I've had some bad hangovers at work. I've been out dancing til 4am, gone into work on three hours sleep and crashed epically come 2pm. I've been so hungover I was unable to write an address label without wanting to throw up. Hell, after our company away day, I turned up to work still drunk and had to have a Bloody Mary at lunchtime.
Today, I was very hungover.
Last night S rolled through the door just as I was about to make a start on dinner and wanted to know if I wanted to go to a gig with her and Russell Brand at an achingly trendy and super-exclusive members only bar/club not far from our flat. Ordinarily I would have said no outright - I hadn't eaten yet, I had work the next day, a programme we were both absorbed in was on TV at 9 - and then I decided fuck it, I'm 24 and living in the best city in the world. It's Monday night, I have no plans, let's live a little. So we went out, and we lived.
The night started poorly, when I was forcibly reminded how much I hate going out with S. Basically, S is beautiful. In fact, S is what I spent several years desperately trying to achieve through a combination of makeup, hairdye and the power of prayer. She is tall and slim, has a figure most models would kill for, a stunning face, and has the most amazing long, thick red hair. In contrast, I am short with a fine, messy crop of (dyed) red hair which needs re-doing. I have long since given up hope and have just accepted my fate, but I had forgotten what it was like to go to a bar with her and despite her being all over Russell Brand, have the majority of guys gawping at her while I stand around and feel like a piece of slightly ugly furniture.
Tuesday 22 January 2013
Sunday 20 January 2013
Les liaisons dangereuses
The Boy has been referencing this book in our conversations for some time now, and I've just been going along with it based on nothing more than a vague understanding gleaned from Wikipedia, so I've decided to watch the film tonight. Sadly, all this has allowed me to do is read what I suspect is far too deeply into the similarities between himself and Valmont, myself and Merteuil, and our respective relationships. It would be rather nice to believe that all his other dalliances with girls were merely out of some sport or boredom, and that I was the one he really wanted, but unfortunately I don't think this is the case. (Well, the second part, anyway; I know him well enough to know that the first part is at least partially true.)
It has been long since established that talking to him isn't that good for my mental well-being or sanity. I sometimes feel that he picks me up and puts me down again to suit him; I will often get messages along the lines of "I'm bored / waiting for a train / have a spare half hour before the gym - entertain me", and I will be expected to jump to like a performing monkey. And I actually do it! It's like I can't help myself. He also often sends me pictures of clothes he's thinking of buying for my input, or pictures of his suit so I can judge the cut and fit, but when I send him a picture of a new haircut I'm thinking of going for, he seems to be unable to summon up anything beyond the barest amount of interest.
If he was actually my boyfriend, or anything had ever actually happened between us beyond a drunken cuddle on a sofa at a party, then I'd like to think I'd give up and cut him loose. (If he was my friend's boyfriend, I would DEFINITELY be advising this course of action.) But he isn't. I'm not sure what we are, really. We haven't even kissed. In fact we've only actually met in person about 6 times, and the first two of those I was too drunk to even remember him being there. As a result of this, the third time we met, it took me fifteen minutes to remember his name (tad awkward as he was sitting right next to me, talking to me).
Technically, I guess we're friends. This really seems to bug my brother, whose friend he really is first. (They were at uni together, which is how I met him. While I was going out with another of my brother's friends from uni. Less said the better really.) But the Boy and I have become friends in our own right, and we certainly talk a lot more and know a lot more about each other than he and my brother do. Although there aren't many of my friends I am in almost daily contact with (apart from my workmates, I suppose), who I stay up talking until 2am with, and who sent me torso shots of them wearing their latest purchases for my sartorial judgement. So maybe we're more than friends? We're not friends with benefits (oh, if only; it's getting to the point where I am envious of television characters who have sex, let alone people in real life) because we never see each other. I guess you could call it a romantic interest, but there's very little flirtation between us beyond the occasional comment - not for my want of trying.
All my friends think talking to him is a bad idea. Deep down, I suspect they're right. But part of me - the part that wants to live a little dangerously - keeps encouraging me. Something has got to come of it eventually.
Right?
It has been long since established that talking to him isn't that good for my mental well-being or sanity. I sometimes feel that he picks me up and puts me down again to suit him; I will often get messages along the lines of "I'm bored / waiting for a train / have a spare half hour before the gym - entertain me", and I will be expected to jump to like a performing monkey. And I actually do it! It's like I can't help myself. He also often sends me pictures of clothes he's thinking of buying for my input, or pictures of his suit so I can judge the cut and fit, but when I send him a picture of a new haircut I'm thinking of going for, he seems to be unable to summon up anything beyond the barest amount of interest.
If he was actually my boyfriend, or anything had ever actually happened between us beyond a drunken cuddle on a sofa at a party, then I'd like to think I'd give up and cut him loose. (If he was my friend's boyfriend, I would DEFINITELY be advising this course of action.) But he isn't. I'm not sure what we are, really. We haven't even kissed. In fact we've only actually met in person about 6 times, and the first two of those I was too drunk to even remember him being there. As a result of this, the third time we met, it took me fifteen minutes to remember his name (tad awkward as he was sitting right next to me, talking to me).
Technically, I guess we're friends. This really seems to bug my brother, whose friend he really is first. (They were at uni together, which is how I met him. While I was going out with another of my brother's friends from uni. Less said the better really.) But the Boy and I have become friends in our own right, and we certainly talk a lot more and know a lot more about each other than he and my brother do. Although there aren't many of my friends I am in almost daily contact with (apart from my workmates, I suppose), who I stay up talking until 2am with, and who sent me torso shots of them wearing their latest purchases for my sartorial judgement. So maybe we're more than friends? We're not friends with benefits (oh, if only; it's getting to the point where I am envious of television characters who have sex, let alone people in real life) because we never see each other. I guess you could call it a romantic interest, but there's very little flirtation between us beyond the occasional comment - not for my want of trying.
All my friends think talking to him is a bad idea. Deep down, I suspect they're right. But part of me - the part that wants to live a little dangerously - keeps encouraging me. Something has got to come of it eventually.
Right?
Saturday 19 January 2013
Russell Brand is in my bathroom and he won't fucking leave
What a week (and a half). Rather glad it's over to be honest.
It was fun to see our university friends again - it felt like we were all back in Nottingham, trading insults and all piling into bed for cuddles and games of "Which C-list celebrity is the worst mother?" Jolly Tall (the lovable but totally bonkers ones) didn't leave until Thursday, which meant that S and I were sharing my room (Jolly Tall is 6'4 and it seemed cruel to force him to contort his body into a pretzel just so he could fit onto one of our teeny tiny sofas). Now I love S dearly, but not having to share a bed with her any more is nothing short of blissful. Especially since she has recently taken to arguing in her sleep.
My nights weren't improved by the monumentally ridiculous decision by Thames Water to dig up the road outside the flat. For three nights. Until 3am. My rage-filled, sleep-deprived induced phone call to the council the next morning to complain elicited the response that if the roadworks being undertaken are an "emergency", then they can be done at whatever time they like. I had to ask what kind of "emergency" this was, since they didn't appear to be doing any work on it during the day, but it didn't get me anywhere. Luckily by the third night they had finished; S seemed genuinely concerned that I was about to go over the edge, since I spent the entire evening with my face pressed up against the window, pausing only to update her on their progress ("they're still bloody at it") and mutter obscenities darkly.
The departure of our house guests, however, has heralded the return of Russell Brand, a turn of events about which I am not exactly thrilled. He is becoming more and more of a permanent fixture in our lives and to be quite honest I'm fed up to the back teeth with him. All he does is make S cry - nothing she ever does is good enough, no amount of time spent with him is ever enough, and apparently if she doesn't include him in every single thing she does, this shows that she doesn't love him and he goes into a meltdown. Basically, he's a total prick and she'd be much better off without him, but of course she's in love with him so she keeps trying to patch things up. Which means more and more of him glooming around the flat with a face like a wet weekend and taking absolutely forever in the shower when I really need to brush my teeth and get to work.
I'm also talking to the Boy again. It started off with him criticising my new planet-pattered leggings (I'm not entirely sure what else I was expecting, since I know he hates leggings and anything too out there, fashion-wise - "I just think they're too kooky even for you" - charming), but he tried to make it up to me by sending me a link to a website I happen to be already very familiar with, featuring dresses, leggings and various articles of clothing with a Star Wars theme. I mentioned that there was an R2-D2 dress that I rather liked (skin-tight, incidentally; not totally sure I would ever actually get into it, let alone out of it again), and then the conversation took a turn for the interesting. "At the risk of overstepping the mark... I can't think of an appropriate word. Hot sounds too generic, and would imply you're not otherwise. It's a strange phenomenon. It's like geeky and hot combined. You'd be pretty smoking in it, so buy it already haha."
Well, I'm going to have to get it now, aren't I?
It was fun to see our university friends again - it felt like we were all back in Nottingham, trading insults and all piling into bed for cuddles and games of "Which C-list celebrity is the worst mother?" Jolly Tall (the lovable but totally bonkers ones) didn't leave until Thursday, which meant that S and I were sharing my room (Jolly Tall is 6'4 and it seemed cruel to force him to contort his body into a pretzel just so he could fit onto one of our teeny tiny sofas). Now I love S dearly, but not having to share a bed with her any more is nothing short of blissful. Especially since she has recently taken to arguing in her sleep.
My nights weren't improved by the monumentally ridiculous decision by Thames Water to dig up the road outside the flat. For three nights. Until 3am. My rage-filled, sleep-deprived induced phone call to the council the next morning to complain elicited the response that if the roadworks being undertaken are an "emergency", then they can be done at whatever time they like. I had to ask what kind of "emergency" this was, since they didn't appear to be doing any work on it during the day, but it didn't get me anywhere. Luckily by the third night they had finished; S seemed genuinely concerned that I was about to go over the edge, since I spent the entire evening with my face pressed up against the window, pausing only to update her on their progress ("they're still bloody at it") and mutter obscenities darkly.
The departure of our house guests, however, has heralded the return of Russell Brand, a turn of events about which I am not exactly thrilled. He is becoming more and more of a permanent fixture in our lives and to be quite honest I'm fed up to the back teeth with him. All he does is make S cry - nothing she ever does is good enough, no amount of time spent with him is ever enough, and apparently if she doesn't include him in every single thing she does, this shows that she doesn't love him and he goes into a meltdown. Basically, he's a total prick and she'd be much better off without him, but of course she's in love with him so she keeps trying to patch things up. Which means more and more of him glooming around the flat with a face like a wet weekend and taking absolutely forever in the shower when I really need to brush my teeth and get to work.
I'm also talking to the Boy again. It started off with him criticising my new planet-pattered leggings (I'm not entirely sure what else I was expecting, since I know he hates leggings and anything too out there, fashion-wise - "I just think they're too kooky even for you" - charming), but he tried to make it up to me by sending me a link to a website I happen to be already very familiar with, featuring dresses, leggings and various articles of clothing with a Star Wars theme. I mentioned that there was an R2-D2 dress that I rather liked (skin-tight, incidentally; not totally sure I would ever actually get into it, let alone out of it again), and then the conversation took a turn for the interesting. "At the risk of overstepping the mark... I can't think of an appropriate word. Hot sounds too generic, and would imply you're not otherwise. It's a strange phenomenon. It's like geeky and hot combined. You'd be pretty smoking in it, so buy it already haha."
Well, I'm going to have to get it now, aren't I?
Wednesday 9 January 2013
Bitch stole my moves
Zumba'd my ass off this evening. Terribly concerned I may not be able to walk tomorrow. Furthermore, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirrors in the studio, I now know exactly what I look like when I go out and dance in what I believe to be a sexy and attractive way. I had no idea that my lack of co-ordination was so obvious. Nor did I know just how wide of the mark my interpretation of 'sexy' was.
(Admittedly, my zumba class was not fuelled by a dangerous cocktail of vodka and Jägerbombs as so many of my nights out are, so at least I can comfort myself in the fact that presumably by the time I'm ready to dance, all self-awareness has left the building.)
It was, however, just a little bit awkward to recognise several of my key dancefloor moves popping up in over-enthusiastic zumba routines.
Accidentally emailed the PGBF a veritable essay of a Facebook message yesterday, going into greater detail about the Boy's somewhat chequered romantic past and his New Year's Eve shenanigans. His reply was to the point. "Ignore any previous thoughts of mine and just delete his number, contact details, Facebook friendship." To be honest, contact with the Boy has all but petered out. Trying to be nonchalant about it; sometimes I even convince myself that I don't care.
On the plus side, my dance partner is speaking to me again, and we have university friends coming to stay with us. I am anticipating an expensive and often drunken week.
(Admittedly, my zumba class was not fuelled by a dangerous cocktail of vodka and Jägerbombs as so many of my nights out are, so at least I can comfort myself in the fact that presumably by the time I'm ready to dance, all self-awareness has left the building.)
It was, however, just a little bit awkward to recognise several of my key dancefloor moves popping up in over-enthusiastic zumba routines.
Accidentally emailed the PGBF a veritable essay of a Facebook message yesterday, going into greater detail about the Boy's somewhat chequered romantic past and his New Year's Eve shenanigans. His reply was to the point. "Ignore any previous thoughts of mine and just delete his number, contact details, Facebook friendship." To be honest, contact with the Boy has all but petered out. Trying to be nonchalant about it; sometimes I even convince myself that I don't care.
On the plus side, my dance partner is speaking to me again, and we have university friends coming to stay with us. I am anticipating an expensive and often drunken week.
Monday 7 January 2013
Jellyfish Apocalypse Not Coming
Reassuring headline of the day. I emailed it to everyone I know.
Today wasn't bad, for a Monday. Fairly chilled, by all accounts. Probably because I didn't bother doing half the stuff I was supposed to. Motivation was pretty low on the agenda.
A few things of note:
1. My dance partner from before Christmas has returned to the office. So far he has failed to make eye contact with me, and ignored my attempts to start a conversation. I'm taking this as a bad sign.
2. One of the girls on my team has talked me into attending a zumba class with her on Wednesday. Given that I have actively avoided all forms of exercise since I was 18, I'm not entirely sure why I'm going. I also fear that my imagined co-ordination bears little or no resemblance to my actual co-ordination, so I'll probably just flail about in the back and be a nuisance.
3. The Boy hasn't messaged me. I kind of hate him for not messaging, and kind of hate myself for noticing he hasn't messaged, and for wishing that he would.
On the plus side, I have acquired a potential gay best friend, something I have wanted since the first episode of Will and Grace. The object of my platonic affection is a guy in the office (note to self: make more friends outside work) who is about to go on honeymoon with his new husband. We initally bonded over Agatha Christie and Downton Abbey, but we've taken our relationship to the next level (Facebook messaging) and he is now deeply involved in the ongoing Boy saga. The PGBF's latest message to me suggested that I just kiss the Boy and see what happens. He also advised that one regrets more what one doesn't do than what one does. Which is clearly rubbish, since I totally regret sleeping with that other guy from the office, and would totally NOT have regretted not doing it.
Still, he ended his missive "I just want you to have a loving story as you're great", which made me smile and also want to cry a little bit.
Today wasn't bad, for a Monday. Fairly chilled, by all accounts. Probably because I didn't bother doing half the stuff I was supposed to. Motivation was pretty low on the agenda.
A few things of note:
1. My dance partner from before Christmas has returned to the office. So far he has failed to make eye contact with me, and ignored my attempts to start a conversation. I'm taking this as a bad sign.
2. One of the girls on my team has talked me into attending a zumba class with her on Wednesday. Given that I have actively avoided all forms of exercise since I was 18, I'm not entirely sure why I'm going. I also fear that my imagined co-ordination bears little or no resemblance to my actual co-ordination, so I'll probably just flail about in the back and be a nuisance.
3. The Boy hasn't messaged me. I kind of hate him for not messaging, and kind of hate myself for noticing he hasn't messaged, and for wishing that he would.
On the plus side, I have acquired a potential gay best friend, something I have wanted since the first episode of Will and Grace. The object of my platonic affection is a guy in the office (note to self: make more friends outside work) who is about to go on honeymoon with his new husband. We initally bonded over Agatha Christie and Downton Abbey, but we've taken our relationship to the next level (Facebook messaging) and he is now deeply involved in the ongoing Boy saga. The PGBF's latest message to me suggested that I just kiss the Boy and see what happens. He also advised that one regrets more what one doesn't do than what one does. Which is clearly rubbish, since I totally regret sleeping with that other guy from the office, and would totally NOT have regretted not doing it.
Still, he ended his missive "I just want you to have a loving story as you're great", which made me smile and also want to cry a little bit.
Sunday 6 January 2013
Scab picking
Well S may have returned, but any hint of sanity remains firmly MIA. The first thing she said to me as she walked through the door was "What time does Tesco's close? I need to buy a pregnancy test."
Talk about dropping a bombshell. Turns out she's worked herself up into worrying about this because she's been feeling really sick, though personally I'm more inclined to blame the speed she took at New Year (S and drugs is a disastrous combination). The result was (somewhat unsurprisingly) negative, and she headed off back to Russell Brand's, who has apparently showered her with roses and expensive underwear. Dick.
In a moment of weakness and self-loathing, I messaged the Boy again. This is a futile activity, as I know that we will chat briefly and sporadically until he either dismisses me and goes to bed, or gives up responding all together, leaving me hanging and feeling more than a little foolish. I know it's not going anywhere, I know it won't lead to anything, and I'm more and more convinced that he doesn't feel the same way as I do. S thinks I can do better. The Slug Club think I can do better. I think I can do better.
So why can't I just leave it alone?
Talk about dropping a bombshell. Turns out she's worked herself up into worrying about this because she's been feeling really sick, though personally I'm more inclined to blame the speed she took at New Year (S and drugs is a disastrous combination). The result was (somewhat unsurprisingly) negative, and she headed off back to Russell Brand's, who has apparently showered her with roses and expensive underwear. Dick.
In a moment of weakness and self-loathing, I messaged the Boy again. This is a futile activity, as I know that we will chat briefly and sporadically until he either dismisses me and goes to bed, or gives up responding all together, leaving me hanging and feeling more than a little foolish. I know it's not going anywhere, I know it won't lead to anything, and I'm more and more convinced that he doesn't feel the same way as I do. S thinks I can do better. The Slug Club think I can do better. I think I can do better.
So why can't I just leave it alone?
Saturday 5 January 2013
Saturday Night Fever
When S and I moved to East London, we envisioned a life of endless partying and socialising, and only really coming home to go to bed. We won't care about the noise, we said, because we'll be the ones making it! We'll be out every night, meeting hot East London guys in achingly cool bars. We'll drink outselves to sleep and live for the weekends. Bring on the adventure, tally-ho!, etc.
We realised that this might not quite be the case when we spent our first Friday night here watching I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, in S's bed, in matching onesies.
To be fair, we have both had our fair share of adventures since moving here. S wet herself on our doorstep after a particularly messy night at a gig, and I rocked home at 5:30am after our office Christmas party following a misadventure in Hackey with a chap called James. (I went back to his house with him; I sent him back to the club to find my coat which I had left there; I realised I had given him all the signals that I was totally up for it; I panicked; he returned empty-handed; I left. The end.)
However, lying on the sofa watching Take Me Out and eating my way through a Cadbury's Favourites selection bag isn't quite the Saturday night I had hoped for.
My mother came to visit today, primarily to deliver the stuff I physically couldn't carry back with me on Wednesday, and secondly to have a good moan about my brother. My brother and my mother have the kind of difficult relationship common between people whose personalities are too similar. They are both ferociously stubborn, deeply argumentative, and overly sensitive to criticism. To both his and our mother's chargrin, he is living at home following his graduation from university in the summer with a disappointing 2:2. This seems to have affected him deeply, and he now rarely emerges from his bedroom (where he is supposedly "working from home" as part of his music journalism internship) other than to go out drinking, is rude, unpleasant to be around, and negligent of his personal hygiene. Our family friend thinks he might be depressed. Personally, I'm surprised that my mother hasn't smothered him in his sleep yet. She has never been the most patient person in the world, but my brother has turned irritating her into something of an art form.
Thankfully S returns tomorrow, hopefully bringing some semblance of normality with her.
We realised that this might not quite be the case when we spent our first Friday night here watching I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, in S's bed, in matching onesies.
To be fair, we have both had our fair share of adventures since moving here. S wet herself on our doorstep after a particularly messy night at a gig, and I rocked home at 5:30am after our office Christmas party following a misadventure in Hackey with a chap called James. (I went back to his house with him; I sent him back to the club to find my coat which I had left there; I realised I had given him all the signals that I was totally up for it; I panicked; he returned empty-handed; I left. The end.)
However, lying on the sofa watching Take Me Out and eating my way through a Cadbury's Favourites selection bag isn't quite the Saturday night I had hoped for.
My mother came to visit today, primarily to deliver the stuff I physically couldn't carry back with me on Wednesday, and secondly to have a good moan about my brother. My brother and my mother have the kind of difficult relationship common between people whose personalities are too similar. They are both ferociously stubborn, deeply argumentative, and overly sensitive to criticism. To both his and our mother's chargrin, he is living at home following his graduation from university in the summer with a disappointing 2:2. This seems to have affected him deeply, and he now rarely emerges from his bedroom (where he is supposedly "working from home" as part of his music journalism internship) other than to go out drinking, is rude, unpleasant to be around, and negligent of his personal hygiene. Our family friend thinks he might be depressed. Personally, I'm surprised that my mother hasn't smothered him in his sleep yet. She has never been the most patient person in the world, but my brother has turned irritating her into something of an art form.
Thankfully S returns tomorrow, hopefully bringing some semblance of normality with her.
Friday 4 January 2013
T.G.I.F.
Thank god indeed. I was beginning to feel as though this week would never end.
Yesterday saw (to my immense joy) the return of the OC. I like to think he was pleased to see me too, though I couldn't be entirely sure - his illness has made him even more grumpy than usual. Sadly I find this endearing rather than off-putting, and so spent a sizeable chunk of my day thinking up witty things to email him.
I was also informed by one of the girls in the office that I was "absolutely brilliant" the last Friday before Christmas (the night of the wildly inappropriate dancing). This worries me somewhat, as I have absolutely no recollection of even seeing her. Neither do I recall leaving the pub, arriving at the club, how we got there or most of what we did on arrival. She assured me that myself, the OC (I had no idea he was there either) and my aforementioned dancevictim partner were the drunkest people there, the most fun to be around, and definitely the ones having the best time. Am now totally paranoid that both she, the OC and anyone else from work who might have been in attendance witnessed our little performance (flashbacks of which involve us both pressed up against the bar, foreheads touching, and a certain amount of bum-grabbing on my part), and probably remembers more about it than I do. It'll be round work in a flash - our office loves gossip; the more scandalous the better. Thank fuck I didn't get with him. I might have been up close and personal with the line, but at least I didn't cross it.
Tonight was, in contrast, a calmer affair. A few drinks in the pub and then dinner in a nearby Italian which I deserve some sort of loyalty card to, the amount of times I've been. It was also much more sedate than the previous time I was there, which involved the crazy Polish girl in Accounts and one of the interns supplementing their respective dinners with three lines of coke each, one of which Polish did off my lap at the table. I thought she was getting something out of her handbag. The waiter did a triple-take and I thought we were going to get arrested.
Who needs to live vicariously eh?
Yesterday saw (to my immense joy) the return of the OC. I like to think he was pleased to see me too, though I couldn't be entirely sure - his illness has made him even more grumpy than usual. Sadly I find this endearing rather than off-putting, and so spent a sizeable chunk of my day thinking up witty things to email him.
I was also informed by one of the girls in the office that I was "absolutely brilliant" the last Friday before Christmas (the night of the wildly inappropriate dancing). This worries me somewhat, as I have absolutely no recollection of even seeing her. Neither do I recall leaving the pub, arriving at the club, how we got there or most of what we did on arrival. She assured me that myself, the OC (I had no idea he was there either) and my aforementioned dance
Tonight was, in contrast, a calmer affair. A few drinks in the pub and then dinner in a nearby Italian which I deserve some sort of loyalty card to, the amount of times I've been. It was also much more sedate than the previous time I was there, which involved the crazy Polish girl in Accounts and one of the interns supplementing their respective dinners with three lines of coke each, one of which Polish did off my lap at the table. I thought she was getting something out of her handbag. The waiter did a triple-take and I thought we were going to get arrested.
Who needs to live vicariously eh?
Wednesday 2 January 2013
Back to work
Oh London, how I have missed you.
Today marked my first day of work in 2013, and a welcome return to the relative sanity of the office (relative compared to my family, that is). As much as I love my parents and brother, the holiday spirit was definitely beginning to fray around the edges by last night.
I enjoy my job, and love everyone at work an unreasonable amount, almost without exception (those exceptions being a couple of the more terrifying directors, and the guy I accidentally slept with a couple of times who now no longer talks to me unless it is absolutely necessary.) That being said, it took until 3pm, aided by a large burger, chips, five cups of tea and a slice of birthday cake, before I was actually able to work up any kind of enthusiasm, project management wise. I mean really, how excited can one get about gluten-intolerant Sainsbury's shoppers?
I was also mildly devastated to discover that my Office Crush was off sick today. The OC is a fair bit older than me, cynical, sarcastic, tactless, utterly hilarious and (mercifully) completely oblivious to the fact that my friend and I spend an inordinate amount of time plotting ways to get him to marry me.
Today also marked my return to my beloved flat, sadly sans my equally beloved but emotionally unstable flatmate, S. S and I lived together in halls at university and then again in our third year, in a ramshackle house that we loved and my mother referred to as a health hazard. (She memorably refused to use our bathroom, oven or any of our crockery on one of her very few visitations.) Thus, we are very used to each other and our little foibles: S is an expert worrier who frequently dashes back to check the oven is switched off; I am a borderline OCD-freak who rearranges the cupboards to suit my mood. I miss S inordinately; her return will doubtless be greeted by hugs, vodka and swapping tales of horrendous New Year's Eve shenanigans, followed equally doubtlessly by tears over Russell Brand, her douchebag not-quite-ex boyfriend with whom she is kind-of-sort-of back together.
I also had an emergency Whatsapp confab with the Slug Club over my most recent Boy-related heartache. The Slug Club comprises of myself and two friends who took English with me at university. We bonded over our shared love of all things geek (Harry Potter, Doctor Who and more specifically David Tennant, Sherlock Holmes and more specifically Benedict Cumberbatch, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Mario Kart), as well as good food, English literature, and excellent conversation. The general SG consensus on the Boy was basically "he's a twat", which while informative, wasn't all that helpful.
Incidentally, that was S's pronouncement when I told her about the New Year's Eve messages. "Let him go", she advised. Slightly pot calling kettle, given her current situation, but as Oscar Wilde famously remarked, "I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself."
Today marked my first day of work in 2013, and a welcome return to the relative sanity of the office (relative compared to my family, that is). As much as I love my parents and brother, the holiday spirit was definitely beginning to fray around the edges by last night.
I enjoy my job, and love everyone at work an unreasonable amount, almost without exception (those exceptions being a couple of the more terrifying directors, and the guy I accidentally slept with a couple of times who now no longer talks to me unless it is absolutely necessary.) That being said, it took until 3pm, aided by a large burger, chips, five cups of tea and a slice of birthday cake, before I was actually able to work up any kind of enthusiasm, project management wise. I mean really, how excited can one get about gluten-intolerant Sainsbury's shoppers?
I was also mildly devastated to discover that my Office Crush was off sick today. The OC is a fair bit older than me, cynical, sarcastic, tactless, utterly hilarious and (mercifully) completely oblivious to the fact that my friend and I spend an inordinate amount of time plotting ways to get him to marry me.
Today also marked my return to my beloved flat, sadly sans my equally beloved but emotionally unstable flatmate, S. S and I lived together in halls at university and then again in our third year, in a ramshackle house that we loved and my mother referred to as a health hazard. (She memorably refused to use our bathroom, oven or any of our crockery on one of her very few visitations.) Thus, we are very used to each other and our little foibles: S is an expert worrier who frequently dashes back to check the oven is switched off; I am a borderline OCD-freak who rearranges the cupboards to suit my mood. I miss S inordinately; her return will doubtless be greeted by hugs, vodka and swapping tales of horrendous New Year's Eve shenanigans, followed equally doubtlessly by tears over Russell Brand, her douchebag not-quite-ex boyfriend with whom she is kind-of-sort-of back together.
I also had an emergency Whatsapp confab with the Slug Club over my most recent Boy-related heartache. The Slug Club comprises of myself and two friends who took English with me at university. We bonded over our shared love of all things geek (Harry Potter, Doctor Who and more specifically David Tennant, Sherlock Holmes and more specifically Benedict Cumberbatch, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Mario Kart), as well as good food, English literature, and excellent conversation. The general SG consensus on the Boy was basically "he's a twat", which while informative, wasn't all that helpful.
Incidentally, that was S's pronouncement when I told her about the New Year's Eve messages. "Let him go", she advised. Slightly pot calling kettle, given her current situation, but as Oscar Wilde famously remarked, "I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself."
Tuesday 1 January 2013
New Year's Day
So much for a fresh start.
New Year's Day is traditionally greeted with a raging hangover, a full English breakfast, and a sense of unease as you slowly begin to recall what happened the night before. This year, however, I woke hangoverless and alone (parents presumably having gone to the pub), emptied the dishwasher listening to my mother's borderline-depressive The Script album, and generally felt a little bit sorry for myself.
Last night was interesting, in the way that gastroenteritis, literary critical theory and Facebook statuses about parties you weren't invited to are interesting. My claims that I was too unwell to go out became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy (Karma's a vindictive bitch), so I rang in the new year with stomach cramps, chills and an inability to eat or drink anything without feeling violently ill. I also received a series of drunken Whatsapp messages from the Boy, who decided that 2am was a great time to update me on how his night was going. "Punxh claimed first vixtim at 12 midnight exactly. Ot's alright I kissed girflforend so he's okqy."
I deduced from this (and from subsequent misspelled missives) that one of his friends was too busy throwing up to kiss his girlfriend as 2013 began, so the Boy kindly stepped in and did the honours. Three times. As any good friend would.
Following my overtones of disapproval at his attempts to justify himself (including but not limited to "it was only a joke", "she always liked me but nothing serious", "it was friendly", "it didn't mean anything", and "he won't find out", only less well-spelled), I was informed that I love the idea of such debauchery, but I am too afraid and guilty to pursue it myself, so I live vicariously through him.
With this scathing character critique in mind, my New Year's To Do List:
1. Get promoted.
2. See my friends more; plan more exciting things to do.
3. Stop buying so many things I don't need and can't afford.
4. Stop dancing in a wildly inappropriate fashion with guys from work, particularly those who have girlfriends.
5. Stop getting so out-of-control drunk that I think the above is not only acceptable, but a marvellous idea with zero repercussions.
6. Stop correcting people's grammar.
7. Be nice to everybody, even people I find intensely irritating.
8. Stop thinking about the Boy.
9. Stop talking about the Boy.
10. Stop waiting for the Boy to move to London, realise we'd be perfect together and ask me out.
God damnit.
New Year's Day is traditionally greeted with a raging hangover, a full English breakfast, and a sense of unease as you slowly begin to recall what happened the night before. This year, however, I woke hangoverless and alone (parents presumably having gone to the pub), emptied the dishwasher listening to my mother's borderline-depressive The Script album, and generally felt a little bit sorry for myself.
Last night was interesting, in the way that gastroenteritis, literary critical theory and Facebook statuses about parties you weren't invited to are interesting. My claims that I was too unwell to go out became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy (Karma's a vindictive bitch), so I rang in the new year with stomach cramps, chills and an inability to eat or drink anything without feeling violently ill. I also received a series of drunken Whatsapp messages from the Boy, who decided that 2am was a great time to update me on how his night was going. "Punxh claimed first vixtim at 12 midnight exactly. Ot's alright I kissed girflforend so he's okqy."
I deduced from this (and from subsequent misspelled missives) that one of his friends was too busy throwing up to kiss his girlfriend as 2013 began, so the Boy kindly stepped in and did the honours. Three times. As any good friend would.
Following my overtones of disapproval at his attempts to justify himself (including but not limited to "it was only a joke", "she always liked me but nothing serious", "it was friendly", "it didn't mean anything", and "he won't find out", only less well-spelled), I was informed that I love the idea of such debauchery, but I am too afraid and guilty to pursue it myself, so I live vicariously through him.
With this scathing character critique in mind, my New Year's To Do List:
1. Get promoted.
2. See my friends more; plan more exciting things to do.
3. Stop buying so many things I don't need and can't afford.
4. Stop dancing in a wildly inappropriate fashion with guys from work, particularly those who have girlfriends.
5. Stop getting so out-of-control drunk that I think the above is not only acceptable, but a marvellous idea with zero repercussions.
6. Stop correcting people's grammar.
7. Be nice to everybody, even people I find intensely irritating.
8. Stop thinking about the Boy.
9. Stop talking about the Boy.
10. Stop waiting for the Boy to move to London, realise we'd be perfect together and ask me out.
God damnit.
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