2004-04-20..3:55 p.m.

Warning: this is a wankerly long and most self-indulgent entry. Due to bank holidays and birthday�s and recuperation days last week was essentially a wonderfully elongated weekend with momentary blips of resurfacing into the office (Tuesday and Friday. Why bother you may ask? Because I didn�t have enough holiday pay to take those days off as well, I answer), which is why I�ve not written a word in almost two weeks.

Beginning Thursday of the week before, going out with the girls to Cuba Libre from happy hour (note: happy hour and a meeply girlie should not be allowed to play together)(note as well: the whole idea of a Cuban themed pub that serves drinks costing �4.50 a shot seems just slightly contradictory. Che�s bearded mug glare down from the walls, the flag hangs from the ceiling, Communist red fixings are everywhere, all watching as we squander our money on two-for-one cocktails and ignore the guy panhandling outside.) then to another pub with Wendi for champagne and wine, then to another place (a club in Crouch End. I know, it doesn�t make sense to me either) for more wine and something called a Brandy Alexander, then back to some chicks house where I thought I was drinking apple juice, but it turns out it was *apple juice*. Friday I awoke with a hangover that forced me to stop in the middle of my breakfast because I couldn�t face the thought of food without having a shower first. Mum and Dad came to pick me up around mid-day, and we had a very delicate stroll through Hampstead Heath. Mum was surprisingly indulgent and kept peering at me kindly and asking if I wanted to get some coffee.

I was supposed to meet the Monster Crush for lunch on the Saturday, but he got held up in the studio. O I was mightily pissed off. I�d already trekked down there wearing hold-up tight things that looked great when I was standing/sitting/lying down, but WERE NOT PRACTICAL for walking forty-five minutes, and a mini skirt of the miniest proportions. I pacified myself by going into the Tinderbox on Upper St. and having not one, but TWO vanilla latte�s. That particular section of Upper St., just beyond the scope of Angel tube station, reminds me of Queen St. at Spadina. Along the sidewalk vendors set up stalls, flogging second-hand books and jewellery and illicit DVDs, occasionally there�s an artist who�ll snag a spot beneath one of the trees and decorate the pavement with enormous chalk sketches, waiting for the coins to trickle and clink into the purple felt hat propped in the shade. I kicked about until 6ish and figured there was no point because I was just getting restless, so invaded the offices at the Betsy and pretended to be productive by tinkering on the computer and *writing* *reviews*.

The MC was working door, as was Kate, which was lovely because she kills me. And she made things less awkward as being the unsuspecting third wheel often allows. Regardless, we stayed up until about 1am eking out the last of our pints. The Monster Crush tried to join us once or twice, but we just get so damn Aries Girly that he couldn�t and, as he was doing the night manager thing, just went to bed, making us promise that we�d lock up. This, though fun because of the hanging out and the gabbing with Kate, was off-putting and bothersome as it bore the unmistakeable glare of a guy not so interested, and meant that we had no time at all to talk privately. And then confusing and spinkful as when I returned the key to the office to him he kissed me and went all sleep-filled tender.

So I went home all not getting it and frowny, kind of glaring at people on the bus wishing Sunday would hurry up because it was POW! to the People day at the barfly in Camden, and I was to see Roar who I�ve not seen in weeks and weeks. And Roar came and I was so happy to see him. I finally scrapped tog a birthday giftie (a cricket ball. Not sure if he goes for cricket, but he enthused dutifully nonetheless) for him and gave him my card (a beach hunk with his trunks emblazoned with the word STUD in gold glitter), both of which he professed to be highly chuffed. Steve from that Band was there with a chick, who I�ve since been told (by him) is his girlfriend. Paul, the guy from Northampton was there and got so embarrassingly drunk, I couldn�t be around him. I hate it when people get drunk and out of control like that. It�s cringy and horrible. Roar ended up leaving early because he had (AS FUCKING ALWAYS) double booked himself, and I didn�t feel like staying any longer, so pottered home around half10 feeling quite like this wasn�t at all panning out the way I had planned.

Monday on the other hand was all waiting around the house doing nuthin until getting ready to meet up with Steve from the Band for our Interview, which was a great deal of fun, and went ENTIRELY to my plan of getting very drunk and chatting all hours. We ended up doing the Foreskin pub quiz, on which we scored terribly, then back to mine to sober up. All told we ended up hanging out for about six hours feeling weirdly attracted to each other, and trying very hard not to do anything about it. We met up again last night. A giggle to be sure, but insofar as our pub quizzing prowess goes we�re pathetic. I mean really fucking awful! We got the same amount of points as last time, but could have had more if I had used my veto power. Sadly, I was convinced by his Masculine Authority and said nothing.

Anyway because I had had all of four hours sleep, last Tuesday was slower than a snail on valium. I ended up dooring down at the Rats despite it all because a little cash goes a long way when you�re spending madly due to BIRTHWEEKS! and as it was MY BIRTHDAY on Wednesday, I called up Matthew and (after much deliberation) the Monster Crush to pop in for a drinkie at the end of my shift, who sang me Happy Birthday with Marcus and Matty the House Irish and GAVE ME BUMPS! I�ve never been given BUMPS before, basically you get hung, quartered and tossed about like a human rag until the perps get tired and drop you on your ass. Fucking fantastic way to start a new year! Afterwards, the MC and I went back to his where we didn�t even manage to get the excuse of tea out of the way, choosing instead to pounce almost immediately on a bath and two hours of hot hot lovin. Followed by midnight toast and blue stilton (mmmmmmmm). Followed by two hours of kip, and more of the hot hot lovin. Followed by a bit more sleep, and still more of the stamina-required, slap-me-baby, what-are-you-like nummy glowfully gorgeous hot hot lovin. It was hot. And there was much lovin. I don�t really think I could have asked for a better way of passing into a new year than waking up next to him and getting pulled immediately into full frontal *activities*.

The rest of the day was gorgeous: ridiculous amounts of food and galleries and wandering with da folks. Jesus, it was great having them here. Mum getting all chummy, and Dad grinning at my Daddy�s Girl antics, and the three of us bickering over ice cream and camera�s and antique magnifying glasses. I found an old 8mm camera in the Camden Passage that WORKS! All it needs is some celluloid and that�s a party about to get started. There are all sort of delicious things out there in this wacky mixed up town just waiting to get properly documented, shown at house parties and preserved until you can force your grandchildren to sit through it too, while you drool and scratch at your bed sores.

So yeah. Once again I�ve no idea where all these What the Fuck�s are coming from and I�ve had a stupidly late Monday resulting from all these What the Fuck�s. I�m that child that sees the pretty flames and cries when they bite. Over and over and over again. This is turning into a really strange situation. The MC is all Is This Moving Too Fast, and I have no idea. I am so stupidly stimulated by him in every which way it almost pains me and he constantly surprises me with his own dorkonia and techtalk and how passionate he is about things and how fucking hot hot that lovin has got, and I want to tell him, but HOW? How do you do that without making yourself sound like a grovelling Ronettes style barnacle? On the other hand I do most heartily enjoy hanging out with Steve from that Band. He makes me laugh to the point I can�t speak, rather just sort of end up slouched and hiccupping against the person at the table next to us trying to stop my sides from splitting quite so hard. It�s just that it�s like cheating. It is cheating. This is so bloody melodramatic.

One Last Quick Note Followed by Two Lists that were Designed to Distract me from this Sordid Game of Table Tennis:

Over the weekend a friend of mine goes into this pub in Greenwich that does not allow hats. It�s a strictly no hat zone. As far as he figures it, you can go in there wearing a clown suit with a swastika sewn onto the back and be fine, but if you�ve got a hat on it�s gotta go. I think he should test this theory, just to see what they do. A florid be-rainbowed swastika on a polka-dot backdrop. Although...procuring a pantomime horse get-up would probably be a lot easier. And funnier (because nothing spells funny like a pantomime horse get-up.)(It�s one of Nelle and my dreams to wander the streets of Anywhere in a pantomime horse get-up.) Just sidle up to the bar. Order a pint. Drink it with a straw (because that�s how horses like their pints.)(And if any of the bar staff question you further, snort derisively.)(Moron.) Refuse to remove the head, because technically it�s not a hat. I think we could go far with this.

Speaking of random happenings that fall into the realm of aiding and abetting surrealism. I�m on the hunt for a glue gun. I�ve never actually owned one, and now that I�m all grown-up and 24, I think I ought to. the Monster Crush and I were discussing at length the endless possibilities of taking a glue gun to a supermarket, in particular taking it to the aisle that tenders various pretentious and over-priced olive oils, or sun-dried things. There�s a 24hr place* near me that is ripe for this picking. A 3am raid on bourgeois culinary delicacies, involving gluing the first row to the shelf and making sculptures out of root vegetables.

*this is in fact false. There are almost NO true 24hr places in the whole of England. They all close at 10pm on Saturday, re-open for 6 hours on Sunday and won�t reconvene until 8am on Monday. This is not 24hrs.

List 1:

(Things that make my Brain cry Stop Doing That, in a Pitiful Aching Whine:)

*the combined effect of the Monster Crush and his crushiness, Steve from that Band and going back on wheat (I gave it up for Lent. Unfortunately now that Lent is Over, I have lost my qualms about seeking kindness in granola.)

*the library being closed yesterday so I could only put my books in the drop books. Consequently, by lunch I was starving for new reading material and had to lurch in there at lunch all wild eyes and waiting to feast like a colony of feral wildebeest. (heehee, that rhymes...like baboon and bassoon.)

*the constant flood of eczema trapping itself beneath a dyke of epidermis in my left index finger. It hurts and it�s not pretty and I want it to go. Now.

List Two:

(Two Things that made me So Delighted I could Barely Breathe this Morning:)

*the fact that the Viking Direct Dude is Chairman Emeritus. He�s like a dictator of some small South East Asian island. The Viking Direct Dude is becoming a bit of a thing between me and my friend Matthew. I went into his office the other week and was thoroughly delighted to discover he�s made little collages of I. Helford and stuck them around the edge of his computer screen. I wasn�t even aware that anyone else knew he existed, and pasted to this terminal was evidence of likewise wonder at this mad man who offers free toasters if you order six boxes of quality high gloss Xerox paper.

*type in �weapons of mass destruction� on the goggle website and hit the I�m Feeling Lucky button. Fuh-knee. I very nearly just swallowed my coffee through my nose because of this.

Oy my brain.

****meep