter Now? - Peter, Bjorn and John

Veiled in Grey

2009-11-15T13:46:00.007+02:00

So, another week, another weekend. This has not been one of my finest. In a bid to try and lift myself from the slough of despond, I opted for self-improvement. (Some may call it maintenance, but that would be unkind.) Yesterday I tinted my eyelashes, coloured my hair, waxed my legs and gave myself a manicure and pedicure. I even buffed both sets of nails. I also started some new age mumbo jumbo. I put post-it notes full of empowering thoughts on various doors and mirrors in the Cathouse, and attempted to write in a "gratitude journal". (I confess, I found it quite hard to find things to be grateful for, and simply wrote that it wasn't raining. But that's not the point.) I also cleaned the house from top to bottom, reasoning that it must be bad for one's soul to live amidst layers of grime, and with last Saturday's disgarded shoes still sitting on the sofa.

Then I got a migraine. Migraines are the devil's own tool. I feared I might go blind. More than that, I feared I might be sick, which regular readers of this blog know is one of my greatest phobias.

I wasn't sick. Thank God. I did spend several hideous hours whimpering under my duvet, having feverish nightmares, and frightening visions. Panic not, though. I did wake up on time to watch Jedward on X Factor. So all was not lost.

Today's gratitude journal entry will simply say that I am thankful not to have a migraine.

In other news, the psyschic's playing hard to get. We were supposed to go on Thursday evening. Instead, she text me at lunchtime, saying her mum had taken ill, and she'd call me to re-schedule. She hasn't. I can't help but feel this, perhaps, does not bode well. Is my future so bleak she simply doesn't want to be the bearer of bad news?

Anyway. I want this. It is expensive, but I am convinced it will change my life. So pretty, no? Now I just need to figure out how to pay for it.

Veiled in Grey - Mystery Jets

Good Tradition

2009-11-08T14:37:00.002+02:00

My mum and P have a very old-fashioned relationship. P does man stuff, like building sheds - he seems to do this a lot, I imagine a whole village of sheds in what once was my dad's vegetable garden - and my mum does lady stuff. Despite being so crippled by arthritis that sometimes she can't get her shoes on, my mum does all the cleaning, and all the cooking, and all the making cups of tea, and bringing them to P, while he sits and reads the Daily Mail, or the Sunday Mail, depending on the day.

At weekends, however, my mum gets "a wee rest". On a Saturday they have a bacon sandwich for brunch, and then go to a hotel which is five minutes walk from the house for dinner. On a Sunday, they go to a pub which is 15 minutes walk from the house where they have a roast lunch, and then have a boiled egg for tea.

I accept that the division of labour according to gender is because they're a different generation. I don't much like it though. Five years ago, I'd have laughed at their routine and proclaimed I'd die from a life so mundane. It struck me yesterday, though, that I long for the day I know that Sundays mean boil-y eggs for tea with my boyfriend.

People, this is a new low. I don't care about not getting married in a £13K a night castle. I just want someone I can boil an egg for on a Sunday evening.

I don't know why I felt the need to confess this. I did though. So that is all.

Good Tradition - Tanita Tikarum

How Was It For You?

2009-11-06T21:37:00.003+02:00

It's been a week. And not a particularly brilliant one.

Because:

1) It's pissed rain pretty much non-stop. I feel very fortunate to live on the second floor, and not have been flooded.

2) All my footwear leaks. This includes brogues purchased five weeks ago, and boots purchased three weeks ago. Apparently paying £100 for leather boots means nothing, and the only way to have dry feet is to buy wellies, which can be found for less than £10. Humph.

3) Everyone at work's off sick. Like a third of the staff.

4) Of the remaining staff, a third is actually sick, but too afraid to be off. And the final third is making themselves sick, running around like mentals trying to cover.

5) Fireworks scare me.

6) I never win the office X Factor sweep.

7) Our psychic's cancelled tomorrow's appointment. Her daughter needs driven to Glasgow. She didn't see that one coming, did she? We're now to go on Thursday evening. I'm beginning to think we're destined never to see our destiny.

8) I've started Christmas shopping, which is making me feel all stress-y and Grinch-like.

9) I've not been able to do any exercise for weeks, due to a torn (and very painful) muscle, and it's making me feel grumpy, and bloated.

10) It's still raining.

On the plus-side, I came home to a big cheque instead of bills the other day (thank you, Aviva), and it's Friday, at last. I plan to eat chocolate (sometimes a single piece of Green and Black's does the trick, other times, only a family bag of Minstrels will do) in my pyjamas, in preparation for a girlie night of too much food and wine tomorrow.

How was it for you?

How Was It For You - James

I'm a Cuckoo

2009-10-31T22:03:00.003+02:00

Months and months ago, RS and I made an appointment to see a psychic. This was a woman we'd seen a few years back, and she'd proved suprisingly accurate. She did, however, predict that BJ was coming back into my life (which he did, just after we met) and that he was The One. That part is yet to come true. Anyway, I was looking forward to the appointment, today, and seeing what she had to say.

RS picked me up, and we embarked on a fairly arduous car journey. Why do these people always live in the middle of nowhere? We, predictably, got lost, but made it in the end. The psychic welcomed us in. Her cat sat on my lap. I was a bit excited, and a bit nervous.

And she couldn't read us. Apparently we'd been accompanied in by a spirit who didn't belong to either of us, so the messages she was receiving were terribly muddled. 20 minutes after arriving, and with a number of clooks in my tights, we left.

We're to go back next week. Who knows what will happen then? Meanwhile, I'd suggest that Hallowe'en is possibly not the ideal date to visit a psychic.

I'm a Cuckoo - Belle and Sebastian

A Must to Avoid

2009-10-28T20:39:00.002+02:00

Did that holiday even happen? It feels like it never did. Back to the grindstone full tilt. Work is proper bobbins. Especially when every person I come across is snochering and snivelling and coughing. My throat's already starting to tickle, and my nose feels suspiciously itchy.

Urgh.

Being back at work has a whole new set of challenges. Namely, in avoiding The Man I Have a Crush On. But who appears not to have a crush on me. Damn. This crush has been brewing since I started work, but was tempered by the fact that he had a live-in girlfriend. I always felt like there was a leetle frisson between us though. And then they broke up, and he moved out, which meant we walked to work together most mornings. And still I thought there was a leetle frisson. He moved to a new place a couple of weeks ago, and he made noises about my coming round to help with decorating, and then about coming round for a bottle of wine.

So far, so positive, no?

Then I added him on Facebook, and did a tiny bit of stalking. A raft of fairly miserable status updates, and a worrying tendency to post maudlin links, late at night. Pretty standard, really. So, at the beginning of the holidays, I sent him a chatty message, making mention of housewarming plans. Nothing full-on, nothing asking him out or anything like that, but just enough to open a dialogue.

What do you know? He didn't reply. To begin with I told myself he had no internet access. A lack of Facebook activity suggested this theory held weight. Except, now there's Facebook activity, and there's still no reply. So, maybe I was just imagining that leetle frisson all along.

For shame.

Still, making sure I don't run into him while I get a coffee makes for a new sport, so it's not all bad, is it?

A Must to Avoid - Herman's Hermits

Darkside Lightside

2009-10-21T14:15:00.003+02:00

Reasons I do not love this time of year:

1) It's so dark. And in a few weeks time, it's barely going to get light at all. Hate. It.

2) The great boot hunt. I should learn, and stock up on multiples of suitable boots when I find them, rather than have to endure that big calves humiliation. I'm pleased to report Office came up with the goods on Monday, but they are going to need considerable work to be comfortable.

3) The weather. Needs no explanation, really, but suffice to say I am already dreading having to leave the house to meet my friend at 5pm.

4) The slow creep towards The Festives, which starts in September.

5) Wall-to-wall party clothes in all the shops. Now, I'm more than happy to bang on a bit of bling for day-wear, but really, I am so not feeling red velvet.

6) The drop in temperature. Again, an obvious one, but this week has thrown me in terms of the heating having been and gone by the time I surface. Yes, of course, I could re-programme it, but that would just be complicated.

7) The germs. On Friday I thought I'd idle away the last few hours of the day by reading back copies of Vogue in the library, but was driven back to my desk in minutes by non-stop spluttering. My hands are practically flaking off with the non-stop disinfecting.

Humph.

Other news? The week's going in far too quickly, and I'm enjoying catching up with people, and eating and drinking far too much. I managed to keep my wedding woes to a minimum over lunch with my mother on Monday (but for the record, I do think people who get married in castles in the middle of nowhere are a bit selfish regarding transport and the like) and am trying not to think about it too much. She must have felt sorry for me, because not only did she pay for my boots, she also bought me a new winter coat and a jumper. (Usually I say no, but she was insistent that she could afford it, and likes buying things for people, so why not.) That didn't quite make up for the fact I'm not getting married in a bloody great castle, but at least I'll have dry feet.

Darkside Lightside - Ash

Holiday Song

2009-10-18T19:23:00.004+02:00

So, my brother's set a date. 11th of June, 2011. Which gives me 20 months to find a new man, a new job, and a new house, or face looking like the family failure and embarrassing everyone, especially myself. Argh. Shall we have a little wager on my chances?

I don't know why this is bothering me so much. After all, nothing in my life's changed. My brother and his girlfriend have been living together for two years, together for five, so this is hardly a surprise. Maybe it's just about the order of things being wrong. I'm oldest, I should get married first. Maybe it's just because I'm a horrible bitch.

When RS and I saw that (rip-off) psychic person back in the summer, she told me there was love all around me, and that there would be a celebration of a partnership between then and Christmas. Because I was paying £40, I gleefully thought she was talking about me. Happens I was wrong. We're off to see another psychic person at the end of this month - this one previously predicted that BJ was The One - so we'll wait and see what she says.

Anyway. I'm on holiday. It's brilliant. My plans mainly involve eating, and seeing everyone I've neglected since the summer holidays. I did bring a big, bad bag of work home with me, but thus far it's sat in the hall, untouched. Hopefully it will stay that way. Tomorrow I'm meeting my mum for lunch, and taking her to buy herself some Ugg boots, using my student discount. Perhaps she'll buy me an "I'm not getting married" present. I'll deserve it after listening to all the wedding chat that's undoubtedly to come.

Holiday Song - The Pixies

Will Never Marry

2009-10-12T19:08:00.006+02:00

As I sat, frozen, supervising reluctant exam-doers this morning, I idly checked my personal email. I should have been gainfully employed, marking other stuff, or even more actively supervising, but it was first thing on a Monday morning. There was a message from my mum, giving me the news that my little brother proposed to his rich girlfriend yesterday, and they're getting married in 2011. She went on to tell me the romantic details of the proposal, and to say how delighted she was. She and P and my brother and RG (now, I suppose, RF) went to dinner with RG's parents last night, and a jolly good time was had by all.

Well, call me the world's biggest bitch, but if I hadn't been in the midst of 30 people who would have freaked right out, I'd have burst into tears.

I went shopping (natch) at lunchtime, and bought a happy engagement card. And a jumper, with gold bits and gold buttons on the shoulders. And some bright blue tights. And some Tom Ford Black Orchid body lotion. That made me feel a little, tiny bit better. Then I went back to the office, and had a full scale meltdown to poor, unsuspecting Colleague B, who was very, very sweet.

I'm happy my brother's happy. I'm happy there's going to be - according to my mum - the wedding of the year, in two year's time. I'm just back to feeling like I'm left behind, and wondering why no-one wants me.

So, colour me black, and call me a bad person. I know it all. It's late night, maudlin street here though, and a pity party just for one.

Will Never Marry - Morrissey

Accident and Emergency

2009-10-11T15:14:00.003+02:00

Like most places, my work has pared staffing down to the bare minimum. Not by making anyone redundant, thankfully, but by not replacing people when they move on, or go on maternity leave. This is fine, provided everyone's present and correct, but the place falls into chaos when people are actually off sick.

For the past two Fridays, I've been covering for a colleague who's been off work. This is one of the shitter parts of my job, and one I find very stressful - you don't know when it's coming, and you don't know what it's going to be. A control freak's worst nightmare. In an ideal world, it should simply be a case of sitting and keeping order. In reality, it generally involves a raft of preparation on a subject you know nothing about.

For the past two Fridays, I've had a 15 minute lunchbreak, which has been proper bobbins. The upside to that is that I've been able to leave at 4pm. So, this Friday, I nipped to the shops to get a few bits and bobs - a new toothbrush, bubble bath - and to return a top to Oasis before heading home. And as I walked out of the shopping mall, who should I see walking towards me, laden with bags, but my absent colleague.

To be fair, she was shamefaced. She even went as far as to put on a wide-brimmed hat, saying she needed her disguise. She told me she'd be returning to work on Monday, phased in on a part-time basis. We chatted briefly, then I walked home.

Is it just me, or is this a little bit bold, bearing in mind our workplace is practically next door to the shopping centre? I'll be honest and say it pissed me off. If you're well enough to navigate Primark, you're well enough to be at work, no? I know. It's the system that I should really be annoyed at, not her.

Still. I just hope her part-time return involves a Friday morning.

Accident and Emergency - Patrick Wolf

Meat is Murder

2009-10-08T19:35:00.003+02:00

Most days, as I walk home from work, I nip in past my local Co-op to pick up something or other. Milk, bread, Grazia. The usual. And most days, I am fascinated to see, by the till point, something claiming to be an "ambient sausage roll". On closer inspection, these contain 23% meat. So far, so predictable. But ambient? Do they create an atmosphere? Are they guaranteed to make a party? At 23% meat content, am I really willing to take the gamble and find out?

Hmm. One of life's little mysteries, no? Probably I'll stick to beef Hula Hoops for my synthetic meat fix.

Other stuff? Well, I decided to give the Yasmin another shot, mainly because my last few periods have been excruciating. I started it on the first day of my period, last Tuesday, and am still bleeding. Normal? Or not? Other than swollen, sore boobs, this has been my only ill-effect, but I'm not quite keen on it. I'm trying not to think too much about the fact I'm permanently furious, and make connections that possibly aren't there. I do worry, however, that being over 35 (just) and a smoker (bad Cat) maybe I shouldn't be on it anyway.

What to do? Wait it out, or stop it? God, being a girl is tricky, no?

Other other stuff? Nothing to report. Dullsville. I'm simply counting down the days til the holidays, wrapping up warm, and trying not to kill anyone, including myself.

Meat is Murder - The Smiths

You Wear It Well

2009-10-04T15:18:00.006+02:00

This week, I was teaching some students the concept of the Pareto Principle - that 80% of business comes from 20% of customers. And because I like to make learning relevant, I told them that it's generally true of one's wardrobe - you wear 20% of your clothes 80% of the time.

Go on, admit it.

And so, I considered my own wardrobe. Which is generally made up of lots of little dresses, which I wear with tights and fitted cardis, and tons of skinny jeans, which I wear with one of my multitude of tops, and sometimes long cardigans. There's the odd full, prom-style skirt in there, which I wear with polo-necks in winter, and a couple of pairs of safe, black trousers, which should be a workwear staple, but in reality, are just boring, and seldom sported. I have everything I need - except perhaps some new flat black leather boots - mid calf or knee-high - for work or wearing over jeans. Why then, do I keep shopping? Just this week has seen me buy two pairs of shoes (one flat black pumps, one flat black brogue type things, with a big buckle across them) and two jumpers (one sparkly, one studded), none of which I needed, really. (But I have just been paid.)

I shop because I love shopping and fashion. I shop because I feel like I work hard, and I deserve nice things. I shop when I'm unhappy. I shop when I'm excited about an event, and want something new to wear. I shop with friends. I shop alone. I shop even though I can't really afford it. In short, I just shop.

And then there's the arrears on the electricity bill. As well as the money I borrowed from my mum for the roof. Not to mention the fact that dreaded Christmas is looming. So, I was inspired to come across this blog, which is sort of the flip-side to this one, which I also love. I'm not suggesting I'll wear the same thing for months, because that would be bad for my soul. But I will try to make do with what I've got, and be more creative with it. And I'll try to find other, less costly ways of medicating the blues.

Other news? Not much. Work still stinks, BJ's still not been in touch, and I'm still generally scunnered. I comfort myself with the fact that the October holidays are only a fortnight away, and I'll be off for a week. The very idea that I used to spend these holidays as a teenager picking potatoes - and having them thrown at me if I was slow - is quite beyond the pale. Perhaps the money I earned from that was the beginning of my shopping habit?

You Wear It Well - Rod Stewart

Reasons to be Cheerful

2009-09-26T12:20:00.008+02:00

So. On Wednesday lunchtime I received an email - via Facebook* - from Bad J. He said he was planning to be in town for a few days, and did I want to meet up; he suggested dinner. At teatime I replied, with one line, asking when he was coming. He responded instantly, saying he'd intended to come up on Thursday and leave on Friday, but would stay longer if I wanted to see him. I replied saying I was busy on Thursday and Friday, but free on Saturday if he wanted to meet then. Make him wait, I thought.

Of course it was me left waiting. I have heard nothing from him since. So, I will not be going out for dinner with Bad J this evening. (I will also not be going out for dinner with RH as originally planned, as we are now, off the back of the Bad J situ, not talking, but that's a story for another day.)

Anyway. I am not bothered. Because:

1) I'm broke until I get paid on Tuesday.

2) I won't have to bother with shaving my legs or any of that faffing around. (Although I did wax my bikini line last night, and now look like my under-carriage has been in a fight.)

3) I can return the very expensive (and very lovely) dress I panic bought on my credit card. I'd planned to wear it over grey skinny jeans, with my Tatty Devine for Gilbert and George necklace, and my orange sandals with black fishnet socks. Oh yes, Bad J doesn't know what he's missing.

4) I'd miss X Factor. And we're getting onto the good parts now.

5) I'm pre-menstrual, so any alcohol would hit me like a train.

6) I'm pre-menstrual, so I'm spotty and bloated.

7) It's better to be feeling sad and disappointed because he didn't get in touch now, than feeling sad and disappointed because he didn't get in touch after the event.

* I should add here that Bad J and I are not "friends" on Facebook. He did add me on Wednesday after he sent me the message. I accepted for stalking purposes in the evening (very, very dull) and then ended the connection.

Reasons to be Cheerful - Ian Dury and the Blockheads

Mystify

2009-09-23T18:43:00.003+02:00

About a year ago, I received notification that I was several hundred pounds in credit to the electricity company. Well, hello, little savings plan! I asked them to refund it, which they did, and also enquired what my actual useage was each month. At the time, my monthly direct debit was £85. The electric man told me I was using far less than that, but prices were to rise. So, I raised the direct debit to £95 just in case. Sensible, no? (For once.)

I only get a bill every six months. And when the meter man (or woman) came a few weeks back, I was at work. When he (or she) came again at night, I was in the bath. I couldn't face a whole ladder/towel situation, whilst trying to stop duvets and suitcases tumbling to the ground, so decided to sit pretty and wait for the estimate. I waited, and no estimate came.

So, yesterday, I took my own reading, and called them.

Apparently they only issue a bill based on an accurate reading, so I could have waited long enough, since they don't tell you this. The electric lady took my reading, and told me I was £224 in arrears. Apparently this is due to price increases. I asked her to calculate my actual useage. She told me it was £93 a month, and promptly increased my direct debit to £110 a month.

Now, maths is not my strongest suit. So someone please explain. If I have been using £93 a month, and paying £95 a month, how the hell have I managed to rack up arrears of £224?

Anyone?

In other news, and I'm sneaking this in at the end, today I received an email from no less than BJ. He said he'd be here at the weekend, and did I want to meet. I know I should tell him to fuck off, but my heart's telling me to go. Yup, I'm a sucker and a mug, and I won't come crying to you when it all goes wrong, like it undoubtedly will.

Honestly.

Mystify - INXS

Hideaway

2009-09-10T15:30:00.003+02:00

Yesterday, the nurse from my work's Occupational Health called me. Apparently this is the new thing if anyone's off with colds or flu, and is intended to alert them to potential swine flu problems. It felt a bit like I was being checked up on, if I'm being honest, but my husky voice and coughing fits must have had her convinced, as she told me not to return until Monday. I appear to have a bit of a relapse today, and actually called my own GP for advice. I was offered an appointment to check if I have a fever, which I know I don't, and told the usual about rest, fluids and paracetemol. Blah, blah. I was also told that symptoms can take ten (ten!) days to die down, and to call on Monday if I needed a sick line.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Yesterday, I ventured out for the first time in five days. I walked to the corner shop, and felt like I'd run a marathon. Poor me. I'm quite bored now I'm no longer confined to bed, and disconcerted by the change in format to 60 Minute Makeover. Surely ITV aren't that low in funds? My concentration span's limited to magazines and brief bouts of internet, so I'm finding it hard to entertain myself. I know I'm going to need to do a substantial amount of work before returning on Monday, but don't have the energy just now.

I also don't have the energy to do battle with Royal Mail. I ordered a necklace from the new Tatty Devine collection on Friday lunchtime, to cheer myself up. At teatime, I had an email saying it had been posted. Exciting. When it hadn't arrived yesterday, I emailed them to ask what had happened. They emailed me back with a tracking number, which showed that my necklace had been re-directed to my local post office the day before.

Now, usually I do have to have mail re-directed to my local post office for collection. The post doesn't come until about mid-day, so I'm sure I'm not alone. However, on this occasion, there hadn't been any attempt to deliver it, and I didn't have a card to collect it. Not to mention the fact that the walk to the post office might as well be a walk up a mountain at the moment.

So, today I called Royal Mail. I went through about a thousand automated systems with little success, until eventually realising the trick was to stay on the line without pressing anything, and being put through to what was quite possibly The Rudest Customer Service Operator in The World, Ever. I explained the situation, and she tracked the number again. This time it showed that it had been delivered and signed for, and was at my local mail sorting depot. I told her it had not been delivered or signed for, and the website showed it as being at the post office. She said I'd have to take it up with the sender.

Hello? Is it just me, or is this completely bonkers? They have delivered something to a wrong address where it's been mysteriously signed for by someone with an apparently illegible signature - why is this the sender's fault? A call to Tatty confirmed they'd sent it to the correct address, and they kindly agreed to look into it with Royal Mail for me. I just hope they don't get The Rudest Customer Service Operator in The World, Ever. Meanwhile, I have no necklace, and also no two other parcels I've been expecting for several weeks.

Off with their heads.

Hideaway - Mystery Jets

Broken Face

2009-09-08T18:52:00.002+02:00

I may have spoken too soon in my swine flu disbelief on Sunday. Because, people, I have been unspeakably unwell. Shortly after posting that post, I began to sweat and shiver, and my joints became unbearably sore. Then came nausea, shortly followed by actual vomiting. Which, as anyone who knows me knows, is my least favourite thing in the world. By the evening, desperate, I called NHS 24, who went through a list of questions with me, and diagnosed "flu symptoms" before telling me to stay at home with fluids and painkillers.

So, no actual swine flu diagnosis, but god, I have felt wretched. RH brought me round some supplies yesterday, and I couldn't even be bothered to get dressed. And let me tell you, there is nothing more pathetic than a 36-year-old woman crying that she wants her mum, particularly when her mum's actually off gallivanting round Europe with her bidie-in. Funny how what is essentially a cold with ideas above its station can make one feel quite so ill.

I've been off work. Which I feel guilty about, but in all honesty, there's no way I could have gone in. I'm a bit less miserable today, and have actually just had a bath and got dressed. (After a fashion - leggings, a dress and Uggs almost counts as pyjamas, no?) For the first time in several days I feel hungry, which is probably a good sign. On the plus side, a few days of existing on little more than lemon juice, honey and hot water has flattened my stomach nicely. I am, however, coughing up a storm, and barely able to speak. Given that being able to talk is possibly the main pre-requisite of my job, I am definitely not going back tomorrow.

RS is due round shortly with some bits - RH bought scratchy tissues, bless him, and I need the new Grazia. While I may have felt dreadful, this past few days have actually been a useful lesson. Sometimes, one has to ask for help. And there's no shame in that.

Broken Face - The Pixies

Pass in Time

2009-09-06T12:19:00.008+02:00

Today would have been my dad's 65th birthday. I can't quite believe how the time has gone in. My mum and P are flying off for a holiday today, and it feels weird that my mum's not mentioned the date to me. Her birthday was yesterday, so it's unlikely she forgot. It's rare now for my mum to talk about my dad, unless it's to make an unfavourable comparison with P. I'm glad she's moved on and found happiness again - and let's face it, if one can meet the love of one's life at 60, there's hope for us all - but it does rankle a little. She can have a new husband, but I can't have a new father. So, today, I will be raising a glass, and wishing my dad a happy birthday.

My dad, taken the year he died. I hope I look as good at 52!

And us together, with me looking a hell of a lot cuter than I do right now.

Sadly, that will be a glass of Lemsip. People, I am ill. I've moved onto a full-blown streaming cold, and feel quite disgusting. Out of curiousity, I went through the NHS swine flu checker thing, and was instantly given a reference number to collect a dose of Tamiflu. I'm not sure that's even possible here in Scotland, but it frightened me how easy it was. Surely the potential for mis-diagnosis is huge? Needless to say, I won't be collecting it, and will stick with hot drinks and Beechams capsules. Quite how I'm going to get through work tomorrow is something I don't want to consider at the moment. Given the amount of tea I'm getting through, it could lead me to bankruptcy.

Cold remedies and sympathy in the comments box, please.

Pass in Time - Beth Orton

Dial a Cliche

2009-09-04T21:00:00.006+02:00

This week, I am mostly feeling old, and tired. Work has been proper bobbins, and I've the tonsilitis, again. Rubbish. Am I feeling old because I am old? Or just because I'm tired and sick, and sick and tired of feeling sick and tired? Who knows.

Anyway, why getting old is a cruel process:

1) Grey hair. I have been colouring my hair since I was about 15, to the point where I can barely recall its natural shade. Having to colour it because of suspicious, wiry, pale hairs at the temples is a whole different ballgame though.

2) Mutton-angst. I live in fear of being dressed too young for my age. The other day, I went to work in a short(ish) - just above the knee - black and white dress, with black tights and boots, and the grey leather jacket. Some men in a car beeped at me, and then leaned out of the windows. Perhaps I should have been flattered, I was simply worried they'd thought I was 16, then realised I actually looked about 60. When is one too old to wear skinny jeans?

3) Out of date reference points. The other day I commented that advertising had been responsible for music becoming big, and gave the example of Moby's Play album. Cue a sea of blank faces.

4) Having to be responsible. The bill for the roof, and the drains arrived, and now it's a call to have the communal halls redecorated. I want to spend my money on inappropriate clothing, not boring house stuff.

5) Slow recovery times. Hangovers used to last until lunchtime. Now I barely dare let a glass of wine pass my lips. And don't even get me started on post-crying hangovers. It used to be that I could look washed clean after a full-blown weep-fest. Now, I look like I have a disease the day after shedding a sly tear over a particularly good back-story on the X Factor.

Humph.

Right, now that lot's off my chest, it's the Big Brother final for me. I'm excited. I'm also excited about the new Tatty Devine collection, out today. Please don't say I'm too old for that?

Dial a Cliche - Morrissey

Embarrassment

2009-08-29T13:33:00.003+02:00

Phew. The weekend's here. I, for one, plan to do nothing more strenuous than lie on the couch - or in the bath - and plough my way through a pile of "vintage" magazines I found in a cupboard at work. It's interesting to see what I was meant to be wearing five years ago, and read interviews with Cheryl Cole when she was still a rough girl that beat up toilet attendants, as opposed to the nation's sweetheart.

It's been a funny old week. Sometimes literally so. On Monday, I made the acquaintance of my fairly attractive new neighbour, who popped by to introduce himself. Unfortunately, I'd had a shower and put my pyjamas on, so he caught me in a vest top (no bra), glasses and Primark pyjama bottoms at 7.30 in the evening. For shame. I apologised for my appearance and told him I'd just taken a shower, and he said he'd let me "get back to washing", which was a little odd. I hope I don't need him to change any lightbulbs or free me from rogue moths any time soon. I found myself in the ridiculous position of hiding from the electric meter man just two days later, attired in a similar fashion. I couldn't be arsed with the whole dragging out a ladder for him, and tons of duvets falling on his head. I'll take the estimated bill and hang the consequences.

So. On this week's shopping list: a couple of tracksuit type things for lounging in. I don't actually sleep in pyjamas, but always have a shower or a bath after work, and generally can't be bothered to put on jeans or whatever. I do promise not to leave the house in them, though.

Yesterday I had lunch with my mother. She told me my brother's car cost £28,000. Is that what cars cost? He and his girlfriend are off on yet another holiday, paid for by his girlfriend's parents. My mum and P are off to Greece next weekend, and plan to take as many trips as possible next year because they can afford it. I said I felt like the poor relation. My mum said, yes, I was. I admit it. I'm jealous. And horrible, I know. I don't want them not to have good stuff because they have rich partners, I just wonder when it will be my turn to be gadding round the world on someone else's dime. Which is a redundant question, really, because I actually would never be comfortable with that. Anyway, lunch passed, and I resisted the urge to medicate myself with Thornton's chocolate before returning to work. I did buy a top in Topshop though. I am no saint.

I lost 2lb. Yay. And given that my period's due to start any second, I think that's good going. All those stairs paid off.

Big Brother's been axed. I'm probably one of the few people still watching it, and I'm a bit sad. In every sense of the word. Yes, it's old and it's tired, but I kind of like it. I was shocked to see Marcus evicted last night, and am quite looking forward to next week's final.

The three-ring circus starts in earnest on Monday. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to dig out my top hat.

Embarrassment - Madness

Open Your Arms

2009-08-24T19:58:00.004+02:00

When I went to see the angel lady/charlatan, she was adamant that romance was on its way into my life in a big way. Well, hurrah. Apparently it will be with me by the end of November, this year. She said I didn't have to do anything out of the ordinary, and it could be that this person was already in my life. According to the angel lady/charlatan, the only thing I needed to do was to be more open to things, and to ask the angels to help me. (Okay, I know, that last bit sounds bonkers. But surely believing in angels is no less mentalist than believing in other things one cannot see?)

Interesting, no?

Shortly before I ended things with GB, I received an email from RH. It wasn't solely responsible for the final curtain, but it did have a hand in the mix. Since then, RH and I have met up a few times - a couple of lunches and a couple of dinners - and have been regularly exchanging emails. Just as friends, you understand, and absolutely nothing more. The angel lady/charlatan's words struck a chord. Could RH be the person? He's a brilliant guy, and a great friend. Some day he'll make a brilliant husband, and a great father. But for me? I'm just not so sure. The element that's always been missing is the physical side of things. It just doesn't really work. My mum's always telling me I have unrealistic expectations, and need to compromise. (For compromise, read: settle.) But on that? Wouldn't that lead to long-term resentment and misery?

And if he's not, does having him in my life as a sort of subsitute boyfriend make me less open to new things? I've been fretting about this. Partly just because I like to fret about stuff, and partly because I worry about getting back into the situation where he's my "special person" (to coin one of GB's phrases) and the idea of being with anyone else seems disloyal, yet we're not having any sort of physical relationship. I may be being arrogant here, but I get the feeling he'd still like it to be more than just friends, whereas I'm trying to keep it at arms' length. I certainly don't want to get back into the situation where I feel like it all gets too intense, and I freak out a bit, then we end up not talking for months. We did have a bit of a "chat" to this end a wee while ago, but I fear the waters were somewhat muddied with chablis.

Urgh. Complicated, no? And I know, I make everything more complicated for myself. Not to worry though, RS and I are off to see another psychic/charlatan at the end of October. (No angel cards with this one.) We saw her before, a few years back, and she described RH in a spookily accurate fashion, and said he was a wonderful man and would treat me like a princess, but he wasn't the right one for me. I wonder what she'll say this time?

Open Your Arms - Editors

The Weight of the Stars

2009-08-22T20:23:00.003+02:00

Today I am mostly feeling fat. And that, my friends, is because, despite boasting about only gaining 2lb over the holidays, it transpires this morning that I've actually gained 4lb. I started at 10stone 4lb, and this morning I am a hefty 10stone 8lb. Which is closer to eleven stone than ten, and a very bad thing, especially on a week when Kate Moss features in an article about "curvy" celebs in Heat magazine.

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm still wearing a 12 on the bottom and a 10 on the top. (That's an eight and a six, for anyone in the US.) And it's still well within the healthy BMI range for my height. I feel like my stomach's a bit bulgy, but nothing that can't be disguised, so really, it's not the end of the world. But psychologically, breaking that ten and a half stone barrier is a big thing. A few years ago I weighed in at eleven and a half stone, and sometimes even size 14 trousers were a bit neat. That is a country I have no desire to re-visit.

I shouldn't be surprised. I spent six whole weeks doing nothing but eating and drinking, so it's just what I deserve. And I'm sure once work starts up properly and I'm back to running around like a maniac it would probably go of its own accord. But it's put me in a very bad mood indeed.

I'm taking no chances. Next week: stairs and Special K. Tonight: pizza, plonk and X Factor - loving Danni's new hairstyle. One needs a last hurrah, no?

The Weight of the Stars - Hefner

A Little Biddy Help From Elvis

2009-08-18T19:40:00.004+03:00

Many years ago, back, back, back in the mists of time, when I was 24, a colleague told me he knew an ex-boyfriend of mine. He was possibly the first boy I ever really kissed, and ten years down the line I was curious to see what he was like. We exchanged a few emails, and arranged to meet for a drink. Well, what do you know? We hit it off. We were together for about a year. It didn’t, as I'm sure you know, work out. I was at my most mental – my dad had died just a few months earlier, and to say I was highly strung would be putting it mildly. He was very good with me, and a great bloke, but ultimately, I don’t think anyone would have been up to the job at that point. And he drank, which I found very annoying. Not that he was an alcoholic or anything, but he couldn’t go out for a couple of drinks without getting absolutely slaughtered. Unfortunately, he suffered terrible hangovers and would spend the whole of the next day being sick. Not very attractive, and also most inconvenient.

Anyway. We broke up.

A few years later, I ran into him at an Elvis evening. He was actually dressed as Elvis. I was not. He was drunk. I was, too, a bit. He came back to the Cat House, where there was a bit of kissing. Despite being drunk, I knew it wasn’t a particularly good idea, so I tucked him up on the couch, and went to bed, alone. We spent the next day together, and at night went out for drinks with the mutual friend who’d re-introduced us, and a girlfriend of mine. He asked if he could come back to mine, if we could give things another go. I was tempted, but knew it wasn’t a particularly good idea. So, he got completely plastered instead.

Last I heard he had met a girl who lived in another city, and was planning to move there to be with her. I hadn’t thought of him in years until a few weeks ago. Because every time I log into Facebook, he pops up as “someone I might know”. We still have mutual friends. I was curious to know what he was up to. So, what harm? I added him as a friend.

Naturally he declined my request.

Now. This is a man I went out with 12 years ago, so there’s no reason I should be miffed. I certainly wasn't hoping to re-kindle old flames. But for some reason I am a tiny wee bit hurt. And feel more than a tiny wee bit foolish. Which is ridiculous. Just yesterday I “un-friended” a person from work, fearful that she may be a management spy, so I know how it works. And Facebook's currently predicting I should make friends with one of my arch enemies, so it doesn't always get it right. But still.

Facebook is brutal, no?

A Little Biddy Help From Elvis - Space

Gone the Dream

2009-08-15T21:16:00.005+03:00

So. That was summer.

For me it went like this:

Lunches out: 22
Dinners out: four.
Dinners in: six, and another one to come this evening.
Bottles of wine consumed: too many to count.
Pounds gained: two - not a bad result, given the above.
Visits to the cinema: two.
Visits to charlatan angel ladies: one.
Trips to Edinburgh: one.
Topshop tops bought: three.
Warehouse tops bought: one.
Shoes bought: two (pairs of).
Perfumes bought: one, Jo Malone's Pomegranate Noir, with matching body lotion. It smells very nice.
Jewellery bought: one Tatty Devine for Gilbert and George gin bottle necklace, and one pair of Tatty devine swallow tattoo earrings.
Haircuts: two, one drastic.
Days spent sitting in the garden: about seven, maybe.
Books read: about 20, some of which were better than others.
Domestic disasters: two. I am awaiting the third.
Preparation done for the new term: nil.

Numbers which came up on Friday's Euromillions draw: one.

From that last stat, it is plain to see, I am going back to work on Monday. And it may be pyschological, but I woke up this morning with a very sore throat, swollen glands, and earache. Let's just hope it's not the swine flu.

See you on the other side.

Gone the Dream - Ash

America

2009-08-09T16:53:00.003+03:00

There's a line in the Simon and Garfunkel song, America, which goes "I'm empty and aching and I don't know why". That kind of sums up how I'm feeling just now. Generally flat, and fed up. Which is ridiculous. I'm on holiday, for goodness sake! The psychic (or con-merchant, depending on how you look on these things) predicted that all my dreams are going to come true! The sun's been shining!

I'm not sure what's up. Partly, I think, it's because other than going away for a few days at the beginning of the week, I've not had much on, so I've been a bit lonesome and bored. Entirely my own fault and my own bad planning. Partly because there seems to be a lot going wrong on the domestic front, and it feels like everything's outside my control. I'm still smarting about the roof business, and now what? Environmental health calling regarding blocked drains, that's what. It's not going to cost thousands to fix, like the roof, thank goodness, but it's still going to cost. So I'm worried about money - being on holiday for six weeks doesn't come cheap.

Partly, and mainly, I think I have the blues about going back to work. I'm absolutely dreading it. My timetable's shaping up to be the worst I've had so far, and that's saying something. I've queried it, and hope that at least some of my concerns can be resolved. The argument about there not being any staff has worn wafer thin. Yes, two full-time members of staff went off to have babies, but why should I have to pick up all the slack? That's for someone else to sort out. And the prospect of work in general is making me gloomy. Despite being scunnered this week, I've grown quite used to pottering around and doing my own thing. I'm not going to take kindly to waking up with Moyles again. In fact, I've been struggling to get up in time for Jeremy Kyle.

Oh, and I feel fat. I've gained two pounds since being off, which I'm sure will drop away as soon as I get back into my headless chicken routine. And in reality, I've done well to have only gained two with all the eating out, and wine. So, that's depressing me. Not enough to say I'll start a diet, mind. But enough to moan about it.

Blah, blah, blah. I'll stop now; I just needed a whinge. The remaining week of the holiday is jam-packed full of socialising, and hopefully that will perk me up a bit. Let's just hope no more domestic disasters are looming. They do say these things come in threes.

America - Simon and Garfunkel

Angels

2009-08-06T13:49:00.003+03:00

Tonight, RS and I are making an epic trip to the wilds of the country to see a psychic type person. We are to have our angel cards read. As neither of us is entirely sure exactly what angel cards are, I'm sure this will be interesting if nothing else. The fact the woman lives in the middle of nowhere is positive, as the trickier these people are to find, generally the better they are, in my experience. The fact that the woman was able to accommodate our booking at fairly short notice, not so much. But perhaps there's just not much demand for angel cards in the summer holidays.

Predictably, I'd like her to see a tall, dark and handsome man, a wedding frock, babies, a new job, and a grown-up house in my future. We will, of course, wait and see. I told my mother we were going, and rather than reassure me that all these things will be mine, she simply said it was a load of cobblers. When I said that sometimes it was nice to have a bit of reassurance and hope, she stuck with cobblers. I'm not sure if this is a bad sign, or if my mum's just lacking in psychic powers.

Like I said, we'll wait and see; all will be revealed in time. (By me, here, I mean, I'm not quite that confident in the angel lady's abilities.)

Angels - Robbie Williams

EDIT - well, it was all good. Apparently it's all about letting go of the past to allow my future in, and I'm going to live happily ever after. For a hefty £40, it had better all come true, and soon.

Better Off Alone

2009-07-31T21:18:00.004+03:00

Last night, I had dinner with my mother. Which, as these things go, turned out to be relatively painless. And I'm delighted to note that P's daughter's skin's a lot worse than mine. Well, phew.

Anyway, in back-to-school style, we did the "what have you done on your holidays?" conversation. I told her of people I'd met, lunches and dinners I'd eaten, of a planned trip out of town next week, and of a solo cinema outing. I told her I planned to go to the cinema again today, to see Coco Avant Chanel. (Yes, I know, it's Coco Before Chanel here, but I prefer the French, okay?) News of my lone cinema going was met with horror. My mum said that I should have called her, and she would have gone with me. But, I said, you hate the cinema. (She does. The last time my mum went to the pictures was to see Fatal Attraction, which by my reckoning was something like 20 years ago.) My mum said that she would have gone, just so I didn't have to go by myself.

Clearly my mum thinks I am a sad old Norma No Mates, forced to do things alone due to a lack of chums. I couldn't even be bothered to explain that I absolutely love the cinema by myself, and the decadence of eating popcorn during the day. Clearly my mum thinks I'm weird. Which makes me wonder: am I?

Solo cinema - just for losers, or perfectly normal?

Better Off Alone - Alice Deejay

Up on the Roof

2009-07-30T14:10:00.003+03:00

Back in May, I received a letter from one of my neighbours. It told me that the roof had been leaking into the loft, and a repair had been carried out, and requested payment for said repair. It also told me that a large amount of further repairs were required, and enclosed an estimate. The estimate was for approximately £3,000, which, when shared between seven properties is a fair old amount. I wrote back to my neighbour, enclosing a cheque for the repair which had been done, and saying I was happy to pay my share of the work to come, but would like to see more than one estimate. I checked, and apparently protocol is to circulate three.

I heard nothing more, and pretty much forgot about it.

Until Tuesday, when I was wakened at 8am by banging and clanging. When I went out to meet my friend J for lunch, I spied with my little eye a roofing contractor's van outside the house. Yesterday, the banging and clanging continued, and the van remained. On my return from the dentist (clean bill of health - yay!) I went up to the top floor, and knocked on the door. The door was answered by the mother of the girl who actually lives in the flat, and she confirmed that the work had been started, based on the single estimate. I - very pleasantly - queried this, and suggested that I'd have expected at least a note to tell me the work was going ahead on that basis. The woman burst into tears.

Ooooh. How very awkward. I ended up having a cup of tea with the woman, where she told me that the heavy rain we've had lately meant that there hadn't been a choice. I think she knew she was in the wrong, and she agreed that she should have got more estimates and let everyone know. I suspect I won't be the only person who's a bit pissed off. My title deeds say I am liable for one seventh of any communal repairs, so there's nothing I can do, but the whole thing's left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. Coupled with the 8am starts yesterday and today - I am on holiday, after all - I'm quite fed up with the whole thing.

So. PMT, building works, and the anticipation of having tea with my mother tonight. A combination that does not a happy Cat make.

Up on the Roof - The Drifters

Harmony

2009-07-26T17:36:00.006+03:00

Lately, I've been seeing lots of adverts on television for an online dating service called eHarmony. Its premise is that they use "the science of love" or "compatibility matching" to hook you up with your perfect partner. Interesting, no? Anyway, since the weather's rubbish, and I was a bit bored, I decided to have a wee look.

I've done online dating before. The standard form is that you write a witty profile, tick a few boxes about things like marital status, height, weight and so on, and you're off. You browse other people's profiles in much the same way you might browse eBay. Not so on eHarmony. Instead, you fill out a thousand or so pages of psychometric tests, which in turn, will allow them to match you with your ideal mate.

Now, I'd no intention of actually signing up, or paying - I've had my fill of online dating, and am totally fine with being single at the moment - but I was quite intrigued. So, I persevered. And believe me, it took some patience.

Finally: my matches! After all that, I thought, it had better be good. The anticipation almost killed me.

And lo. I had one single, solitary match. A 52-year-old man, who listed his favourite ways of spending time as running, hill-walking, and anything involving "the great outdoors".

Oh dear. Perhaps I'm being too picky, but having recently turned 36, I'm not really in the market for a man quite that much older. And given that my idea of exercise is walking to the shops, I suspect our lifestyles weren't going to be entirely compatible, no matter how scientifically well-matched we were. Or, alternatively, perhaps my answers revealed I am fundamentally incompatible with everyone.

Maybe they hold back the good stuff for when they actually have your credit card details, but suffice to say, they won't be getting mine.

Harmony - Elton John

Add it Up

2009-07-24T14:05:00.005+03:00

Last night I met my friend C for dinner. Both of us are feeling the end of the month pinch - me more so than usual with being on holiday - so we opted for an Italian restaurant, and gorged on pasta. Quite why I ordered lasagne when I've not eaten red meat in about ten years is beyond me, but suffice to say, I am paying for it this morning.

We shared some garlic bread, had a main course each, and with four glasses of wine and two coffees (that's between us), the bill came to a reasonable enough £34. We each pitched in a £20 note, and C gave the waiter the bill while I nipped to the loo. We waited for the change, and waited, and waited, while shooting looks at the staff, and finally deduced that we were not going to get any change after all. Being too bloody British to say anything, we left.

Is it just me, or is this really naughty? By the time we were leaving, it was about 10pm, which meant there was essentially a waiter per remaining table, so it wasn't like the change was forgotten about because it was so busy. To my mind, tipping is a "reward" for good service, and, while I understand that waiting staff are paid low wages, so rely on tips - I know, I have been there - surely it should be at the customer's discretion? It would be very unusual for me not to leave a tip, but I would, however, like to have that choice. I know I sound like a real grumpy old woman, not to mention a meanie, but it really pissed me off.

Anyway. Shall we have a little update on my skin? Just a week in, and I've ditched the pill. It wasn't - yet - making me particularly mental, but it did make my chest so sore and swollen that I felt utterly uncomfortable. It frightens me to think of taking such powerful hormones. I'm currently horsing down the algae capsules, and, while I don't want to jinx myself, they do seem to be having a positive impact, coupled with my full-blown Liz Earle regime. I ran into RS on my way to meet C last night, and, without being asked, she commented on the difference from when I saw her on Tuesday. So, let's all keep our fingers crossed.

Add it Up - The Violent Femmes

Please Mr Postman

2009-07-21T14:03:00.002+03:00

Today, the postman knocked, with a parcel. Which, in itself is unremarkable. What made this particular encounter memorable was that he caught me right in the middle of bleaching my top lip. Jolen ahoy. I was forced to speedily attempt to hide the evidence - that pink towel may never recover - before opening the door. I'm hoping he didn't clock the redness.

But, oh, the shame.

Now, call me an old bag, but I remember the days when the post came before a person left for work. Currently, it arrives between 1030 and 1230. I feel like the postman is holding me hostage. Do I chance getting in the shower? Or do I wait, in which case, the chances are he won't bring anything anyway. If I miss him, the sorting office is only open for ten minutes on the third Thursday after a blue moon, and getting things re-directed is a whole headache in itself.

I'd hate to be a postie. The ugly shoes, for a start. But I'd really like it if we could get to a point where the post was delivered in a timely fashion, and I opened the door looking normal instead of like a half-crazed loon.

Please Mr Postman - The Beatles

Howl

2009-07-13T21:24:00.004+03:00

This year has been a good one as far as my skin's been concerned. Until the last fortnight, when it went completely, utterly crazy. I thought it was stress, I thought it was hormones, I thought it was horrible. So, on Friday, when I had a pre-booked appointment to see my GP, I mentioned it to her. She agreed that it was horrible. She prescribed me some new antibiotics, and a course of the contraceptive pill. I'm taking the antibiotics, and carrying out a bit of a cost/benefit analysis on the contraceptive pill. Generally, it makes me a total mentalist, so I'm a bit wary. I'm currently hoping the antibiotics will be enough to restore balance, and stop me scaring small children.

I mentioned the lurking lumps to my mother, who sympathised. And today, on the phone, she asked me how my appointment had been. I told her, and she sympathised some more. Then she went on to tell me how P's daughter (all conversational roads lead to P, no matter where they start) has terrible skin. She told me that every time she talks to her, all she can think is how awful her skin is, and what a shame it is.

I know I'm too sensitive, I know I should be grateful for my mother's sympathy, and I know she was trying to conjure up a "common bond" between P's daughter (I refuse to think in terms of step-siblings at this stage) and myself. But really, in conversations about skin complaints, the only acceptable thing to say is that no-one else really notices. I've gone from feeling ugly and self-conscious, but thinking I'm more aware of it than anyone else, to feeling ugly and self-conscious, and thinking everyone else is actually thinking how hideous I am.

I know, I know, I know. My blog, my rules though, and I just had to unload that one somewhere.

Howl - Florence and the Machine

Take It or Leave It

2009-07-12T21:26:00.006+03:00

A few weeks back, I bought myself some shoes, from Office. They are cream leather pumps, with navy patent toes. A little bit Chanel rip-off, and a lot cute. Better than that, they are actually comfortable. I am rocking the nautical look with blue skinny jeans, and my blazer/cardi hybrid thing from Topshop.

Given my awkwardly shaped feet, I figured I should celebrate this success by buying a second pair, in black, which I could wear to work with black skinny jeans. Naturally, there is not a size four to be found. When I queried with the sales assistant whether they'd get more in, she told me to order the shoes online.

I checked the website, and they do indeed have my size. However, I would prefer to buy the shoes from the shop because:

A) I'm an instant gratification kind of girl.

B) The whole waiting in for the courier thing is a pain in the ass, and with the best will in the world, I always, always miss them.

C) One of the perks of my job is a student card, which gets me 10% discount in many shops, including Office. Call me mean, but I'd rather have the shoes with discount, and without P&P.

So, I conclude that the internet has indeed changed the way we shop, but not always for the better. What happened to the days when the assistant would try and track down a pair of shoes from another shop?

Now that's off my chest, other stuff. The first week of the holidays flew in: I did a bit of lunching and dining, I had a haircut, I pottered and tidied, and I saw Sunshine Cleaning, by myself, in the afternoon, which was bliss. Week two is set to be busier - I am rediscovering my social butterfly, which was buried deep under piles of marking. But, oh, the weather, the weather. Where has the heatwave gone? Where has the sun gone? Please, come back.

Take It or Leave It - The Strokes

I'm Free

2009-07-08T21:43:00.003+03:00

I'm on holiday - yippee! I can't even begin to tell you how much of a drag last week was. That half hour between 4.30 and 5pm on Friday felt like it lasted a hundred years. And then some.

The last week did, however, throw up a couple of interesting insights in the shape of my appraisal. Firstly, that I'm apparently much better at my job than I realise. Which is always nice to hear, even if it's possibly just a sweetner because my manager's terrified I'm going to leave, and the staffing situation is - he told me - not going to change. So, boo for no staff to fill the empty posts, but hurrah for a bit of positive feedback.

And secondly, that my "issues" with a colleague have not gone un-noticed, and weren't just me being over-sensitive/paranoid as I'd feared. I hesitate to use the word bullying, but it certainly felt that way at times - it sounds like a ridiculous thing for a 36-year-old woman to say, I know, but bear with me. This is the colleague who insisted I worked at home while I was off sick, and who has persistantly gone out of his way to undermine me since I started the job. We'll call him N. At some level, I think he feels - quite wrongly - threatened by me. Things seemed to peak over the last few months, with a number of incidents, leaving me quite shaken, and at times, teary and lacking in confidence. Other colleagues encouraged me to go and talk to my manager about it, but, you don't want to rock the boat, do you? And wouldn't it just make things worse, anyway?

However, it transpires someone in N's office reached the end of their tether - they went and reported him to my manager. And my manager duly hauled N in, and gave him a right, royal roasting. Funnily enough, I'd noticed N being a bit more bearable over the last few weeks, so something must have stuck. Here's hoping. My manager said he was disappointed I didn't go and talk to him myself, but in many ways, I think it possibly carried more weight coming from someone from N's team and not me telling tales.

So, all in all, quite a good result.

Anyway. Holidays. The weather has, predictably, turned rubbish, but I'm amusing myself very nicely. I've been chilling out this week and other than a day out today with my friend L and her two little girls, a haircut, and a spot of shopping, haven't done much. Next week, however, promises lots of lunches and dinners, and gossiping with various friends. I suspect I'll be porking back to work on my trotters, but I'll think about that later.

I'll leave you with a question. When someone tells you you look "well", is it a polite way of saying you look fat? Answers on a postcard (or in the comments box) please.

I'm Free - The Soup Dragons

Stretch Out and Wait

2009-06-30T21:05:00.004+03:00

Dear Restaurant,

Firstly, let me tell you how brilliant I think your lunch deal is. Two courses, plus coffee for just £5 is cheap as chips, even if there are no chips on the menu. In this economic climate, everyone's tightening their belts, so this is an excellent way to make sure you have bums on seats throughout the lean times.

This promotion means you're going to be busy. Which is your intention, so it's good news for you. But think about it: if you're offering cheap food to make sure your restaurant is full, wouldn't it be a good idea to put more waiting staff on?

Having one solitary waitress for the whole place - who also has to make coffees - is just not going to work. During the week, people generally have an hour to eat and get to and from work - they're delighted to get a bargain, but is it too much to ask for them to get it in a timely fashion? And if a group of five people go out to lunch together, chances are they actually want to eat their food at the same time as one another. If it's brought to the table a dish at a time, at five minute intervals, it's going to mean it either gets cold, or everyone eats at different times.

That poor waitress! She just didn't know what to do with herself. And that made her pretty bloody grumpy; understandably so. Which, in turn, leads to a whole tipping dilemma. If a tip's supposed to be a "reward" for good service, should you actually leave something when you had to wait 25 minutes for a coffee, and ask for the bill three times? Especially if you've run out of time to have a much longed-for pudding! It's not the waitress's fault, and everyone feels sorry for her for being put in this position, but nonetheless... Possibly people will follow our lead and over-tip because they feel so bad for her - but there's something that doesn't feel quite right about that.

We're living in tough times. You're operating a service-orientated business. People expect service. Otherwise they'll vote with their feet, and then where will you be?

Yours faithfully,
Cat

Stretch Out and Wait - The Smiths

A Fortnight's Time

2009-06-22T19:45:00.002+03:00

The countdown's on. Nine more working days, and I'll be on holiday for six weeks. Six weeks. Six, glorious weeks.

Things I am particularly looking forward to:

1) Not making people cry on a regular basis. This appears to be a party trick of mine at the moment, and I don't enjoy it one bit.

2) Catching up with everyone I've not seen in weeks.

3) Weekends where I don't have to work. And weekdays where I don't have to work too.

4) Banishing my black patent bag to the back of the cupboard. It's big, and it's leather, and it accommodates all my junk, plus my laptop, and essentially my whole life. You have no idea how much I am growing to hate it.

5) Long lies.

6) Going off to stay with my friend G in Edinburgh, and doing festival stuff.

7) Cups of tea that don't cost 70p a pop. I drink a lot of tea, so working is almost counter-productive.

8) The weather turning fabulous. Probably.

The last few weeks have been fraught, but not without their moments. While I may have been making people cry left, right and centre, I've been leaking regularly myself as I've said my goodbyes. One huge - and very beautiful - bouquet of flowers, plus a surprising number of sweet cards from various groups and individuals shows that I'm possibly not as rubbish at my job as I think. It would be brilliant if I got some feedback from my manager, but I'll take a positive where I find it.

A Fortnight's Time - Maximo Park

Been Caught Stealing

2009-06-15T20:16:00.003+03:00

Remember that virus I had? And remember how I thought I was sorted? It appears I was not. At the weekend, as I worked (I know, poor me) a weird thing happened. I got a message saying the firewall - whatever that may be - was disabled, and then my laptop froze. I ended up crashing it shut. And when I switched it back on, it didn't seem to know me any more. All the sites where I had details stored - like the login to my work email, for example - had vanished. Odd. But, not being that way inclined, I didn't think too much of it.

Today, I received an email saying I'd added a new addres to my Paypal account. An address many miles away in a town I'd never visited. Minutes later, I received more emails, thanking me for my Paypal payments to the tune of several hundred pounds.

According to my more IT-savvy colleagues, I'd had something called a keystroke tracker. Many telephone calls later, the situation with Paypal's been sorted, and the money's been refunded. However, I've subsequently cancelled my cards, so I can't access it. I've also had to change all my passwords, and my access to online banking, which is perhaps even more inconvenient - I did it in haste, and now can't remember the passwords, and the payments I have set up will all have to be reset from scratch.

No real harm done, I suppose, other than an afternoon on phone-bashing on my work's tab. But oh, the bloody hassel. People are really horrid sometimes. And I am really stupid, a lot of the time.

Been Caught Stealing - Jane's Addiction

Just the Past

2009-06-09T20:04:00.003+03:00

It's said that we leave a piece of ourselves behind with every person we're involved with. In my case, those pieces tend to be books and CDs. My relationship with GB is no exception. Usually, I take the hit. You win some, you lose some, and I dare say my music collection has a few ill-gotten gains in there. However, on this occasion, there was also a very expensive, once-worn set of extremely beautiful underwear. GB was supposed to bring that with him last weekend, and didn't.

I figured that if GB really did throw away the birthday gifts I gave him, he probably ditched the rest of the stuff. I also figured I'd be no worse off if I asked him. So, this afternoon I sent him an email asking if we could meet up, or if he could pop it in the post.

I got a bounce-back immediately, saying my message was undeliverable. It gave what I imagine to be an IP address, with the telling line "does not like recipient". So, either GB has changed his email address, or he's blocked me*. Which is a bit shit, but after last weekend, not entirely unexpected. I hope he's enjoying my black and pink bra and pants.

Other news? Still ill. I've now got tonsilitis again, and a respiratory tract infection, and am back on antibiotics. I've decided to take a few days off work, and have slept most of today, which has been blissful, since I've barely had an hour uninterrupted by coughing in a week. It's going to cause me no end of trouble when I go back, and I've already been told that this will raise an HR action point, but frankly, I feel too lousy to care very much.

Just the Past - Peter, Bjorn and John

*Is this possible with a Hotmail account? I had a fiddle with the account I have for this blog, and blocked my other address, but didn't get any error message when I tested it. I'd assumed it would just junk messages, but I'm not technically minded enough to really know.

Not Fair

2009-06-07T13:42:00.002+03:00

I have always considered myself to be fortunate with my health. Yes, there's the depressions, and there's the IBS, but overall, I do okay. This last six months, however, have been a different story.

Yes, I am ill. Sick, sick, sick. I definitely went back to work too early with the tonsilitis. As soon as the antibiotics were done, I started to feel rubbish again. By Friday last week, I felt grotty. Saturday, very grotty, and Sunday and Monday, a full-blown lurgy - sore throat, high temperature, runny nose, and horrible cough. I left work early on Monday, and actually called in sick on Tuesday. I felt too wretched not to. But, I felt too guilty to stay off. So, still I am sick. Last night I coughed so much I was throwing up, which was horrible, and a little bit frightening.

I'd like to say I feel better today. I'm afraid I don't. I know I shouldn't be at work, but I also know there's no-one to cover for me, and at this point, I can't really afford to miss any more time.

Four weeks until the holidays.

Not Fair - Lily Allen

I Always Cry at Endings

2009-05-31T19:01:00.005+03:00

Last night, I ended things with GB. He was/is a great guy, and we had a lot of fun together, but the reservations I had about him on our very first date have remained throughout. Maybe I should have listened to my gut instinct then.

GB was consistently vocal about his feelings for me, and mine just didn't match. I didn't think it was fair to keep up a relationship which - for me - didn't have a future. He'd told me categorically that he didn't feel we could be "just friends" and that he didn't stay in touch with any ex-girlfriends, and I'm sorry that it had to be so black and white.

GB didn't take it very well. He cried. Which was utterly, completely grim. And then he went home, and sent me a horrible email, ending with the PS that he'd thrown my birthday presents in the bin. Later I realised he'd gone into the kitchen and taken the wine he'd brought round away with him too.

So, that was nice.

Today I'm mostly feeling sad. Sad that he won't be around any more, sad that things had to end on such a sour note, and sad that I have yet another failed relationship under my belt.

I know it's for the best, and I know I'll get over it. Currently, it's Ben and Jerry's all the way, though.

I Always Cry at Endings - Belle and Sebastian

Say Something

2009-05-30T19:41:00.004+03:00

Observations from the week that was, as a list:

1) An email from an ex-boyfriend sent me into a bit of a spin. I've ignored it.

2) I can't shake this bloody tonsilitis. The antibiotics finished on Wednesday, and I still feel crap. Perhaps I went back to work too soon.

3) Britain's Got Talent's been fab. I'm excited about the final this evening, which I'll be watching with GB, and pizza. I don't think that little girl should have got through last night, but never mind.

4) A colleague of mine left yesterday. As is tradition, we clubbed together to buy him some decent wine, and brought cakes into the office. When I arrived back from getting my lunch, looking forward to a cake, they were gone. He'd taken them. Perhaps he thought they were part of his leaving gift?

5) I have yet to wear my new leather jacket.

6) Despite mainly wearing flat (but cute) shoes, I have developed a corn on one of the toes of my right foot. It is very sore, and ugly. If anyone knows how to get rid, I'd appreciate it.

7) The new Maximo Park album's growing on me, but still failing to live up to my (perhaps high) expectations.

8) I've done the dirty on my hairdresser, and gone off with someone else.

9) My mother's single-handedly keeping the economy afloat with home improvements. This week, a new patio and garden shed.

10) Only four full weeks (plus one) until the summer holidays.

Oh, and the sun shone.

Say Something - James

Rainy Days and Mondays

2009-05-25T20:59:00.013+03:00

Is there anything more miserable than a Monday? What about a Monday with payday looking a long way off and basic rations on the menu*? A Monday when the rest of the country has a bank holiday? Or a Monday when you're rattling with pills, feeling rubbish, but back at work nonetheless?

Moan, moan, moan. I still feel crap. But as I was being sent yet more work to do from my deathbed (or, in reality, death couch) on Friday, I figured my services were urgently required. No thanks for it, right enough, and my job doesn't exactly lend itself to throat infections, but I am a mug. Five weeks on Friday and we've six weeks off. I. Can't. Wait.

On the plus-side, it's the semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent. And Big Brother's on its way. I know, it's dire and we should all stop watching it immediately. I also know, I won't quit, even if it fills me with self-loathing.

And on a completely unrelated note, it's GB's birthday next week. Presents for boys, especially boys you've only known for a short time, and are still wary about getting in too deep with, are tricky. I've decided to buy him a big bowl thing from John Lewis, which I think will look brilliant on his currently empty hearth. His flat's completely bare. I told him my interior design ideas, including the bowl thing, and he got confused and thought I meant a cauldron, but I do think he'll like it. If not, he can always bring it back. I've also ordered him a book, but I'm stumped as to what else.

Any inspired ideas, gratefully received.

Rainy Days and Mondays - The Carpenters

* I confess. The real reason I'm on basic rations is this. Gorgeous, no?