One minute giving up on life ferreting my way into the bottom of the trash can of life, next minute jumping round a tennis court like an over sexualised L’Oreal advert singing this to myself:
[although if you are going to be wearing a purple lycra play suit, i think it should fit like a pam hogg glove a little more don't you?]
This morning I am particularly excited because the Lesbians are getting married. They came to my wedding and stood up at the wrong moment like they were gonna get married so here we have destiny fulfilling prophecy. I am sitting here feeling a little bit nervous and butterflies for them actually [or is it the management accounts I have to produce by 12pm today as well?]
Now here is a bit of highbrow gossip for you: an ex poet laureate – you know a poet appointed by the government who is supposed to write a poem when something like a coronation or a war or something major happens when they are appointed – apparently went up to some woman at a party and said to her with fierce intensity in an attempt to seduce her “You look like the kind of woman who has a cunt of fire.” When Mrs Kipling told us that yesterday all babes there were a mixture of errrgh and hahaha and jokes about volcano tits and fireman’s hoses quickly followed. I really hope that poet laureate managed something a little better for the Queen than that! The last time I had a cunt of fire I had thrush from using a weirdly lubricated condom. TMI but seriously URGH!
This week is shaping up to be a good one already – a wedding, The Phene Arms in Chelsea is opening tonight – who wants to come? – Valeria is sleeping over and interviewing me about internet dating and I suspect some more lame at names content, the hot lawyer from work is coming to give the girls some training, julia from upstairs is having a party [drinking on the fire escape with views of mayfair anyone?] and crikey it’s almost Saturday again already.
Life is good when it’s good. Don’t worry guys, I will be back to my usual miserable self at any time undoubtedly.
P.S. Just FYI, let’s not forget my nickname in Hamburg is Platinum Pussy BTW. I don’t want you all to think I have a problem fanny.
But, I went to a big gay sweatbox on the weekend with some friends and found myself in the middle of the dancefloor after giving birth to Ed Hardy next to a guy in an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt and three girls with a bottle of poppers. Spiritual moment of Mare Street and I find myself reborn.
The old me was in a terrible shape. I was a caterpillar of duvet and Namelesses old hoodie he got from the guy who ended up sleeping with his ex even though he said “Bros before hoes”. I was watching endless cop shows nourished by cups of tea and phonecalls from my lady friends who wanted to see me through a dark patch.
The Italian, after coming over on Friday night and leaving me with a kiss and a see you later love and feeling all happy in my stomach, sent me a text on Tuesday saying “I don’t need a new job, a girlfriend and friends take months even years. Please do me a favour and give me a break.”
He was calling me asking me how to teach him something.
I had already told him twice “I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now” [meaning HIM in particular but hanging out and being friends with him was super fun, though he didn't know that directly.]
And I have known this guy for about 2 years.
Then AIR PIE from him for the whole week after trying to find out WTF that was all about!
My cleaner Dora settled me down to a few home truths:
You dress like an African woman.
God took this man out of your life because you have everything – a house, a job, a computer, the internet, money, your things, friends, you are a nice person – and all you need is someone to love and care for you. He is too stupid to even do that so God took him out of your life.
You need to have more fun. Look at your friends [meaning The Cardinal cause she goes round there too.] She always is having fun. I see all the wine glasses. You need to have fun.
The man you are looking for is out there searching for you.
Then the two coolest people in Paris arrived.
Hobart unfortunately turned into a shit machine all weekend. Unbelievable.
I sat next to a girl dinner last night and she has had sex with a women. I asked her what it is like to eat a girl out. She told me that after getting over how gross it is, it is much easier than giving a guy a blow job. She said that basically with a girl, it is like having a giant smooch for a while. Where is with a guy it can be be really hard work and become really mechanical and monotonous. Interesting! Can’t say though that I’m gonna try it out any time soon. The only pussy I wanna get near is Hobart and her cute little face.
Is it? Is it? Philippa made a good point about the houses.
What a nice weekend. I deserved it. But I used to live in an emotional vaccuum. Anything expressive was forbidden or laughed at. And this is the opposite. And I feel like Alice in Wonderland in the room to small and the table too big.
Valeria where are you? I need to talk about nothing.
Oh yeah and I wanted to mention this site cakefarts.com that Manara sent me this morning.
That one is for you Mum.
P.S. And I got my period about 15 minutes ago. How can I tell one of my best friends I got all worked up and had a ‘talk’ then deleted him all over some fucking PMT without looking like some EMO loser?! I guess I will wait a couple weeks and make up some other excuse… God. >>>!!HH!!MM!!LL<<<
Guys – this is a real girls post so maybe look away.
Ends again in a fucking hangover… WHY?!
Cocktails at The Diner. Which aren’t even that great – but I like the Fame and Fortune and the close proximity to my work. So two of those with Lee and a long wait for our table and for The Cardinal to show her face. IN THE SAME DRESS I BOUGHT LAST WEEK and wore on my dinner date with The Swede. We laughed cause our Venn Diagram doesn’t often cross with clothes. We can never pick outfits for each other. Lee was wearing a shirt I had seen tho. And Abbie was wearing a great cardigan. Which turned out to be Lee’s.
DEHESA 25 Ganton Street London Tel: 0207 494 4170
Server: Viola Table: 15/1 Guests: 3 [which actually became 5]
Pittacum Bottle 29.50 [INCREDIBLE red!!] Palacio / Glass 3.95 Padron Peppers 3.75 [Cardinal and I felt the pain!] Boquerones 3.25 [Felt sorry I had to share] Spanish Hams 8.75 Pork Belly 6.25 [the Cardinals fave] Crispy Squid 5.75 [prefer Yauatcha truth be known] Gnocchi x2 8.00 Sour Dough 2.50 Nastro x 3 8.85 Cod Croquette 4.75 3 Manchegos 7.25 Santigo Tart 5.00 Roast Pear 5.00
Subtotal 103.35 Gratuity 12.79 Total 116.14
Thank you for your custom. Please visit us again soon. www.dehesa.co.uk VAT: 853 644 215
This was my desert. Roast Pear, Honeycomb, Lavender Ice Cream. Don’t cry cause I didn’t share it with you.
My friend Phil [Mr Chips] has been using a camera to take pictures that I think Sanna got him from the charity shop. He has been running black and white film in it and I have been checking out his pictures with great delight. Every time he uploads a new set, his picture – particularly those of women – are just full of a nice magic.
It is true that ‘reducing’ everything to black and white can hide a multitude of sins and suddenly make things look like ‘art’ but I personally think what is the most powerful thing about Phil’s pictures is the dialogue between himself and his subjects. These are not ‘models’ or just ’shitty friend snaps’.
I guess Phil is just lucky to have so many female friends who are comfortable in his company.
And because of that, he seems to be able to make all the women beautiful. And I find that all the other pictures of men – the pictures seem devoid of the same kind of commitment to the subject, or that subject is more disconcerted by the camera. I dunno what it is.
It just isn’t the same.
The other thing I love about Phil’s ability to engage with his subject and in turn tell a story with the image is how he can turn something totally inanimate into something magnificent
Anyway – I think Phil is my new favourite photographer. If you want to check out his other pictures, here is his Flickr. [rated - SFW].
I wanted to write a letter of complaint to you regarding two maquillage products I have purchased from one of your concessions recently, in Selfridges.
Based on the fact that the two ‘rouge a lèvres’ I purchased were similar to a Christian Dior lipstick I had stolen from me a while ago, I felt confident with the assurances from the marketing of your brand with the two colours I walked out of the store with would be more than adequate to mend my broken heart.
However I am bitterly disappointed on the performance of your product. My Christian Dior lipstick in Indian Red, even though was years old had maximum coverage, staying power and an intensity of colour that made all men turn in the street. Both lipsticks I bought from you – Passion and New York Red – are greasy, slippery, bleed and last about 20 minutes before needing another application.
My Christian Dior lipstick was not an impotent monkey dick or a weasley dog’s dick of a product and I am indeed inferring that your products are both those things… in fact… maybe even of lesser standing. I rue the day I decided to choose your product over Yves Saint Laurent – which even if the lipstick had been of equal quality, at least it comes in packaging which makes carrying a compact mirror obsolete.
Going forward I shall never be wearing stands of pearls, linking my C’s as I doodle on notepads while on the phone or considering getting a chin length bob with a tan.
Yours with a bitter fair well
P.S. I’m only bitching about the make up and not the wicked slides I have – they are still rocking!
Well not a lot. I have been working on a couple of websites, went for lunch and had the usual omelette at Archgate, photographed some tumbleweave on the way, came home, had a sleep, missed the opening ceremony of the Olympics, made a couple of videos for Mr Chips on Facebook, ate some guacamole on Dr Karg’s Emmental and Spelt crackers and gave myself a stomach ache. Tonight I am not going out because it is the NEW SERIOUS – SERIES LOL – of LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT at 10pm. Not even the world’s worst period cramps, worry about menopause coming and dying without ever having children will stop me from getting excited about that.
In other news, Archway station was closed today cause of a person under a train. There was one emergency response van, three fire trucks and about five ambulances and cop cars everywhere. Serious business.
Yerrr so I realise I am in a hiphop time warp back in 2001 but you know – that year was good! That was back when I was still buying CD’s, the sun was hot, and the kids in the neighbourhood were singing “Smoke weed everyday” as they cruised around in cute pink tracksuits and clean reebok shell suits. They all have kids now, the tracksuits don’t look quite so sexy and the guys have long hair, headbands and dark red bags under their eyes. I guess they took it literally.
Poking fun at them I have to admit that I look as ravaged as one of those playas this morning as I spent the night tossing and turning not able to sleep properly and waking up with sore nipples and a painful spot on my face that will give give agony but come to nothing. Obviously I am not reaching menopause just yet. I am so tired though I had to shut myself into a dark room for a little while and listen to Snoop Dogg and remember the sun [there are no windows here today] while I crave a roast beef, horseradish and watercress sandwich on fresh white bread.
Yesterday was my first attempt at Choux Pastry and I made Cream Puffs for two of my favourite men in the world who congratulated me on my efforts. I was so happy. It was real job satisfaction. I will post the recipe I used – sadly there are no picture cause I ran the battery down trying to make a video of it but even that didn’t work cause the batteries ran out half way through. I can either be domestic goddess or techy whizz – just not both at the same time it seems.