Also, in a moment of supreme half-asleepness this morning, I covered my toothbrush in anti-bacterial handwash.

Just saying. You know. Don’t do that. Just because it’s anti-bacterial, doesn’t mean it tastes nice. Not that that was what I was thinking, I wasn’t thinking anything. Apart from ‘euw’ and sweary noises. And I wasn’t intending to put it on there, and certainly not because I thought it was going to be nice.

It’s not very nice.

Also don’t pick your nose after cutting green chillis.
Not that I have done that.

But don’t do that. It isn’t very nice either.

I hear.

Oh, actually, while I’m here: try not to get distracted while you’re on a treadmill.

Just advice, you know?
Juuuuust putting it out there, letting you know.

Just a public service.

Turns out not only Monday hated me.

Oh Monday, Monday, what did I ever do to you?

So I thought I’d have a very productive day, right? And I did, I did, I can’t deny it, I did.

I did the three main things on my list: I bought a little (ish) black dress for all occasions, I blogged a lot, and I cleaned the stair carpet very thoroughly.

Yes, it might have been slightly more ON the knee than my preferred slightly BELOW the knee (and swingy, obv), but it was a nice dress, and it will do very nicely for the dressy occasion next week, with the right shoes. And yes, I might have slipped on the slippery shampooey carpet and banged my leg and cried and shouted a bit, but it was still a productive day, all in all.

This morning, of course, I notice that the only-mildly-leg-hurtiness has resulted in a perfectly round, perfectly purplish-green bruise just under my knee; a goodly size, most noticable and RIGHT BELOW WHERE MY SODDING DRESS STOPS.

Now does anyone, ANYONE know of a way of making bruise lose their cheerful colour, and fast?

Or do I just have to slather it with concealer? Because I will, you know. I’m not ashamed.
I’ll give it a full concealer/foundation/powder flawless finish if I need to.
Is there a gel? A cream? An unction?

Fucking productivity. I’m never being productive again.
Ever.

Things I meant to write tonight till I got put off by processing pictures and things and will hopefully write about tomorrow.

- The Blockbusters theme tune.
- Train tickets and other religious things.
- Something else that I have forgotten temporarily.
- Ladybirds, and how little I know about them.

Some, if not all. Probably some.
Or a couple.
Or, you know, maybe ‘one’, knowing me. If that.

In the meantime, and with apologies, a link to an old Wet Wet Wet video because as part of a conversation today, I was trying to describe the fact that Marty Pellow burps after the first two lines. And he does!

Listen for yourself!
30 seconds in! He burps!

Ah, I could watch it over and over again.
In fact I have.
That was what I was mainly led off by.
I admit it.
All the other stuff was just to cover up my infantile glee at the Wet Man Burping.

Urp!

Well, Krissa does it sometimes, and Mike has been known to indulge, and I’ve done it myself once or twice so I am in good company with them. And, You know, myself.

Ask me a question!
(You can ask me more than one, but I’ll proabably only answer one, depending on how many there are)

I have to go out shopping because I need a pretty dress for something next week. But as soon as I come back, in a couple of hours, I will start answering them in a little thing saying ‘Read more’.

And then I will carry on answering them until my fingers get tired and then I will close the comment box sometime this evening, or just shout STOP!!! and everyone will ignore me, as usual.

So. Any questions? I have Annas for all your questions. Bring them on. I will try and answer all. When I have bought a pretty dress. Which I am going to do right now.

3pm There is only one question!!! I have no readers! Or they are all doing bank holiday things because it is a bank holiday. Still, I will start. Oh! There are suddenly two more. Three more. Bollocks, better get on with this. Anyway, I have got a dress, now, so everything is ok. Apart from the fact I had to go shopping, and I fucking hate shopping. Sorry, that wasn’t a question. I will proceed with the questions.

Running county thing: I have answered ALL the questions! Now I am not answering any more!

(Oh, and before you even think of clicking that ‘read more’ thing, I warn you - it’s VEH long.

(more…)

Not in a ‘woe is me’ kind of way, just the truth:

Life at the moment is a tightly timetabled affair. Sunday night is for setting up the things that need to be in place for the rest of the week to happen without too much stress. Monday night is research for work that must be done on Tuesday morning on the train in, and Tuesday night a certain amount has to be done to make sure that some other freelancey thing is ready to file first thing wednesday morning, having been polished on the train again. Wednesday night’s train home is a limbering up session for a live-blogging thing for one of work’s TV blogs, and Friday nights are mostly going to be the same from now on. And that’s all wedged in either side of my actual full-time job, which involves no writing at all but lots of other responsibilities and very very busyness.

I’d accepted a commission for two seperate travel podcastty things, which had to be done on certain weekends, and that was good, and then I won a prize (of more at a later date) which was even more exciting, but meant that I had something sceduled in for every day for the next five weeks, and was circling dates in my diary when I might be able to have some sleep/clean the carpet on the stairs that got a bit hammered at my barbeque/buy some jeans to replace the ones that are frankly bordering on indecency/schedule some time for a big cry and a minor burn-out.

It is one reason I am not being very good at blogging. Because whenever I start, I know that I am supposed to be doing something else, and just feel bad about that until I realise that I’ve been staring at a blank wordpress screen neither writing anything boatish NOR doing one of the things I should be doing, which make me feel twice as bad and beat myself up twice as hard. And then I realise I probably should have been sleeping instead. And that I haven’t packed yet. For something. And then something at the back of my mind niggles that I’ve forgotten something, or lost something, or that someone’s found me out and I’m going to get shouted at but I don’t know who or when or about what.

So anyway.

Sitting in the office with my bag backed for the trip I was flying out for first thing Saturday morning, elbow deep in print outs of places I had to go and people to talk to and things and wondering if I really did have time to learn any Swedish in the next twelve hours and then…

Suddenly it was cancelled. Airline strikes, something something, and because I’d written off the weekend completely and cleared my mental intray because of that, I found myself staring into a completely empty three days. Free Parking. Nothing I had to do, nowhere I had to be, a free gift.

I have been mainly sleeping. And drinking. There has also been a Playstation involved.

Today I need to go out and buy a dress for an awards ceremony, but other than that, I will watch musicals, maybe. And I will do, I think, a lot of blogging.
And make some muffins.
Yay Free Parking.

- Oooh! I’ve been shortlisted for an awarddy thing!

I have a cat’s hope in hell, because I am up against very prolific, popular, talented people, and I just don’t win awards. Or any kind of merit-based type of prize. Ever, really.

Still, it is very lovely to be on a shortlist, and blah blah blah. Thank you all. I’d like to thank my agent. And my cat. Both of whom are the same person, and neither of whom exist. Oh, and the Academy.

- For no reason whatsoever am I asking, but does anyone know of a really cheap hotel in Downtown New York that accepts bookings at really short notice? Or something?

No reason, like. Pure curiosity. Like what killed the cat. That one in hell, in the bag. You know, the one that wasn’t my agent. Or in the academy. Or something.

Gosh what a catty post.

Could be more catty.

Princess Beatrice of York looks like a 2d blown-up doll with its features drawn on in crayon. How’s that for catty? And what use would a 2d blow-up doll be anyway?

Shit, there are 5 million things I’m suuposed to be doing.

At silly o’clock this morning, at the end of a long strip of tarmac just outside the city of Lisbon, small flappy screens unfolded and told us things about what to do in the event of oxygen leaking out of the unfeasible metal bubble we were about to float through the air in.

After the usual safety video over, they showed perhaps the most crass piece of over-simplified pro-flying gubbins I think I have ever seen.
I’d ascribe it to dreaming, but My Beloved saw it too.

“Flying…”

It said.

“It provides over 12 million jobs worldwide, is responsible for great advances in science, industry, business…”

Although the pictures, of course, weren’t of any of those things.

They were of grandmothers crying. Children running, open-armed, smiling. Lovers kissing. What looked to be cancer patients walking slowly into the arms of siblings, tears in eyes. Lovers, kissing. More grandmothers crying.

“And it brings family and friends together all over the world.”

And weeping grandmother laughed, toothlessly, for the camera. The voice became slightly more sheepish.

“And the the environmental impact? Well it’s only 2% of Global carbon emissions, and most airline companies are working on trying not to make that higher.”

Seriously. Why bother?

I was about to get up on my mardy-horse about it, but then the guy in front of me whapped all 15st of chairback against my knees and I forgot about environmental concerns and started concentrating more on tutting loudly, making ‘humphing’ noises and trying in vain to get some sleep.

Priorities, you know.

But, just so you’re aware, it has been officially stated that flying is a GOOD thing and not environmentally catastrophic in the slightest. And it MUST be true, because an airline said so.

The whole ‘learning Portuguese in less than 7 hours’ things was never going to go well, I realise, too late.

It was short notice, and in the last week, running around in circles, I have been worrying about worrying about the present worry of making time to even think in English, let alone learn how to stumble through out-loud life in another tongue, so though the phrasebooks have been piling up in my bag and the cheat sheets blocking up my inbox, I got to last night, and still couldn’t say a single word.

I could spell, them, yes. I had read them enough times. But I knew I’d be too scared to say them out loud. And that’s where I fall into bother. I tend to think that if I haven’t had the common decency to learn a country’s language properly, then I shouldn’t embarass myself by trying, because it just seems rude.

Mainly this ends up with me eating bread and cheese on my hotel balcony because I’m too scared to go into a restaurant and abuse them with my uncivil ignorance, or, on more than a few occasions, eating nothing at all because I can’t find a supermarket not to be scared of.

“Welcome to this Pay-As-You-Go flight to Lisbon today. I’m Clarissa, And I and my crack team will be serving you with anything you could possibly desire this morning. You can find a price list for all the things you could possibly desire in the seat pocket in front of you. I’m pleased to tell you that there are some unfilled seats with extra legroom available this morning, so if you would like to fill one of those, please talk to one of the crew, who take Sterling, Euro, Visa and Innuendo.

We have a full breakfast menu, the price scale of which can be found wrapped around your safety card. Your stewards will soon be passing through the cabin with a full bar trolley offering, beers, wine, spirits, softdrinksandbottledwater. You can find the full list bar prices in your complimentary magazine, also int he seat pocket. Please note that for those wanting to celebrate the beginning of their holiday, there are bottles of champagne. Full bottles for £30, half bottles for £25, and Quarter bottles of the same champagne for £22.80….”

For the love of Chirst, I thought to myself. It’s 6am. Who WOULD?

I was, it transpired, underestimating some of my fellow passengers.

So by the end of last night, I realised I had forgotten how to go to bed, had a potential two hours sleep ahead of me, and no idea how to pronounce any Portuguese words properly, and thus no idea how to do anything.

So I downloaded an audiobook, which, as planned, I listened to on the plane. Over and over. It was forty minutes long, I listened to it four times.

‘Listened’. This may, on reflection, be a slight overstatement.
It was certainly ON four times, and I assiduously woke up inbetween each loop and pressed play.

Every time I pressed play, I told myself I would stay awake, and didn’t.
And then I hoped that perhaps I was learning subliminally.
And wasn’t.

Several Portuguese passangers passed comment on the young people, shouting at the end of the bus, trundling along and carrying us from plane to terminal. I found I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and instead concentrated on staring at my shoes and, I don’t know, becoming German or something. Or Dutch. Or even Norwegian.

“Yeah yeah mate, yeah! Write down some names of clubs we can go to in Lisbone, yeah, mate? Are you both Portuguese? Where do you live in London? You like bum sex, don’t you? HA HA HA HA! And how much is weed here, yeah? Have you got any numbers from people you can give us? What for an ounce, maybe 80 Euros, Yeah? What do you mean you don’t know? How come this bus isn’t moving? Can anyone ask the driver? We should totally have a party in our villa. I can’t believe how much champagne we just drank, man, we’re crazy. It’s got a tennis court. Oy, Gringo mate, why aren’t we there yet, yeah? Do you think anyone will notice if I just light up in here, I’m dying for a fag. ARE yous gay?”

Went the noise, split between eight people and pitched at about 570 decibels.

A bit lost, a bit tired, and a bit alone, and I wanted the representatives of the United Kingdom to be a bit quieter right now, as we seemed to be heading for no points at all. Certainly with the Portuguese jury.

In between feeding cake shop tips into my microphone Lucy helped me with my Portuguese. She made me march up to salespeople and ask how much (and stood behind to inform me how much once they said it - I had been brave but was still clueless).

“What about coke? Do you know anyone who can get us anyone who can get us any good sniffy drugs, mate?”

“Shhhh, Bones. Everyone might be listening”

“Don’t be stupid. We’re abroad! No one on the bus understands English anyway, do they?”

We still hadn’t reached the terminal. All the people from the flight from London, 98.8% understood English better than the speakers themselves seemed to stared at the floor, stared at the terminal, stared at the feet of the speakers, but never into their faces.

I have hello down. And thank you I’m great at. How are you I’m fine with, and I’m fine thanks I remember 6 times out of 10.

But the one that Lucy helped me with most I have literally written on my hand phonetically in case of ununderstood questions, language emergency and general embarassment of being foriegn in foriegn parts.

“Sorry.
I’m English.”

Nono, in a good way.

It is, my dears, difficult to explain how much is going on at the moment - about as difficult as it is to find holes in the middle of it all to sit down and do fun blogginging things. Or think of things that I can write about. Or think.

[But, very briefly, it involves a hell of a lot of writing, a lot of carbon emissions, more winning things, lots of talking, more writing, days and days of my life pootling up and down on trains (while writing), and oh, um, some kind of television/"those list shows that all reasonable people hate" kind of activity which I may or may not expand upon). And reading. Oh, and 'other' that I can't remember]

Still, I will be updating more, and have more stories to tell - mainly by dint of the fact that over the next five weeks I’m going to be in five different countries - four of them in the next three weeks. Oh alright, one of them is England.

And I’m always drop-kicked into fabulous amounts of blog-material by being in new and exciting places, and having new experiences and, you know, well, getting lost and being shouted at by scary international beggars, mainly.

So. Having been booked into hotels with t’internet on tap (it’s more important than the en suite, dahlink) I shall speak to you tomorrow from… Well, from wherever it is I’m going this week.

Hm. Now, I have to be up in just over three hours. Is there really ANY point in going to bed?

Does anyone know of a free downloadable ‘handy phrases’ podcast for travelling?

You know, like a phrasebook but listenny?

My Beloved, once he comes back from a trip of his own is accompanying me on a work trip this weekend.
I’m sure we said we weren’t going to do all this faffing about this year, but whatever.
My beloved is meeting me at a special top secret location, where I am going to do work, and he is going to do hanging-around-keeping-me-company, which is an equally important job.

Last time I went far away for work completely on my own, I got scared of restaurants and people and didn’t eat for two days. Or until I found a patisserie that responded well to my patented ‘Bad French and Pointing’ technique. So having someone there is good.

But apparently he has decided that being a trophy wife is not fun enough, and that I must take some time off so we can go and watch some football.

Or maybe he is counting that as work. I know I am.

I’m sure it will be fun in many ways. Football in a foreign tongue. I won’t know what any of the announcements are saying, of course. Or who any of the players are. Or what any pieces of commentary we may catch are, or what any of the chants from the terraces may mean. So it won’t be that different from that time we went to watch Chelsea, then.

I do try, I do try very hard. I have been listening to football on the radio and going ‘Booooo’ at the points I think might be appropriate and ‘Go ON!’ whenever anybody else shouted that for as long as we have been together, and yet it still just sounds wrong when I do it.

I try and learn, I try and soak up the information, but for some reason, it just never goes in, or at least never stays there.

An example: a conversation we have every single week*.

We are watching Match of the Day. Or Some other television programme specialising in people wibbling about men dribbling with balls.

Me: (Being over excited because I have remembered a useful bit of football knowledge) OOOH! Ooh! Yay! Look, My Beloved! It is that LIZARD man on the television! David Gower!”
My Beloved: No. Not David Gower.
Me: What? What are you talking about?
My Beloved: David Gower is an ex-Cricket player.
Me: Then what is he doing on television talking about football?
My Beloved: *Sigh*
Me: And aren’t they scared he might lose it and go off on one about the lizarddy things again?
My Beloved: That’s David Icke.
Me: That man on the television Yes. The lizardman.
My Beloved: No. That man on the television, is Mark Lawrenson.
Me: (Outraged) WHO?!

WHY these people can’t just do me a favour and admit they’re all the same person, I have no idea.

*No exaggeration. Every week.

This, right, is driving me insane.

Here’s the thing - I have lots of artists on my iTunes library that simply don’t show up on my iPod.

An example:
- There are three albums or collections worth of Otis Redding.
- However, should I suddenly want to listen to him, if I flick to ‘artists’, several other artists beginning with ‘O’ show up in the list, Otis: No.
- And no, he doesn’t show up under R for Redding, either.
- None of his albums show up in the albums list on the iPod
- He shows up nowhere in the Genres. Nowhere at all.
- But the songs are all present in the song list, and he pops up all the time on shuffle.

SO
The only way I can listen to him is find every song I want to listen to is to find each one, individually, in a long alphabetical list of songs. Which is kind of annoying when you have a memory like mine and can remember vague lines from songs (and even then mainly with ‘doodoodoo’ where most of the words should be) but not the official names.

This happens with several artists and I cannot for the life of me work out why. Does anyone know? Has anyone EVER come across this before?

I seem to have raised the hackles of a fellow blogger, and that is not something I like doing. So this is a post in riposte - though not something I am very comfortable doing (more of which I will explain later). I want to write it, but this may be too dull and serious post for some, so I’m going to put most of it under one of those ‘read more’ things.

(more…)

I was walking through the office when a travel flier caught my eye, eariler.

It may be true, it may be simple, but I’m just not overly convinced that

“Holland: Surprisingly Close”

is not the most convincing marketing slogan I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’m just not swayed by a weekend break destination (or much else) whose only reasoning is that it’s not prohibitively inconvenient to get to’. ‘Surprisingly Nice‘ would be better, though I’ve no doubt that Holland in general is quite lovely.
‘Quite Cheap‘ might also be tempting, though I imagine it’s not quite the image they want to present. Hell, even ‘Surprisingly Low On Drug-Related Street-Crime‘ would have more directly positive overtones than the ‘Surprisingly Close‘ schtick.

I mean let’s face it: if we chose romantic holiday weekend break destinations because of quantitive distance considerations, I’d be spending a lot more of my quality biffing time in Croydon.

*Shudder*

You just get the feeling that at least it was better than whatever their other shortlisted suggestions were:
“Amsterdam: You May To Get On A Plane, But It’s At Least Reasonably Unlikely That You’ll Get Deep Vein Thrombosis”
“The Netherlands: Hello, We’re Just Over Here. Watching You.”
“Holland: Seriously, I’ve Been Far Worse Places. Croydon, Anyone?“