2009 in 7 hours

This time last year I was driving back from the boyfriend's family home in Suffolk where I'd spent the day walking along the beach in tears, stressed and dreading the night ahead.

Exactly twelve months on I took myself off to one of my favourite places in London, wrapped in a huge scarf twice my size, to the Portobello Road. I walked along the rows of terraced multi-coloured houses, passing George Orwell's old residence and all the antique shops (mostly closed), dropping in and out of the boutiques and strange trinket shops; then I turned around and walked back, picking up a hot chocolate for the tube ride home.

I needed time to myself to think but didn't want the hoards of Bond Street shoppers getting in the way, I was feeling low and needed the kind of company which doesn't barge you out the way or insist that you laugh and talk.

I'm not sure why I'm feeling down - or rather I do, but I can't pinpoint exactly what the problem is - but I've got about 7 hours before it's a New Year and time to start afresh.

So I'm going to get changed, put some heels on, meet my friends and party on down - toast in the new year with a shot of tequila in the dingey bar we're heading to...and hope that tomorrow, all I have on my mind is a hangover.

Happy New Year, everyone...

Blog

I bloody love blogging. I don't think I've ever done an 'Ode to my blog' post before, but now with 2008 coming to a right royal close tomorrow night - it seems like a good idea to say those magic words.

Blog, I bloody love you.

I love my own little corner of the web, where no one knows exactly who I am and people are only privy to what I choose to tell them. I like what this blog has become; that people can know a little bit about me and maybe have a guess about what I might be like, where I live, what I do, but never really know for sure. At the same time, I like that when I do need to reveal a bit more to get advice, opinions or something off my chest, I can do it and people will respond honestly without the obligation of hurting the feelings of someone they know personally.

Out to dinner on Christmas eve, and one of my parents friends started talking about his blog and asking for my twitter username etc. Mum immediately started digging for information about my blog (she's aware I have one after The Mail on Sunday incident, but as far as I know hasn't found it yet) and dropped ambiguous comments about something she'd "read on the internet about the tube and it was really funny, and it was definitely you..." and even more worryingly, that a neighbour had told her about it in the first place. I brushed the subject off, saying I didn't know what she was on about and she didn't go into any more detail. The subject was dropped and hasn't been brought up again, I'm still not completely sure what she was getting at.

For a lot of this week after that conversation, I considered spreading the word a bit, letting select people in on the action. I thought about what would happen if I revealed all and let you lot know who I was. If I could just have one email account for everything, not have to shut down blog windows when my mum came into the room, let my friends know that this is where the amusing stories and photos end up after a night out. Sure, some bits would have to be deleted, a bit of editing here and there - but I could stop disgusing my face in photos, allow family to read what I write and share this little corner of the web which keeps me happy and sane.

Then I thought sod that.

I think I like things just how they are. I bloody love this blog. And if someone chances upon it, I shall reply using the eternal words of Shaggy..."It wasn't me".

The following people DO NOT know it's christmas time:

Not that I was expecting to hear from him or anything, I totally wasn't - but it feels strange to be sans boyfriend this Christmas. Not that we spent Christmas together ever, or New Year come to think of it, it's just that weird feeling of no contact again. Getting a card from his parents was nice, although it highlighted the fact that I'd heard nothing from him. As they say..."that's probably a good thing", like everything else.

Oh, and Christmas cheer was definitely in the air on the road next to the doctor's surgery on the 24th, as I nipped in to pick up a prescription and, finding no space in the surgery's stamp sized car park, left my car on the adjacent road. There was indeed someone watching over me, a 21st century yonder star if you will, in the shape of a parking warden who slapped a £50 fine on my windscreen while I was gone. The timings noted on the slip? From 10:56 to: 10:58. Bastards.

My internet is not Christmas friendly. I know this because I've spent 6 hours over the last 2 days watching Gavin and Stacey from start to finish (actually, it's probably more like 10 hours given my internet connection up here. Have to watch it in 5 minute blasts, let it load up a bit, then press play...pause...load up, play etc). iPlayer is refusing to play ball 2 episodes short of the Christmas special - but anyway I think it's probably time I left the house before I start speaking welsh and greeting people with "Al-rite Stace, what's occurin?".

So I'm going to the pub, which will probably close at the thoroughly ungodly hour of 10:30, or something.

Toot toot!

I think I missed a day

Friday was a little bit crazy.

Crazy in the way that it didn't seem that crazy at the time, but the next day you wake up, blearly eyed with a full face of make up and unbrushed teeth - thinking "What the hellllll went on last night..."

Vodka. Cocktails. Gin. That's what went on. And lots of it.

A few people including myself were leaving, and it was also Office Hotty's birthday so the full team were out in force; first stop our local cocktail bar where it was 2 for 1 during happy hour. Office Hotty and his graduate friends defied the "eating's cheating" rule by popping off for dinner, but not before the birthday boy came over and asked for my phone number so he could "find out where we all are later". Ahem. The rest of us toddled off to another Camden haunt to continue the send offs and well, this is where things get a bit blurry.

It seemed perfectly normal to be receiving phone calls from Office Hotty asking where we all were, even more normal when he arrived and we stood chatting at the bar for ages. Normal when it reached 12am and, realising that some people were putting their coats on to leave for last trains, that we stood and carried on talking. Then with the clock ticking past 1am, I put my coat on and he did too, and again it seemed like a normal progression. Normal when half hearted attempts were made to get into a closing Camden Town station for trains that had already left, and normal when we wondered down the road aimlessly and then sat at the bus stop and continued to chat.

(About what, I'm not too sure. I think we established I was single. And that he was not.)

After 20 minutes or so I told him to get going, knowing he had a girlfriend waiting for him and a journey to South London to get to her. We hugged, chatted some more, hugged again. My bus came, and I drifted the rest of the way home in a cab.

Me: At baker street waiting for a cab. How u getting on? Thanks for waiting x
Him: Also in a cab! Bus to Elephant and Castle wasn't running. Could get pricey! Waiting wasn't a problem. Quite the opposite in fact. xx

I woke up on Saturday with the most god almightly hangover, equal if not worse than THIS ONE. Yeah, true story. Luckily I could stay in bed all day, which I did. Then I was sick at around 5pm, again at 6pm, cancelled my plans for that evening and went to bed at half 8. Seriously, whatever it was that went down the night before had culminated in the hangover to trump all hangovers.

And on to today. I woke up thinking it was Saturday. Didn't park on certain roads because the restrictions were no parking 9-6pm Monday - Saturday. Then paid for my parking ticket at the shops this afternoon even though on a Sunday, it's free. Was completely baffled as to why most of the shops were shut. Annoyed, even. I just could not work it out.

All in all, this has been a very strange old weekend. A big, blurry, hungover, wipe out of a weekend. What was Friday night about? I don't know. How did I feel so awful when I'd drunk no more than I usually would? I'm not sure.

Good fun, though.

And now, the end is near....

I have been in a horrendous mood this week.

 

Last night Charlie got a verbal assault for putting his nose a little too close to my spag bol, then at about 9:00pm, I flounced downstairs, grabbed the TV remote and clicked the volume down, chuntering away to my parents about the constant muffled blah-blahing which drones its way through the ceiling every evening. "Why does it have to be so loud? See? You can still hear it! It drives me MAD." before going back upstairs again.

 

And every morning my sister's alarm goes off before mine. Every morning it's the same, irritating, untuneful ditty and every morning it goes off twenty minutes before I need to be awake and catches me when my sleep is at its lightest. If it was just a beeping alarm, your regular 'beep....beep beep beep.....beeep beep beep beep' I could probably deal with it. But it's not. It's an annoying little tune which grates on me through the wall every morning at 6:40am, then again ten minutes later when she presses snooze, then again and again and again when she's in the shower.

 

The other night I heard it while I was watching TV. I looked around searching for the source of that bloody alarm noise...before realising it was Phil Mitchell's ringtone on Eastenders.

 

Needless to say, there's a lot more on my mind at the moment other than phone alarms and TV noise - but that seens to be how the bigger stresses manifest themselves. Despite attempts by the other secretaries and a couple of the other directors to "save the Jo", I'm losing my job on Friday and with it the ounce of security and constant routine which it's brought me over the last few months. Throw into the mix an imminent meeting with the ex, to pick stuff up and 'catch up' - although when exactly it will be I'm not sure - and you have one grouchy Jo with too much on her mind.

 

In my favour, it's Christmas (it's next week, I realised yesterday) and everyone else will be off work too. As with last year, there'll be no dropping off on the blog front either. Single AND unemployed? I'm going to need soommmme entertaining this year.

We're moooving on up, we're mooovin' on round, time to break free...noooothing can stop us, yeaaah

(Or something. Not really sure why I've named this post after an M People song from the 90s, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway)

 

Since being back on the prowl (aka back on the scene, back in the game, all that business) which I'm not really, not properly anyway - I indulge in a bit of harmless flirtation in bars when the barmaid takes an absolute AGE to get down the line of waiting alchies and I end up swapping 'claims to fame' with the bloke next to me, and by the way, making a well known pompous TV presenter's microwave dinner royally trumps being related to Morrissey by a distant cousin's marriage, mate - but apart from that, it's all been rather tame on the man front. However, there has been enough interaction with le sex opposite to realise that things have moved on somewhat from the last time I was scouting for potentials.

 

I remember back in the days of M People, before there were mobile phones and swapping house numbers was the done thing (Hello, is Michael there? This is Jo. "Michaeeeeeel, there's a giiiirrrrrrrrrl on the phhhooonnnnnee!"), then there were Nokias the size of bricks with a 'write message' function but no capability to send them, but at least you could avoid calling the Mother Ship and skip straight to the boy in question. Then there were pagers, which I never really understood the point of but I had one anyway, then texting came in to play, then up popped the internet and email, MSN messenger and slowly all these ways of speaking to a love match after that first drunken meeting expanded into infinity.

 

Skip forward to last weekend, a newly single girl is out and about for the second weekend in a row (WAH!) and once again the three of us get chatting to another group and end up making friends like kids in a sandpit. The end of the night comes and our new mates are heading home. One bloke who I've had my eye on comes over to say goodbye and as we're hugging, says "Add me on facebook!". I say ok, then realise that actually, despite spending a lot of the night messing around and chatting, I don't know his name. Yes, this seems to be a common theme - names and me don't go. He tells me it and above the music, I'm sure I mishear. That cannot really be his surname. I get my phone out to write it in a message to clarify, and ask him to spell it to be sure. That's your surname? Seriously? Are you joking? "It's awful, isn't it?" he grins, before bounding off into the night with his friends.

 

In the taxi home, and the question comes "So, did you get his number then?". Hmmm, no. I got his name for facebook. His surname's....his surname's.... and I tell her. She cracks up. "Oh dear. Well, better to find out now then, eh? Ha! Wicked. Marriage not on the cards, then?"

 

So things have moved on and the traditions of number swapping are dying fast...but sometimes, in very rare situations, the ability to sniff out details which back in the day would have remained undercover - this can only be a good thing.

 

Saying that, he was hot. I added him anyway.

 

The Prodigy, Brixton Academy - Saturday 13th December 2008

When I was about 12, I had a poster of Keith Flint on my wall. I had to take it down after a few weeks because his eyes scared the crap out of me everytime I looked at him. With this in mind, last night I trotted off to Brixton to see The Prodigy for the second time and yep - I can confirm he's still looking a little bit mental.

It's normal for a gig to end leaving people wanting more, in fact that's probably a sign that things have gone according to plan. But still, when the Prodigy left the stage after just an hour and a half last night...I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. It didn't feel finished somehow. With the end time on the ticket saying 3am and our cab booked for quarter past - when the lights went down and came back up again on decks and a DJ at half past 1 there were definite mutterings of 'what now? is that it? No, they'll come back out again...surely' about the place.



Although until that point, it had been absolutely heavy. A sold out crowd with tickets outside the venue going for anything up to £300, everyone was up for it. I went in immaculately groomed and came out a sweaty, scruffy mess having been dragged to the front of the stage for five minutes so a girl I'd met in there could get some good photos. It's pretty easy for two small girls to worm their way to the front of a dancing mass, but unfortunately for my bones, we arrived in the centre of the heaving, hot, surging crowd just in time for the drop of Breathe, which was more than a little bit mental. No amount of pushing, shoving and absolute carnage could wipe the smile off my face as I threw my hands in the air and leapt around with hundreds of sweaty Prodigy crazed men and a bassline that absolutely tore up the venue.

After a warm up set from Does It Offend You, Yeah? and BBC Radio 1's Zane Lowe, the main act came one with a mix of old, very old, and new - playing everything you'd expect - but I don't think they played 'No Good For Me'. I could be wrong, because after several vodkas, jagermeister shots and at least 5 strongbows I think they could have slipped Ba Ba Black Sheep in the set and I would have forgotten, but still.

And the good thing about Brixton Academy is the sloping floor, so if you're 5ft 4 and don't fancy wearing stilts, you can still see the stage. In other news, I'm pretty sure I saw Lucy Beale from Eastenders a couple of times in the toilets. I pretty much hit the big time with that celeb spot...

If you go to any gig and the only complaint at the end is that they weren't on for long enough - you know you'd do it all over again. See you at Brixton in another few years, lads...

FYI - Brixton, 1997

Office Party

After a lot of deliberation, I decided that native american (owa owa owa owa owa) was the way to go; mostly because it involved the least expenditure and humiliation and I already had a tomahawk in my cupboard (from toys R us). I then made a bow and arrow from plastic and string (lethal), found a pair of brown fluffy boots in the cupboard (I'm still not sure whose they are or where they came from), shoved a piece of elastic round my head (sequinned, of course), stapled two feathers to the back of it (the elastic, not my head), plaited my hair et voila! I was good to go.

Thankfully everyone else went full steam with the fancy dress, there were some good efforts made. Oh, and lots of alcohol. And dancing. And stealth avoidance of Office Bore, who I decided was not only boring but also very stupid as he declared (absolutely battered) at the end of the night that he would be driving home from the station. "Oh what, laaaike, don't I get a dance?" he asked as I got my coat to leave. "Laiike, this gal lives near me, ya kno', and truesay I'd offer you a lift home but I am maaaasshed" At which point I looked at him, wrinkled my nose and said very bluntly "No. You don't get a dance. And no, I would never get in a car with you." and walked away. Funnily enough, he didn't make it into work today.

Office Hotty, on the other hand, whilst being attentive, flirty and taking lots of photos of the two of us both on his phone and my camera, made me remember that boys with girlfriends should only occupy the mind when bored at work...and never the heart. In the words of Office Bore, "I ain't inna that, get me"

Anyway - with the prize for best costume getting announced at 4pm today, I personally think my rendition of Cheif Sitting Bull is going to take it.



I know! I can't tell the difference either....

Feedback wanted? Feedback you got.

from "susan@regencyshop.com"
to pleasesendmesomelove@gmail.com
date 6 Dec 2008 04:33

subject modern design

Hello,

I'd appreciate if you can give me some feedback on our site: www.what-a-load-of-crap-these-spam-emails-are.com

I realize that you are home decor-modern design connoisseur :) I'd like to hear your opinion/feedback on our products. Also, it'd be swell if you can place our barcelona chair link on your blog.

Thank you,

Susan

--------------------------

from Jo
to susan
date 8 Dec 2008 15:53

subject Re: modern design

Susan,

Thanks for your email. I have got some feedback for you, which I hope you'll take it on. Clearly, given that my blog has absolutely nothing to do with design in any sense of the word, and that the only purpose your visit to my blog served was to get an email address (I wasn't aware that personal rants about people who pick their nose on the London Underground were synonymous with being a "home decor design connoisseur", but thanks for the heads up), I will not be doing any of the following:

a) visiting your site
b) giving any feedback on it
c) placing a link to any sort of chair, sofa, stool (foot, or otherwise) on my blog
d) forming a very good opinion of your website, your brand, your shop, your products (whatever they may be), or anything else associated with you and your shameless, unsubtle advertising techniques.

You have, however, supplied me with a subject I can post about tomorrow; that is, how annoying these kind of spam, "I'm trying to be clever by pretending I've picked you out specially" bulk emails are.

Have a "swell" day.

Jo

http://sleepingeyes.blogspot.com
(Nothing to do with design)

--------------

'Nuff said.

Credit crunched

After a manic weekend of all dayers (Friday, Christmas work lunch / booze fest) and all nighters (Saturday, Pendulum at Matter, bedtime: 8am), today I got eaten up by the big stinking recession, ie. given the "heave-ho it's curtain's for Jo" at my work. They're culling temporary and contract staff, most of them before Christmas, and what with me having not an awwwwful lot of work to do on a day to day basis I was one of what may be many to go.

It's not all doom, gloom and make room. Without the new internship there may have been slightly more to panic and be annoyed about, but as it is, I'd have been cutting down my hours even more in the next few weeks while I take on more writing work. It's just been nice to have money coming in while I do it.

On the plus side, I've got until the 22nd December so all the office Christmas parties will be covered, plus there's a secret santa so a present worth a fiver is in the bag too! WOOO YEAH! And it means I can ski for two weeks this season instead of one (hurrah! what dwindling funds?!).

But you know what - argh - I just get on so well with the people there and alas! the Office Hotty will have no one to borrow a new style Nokia charger off when I'm gone. This job has carried me through the last few months, the girls there have kept me sane and become good friends to boot. Socially it's kept me so unbelievably busy that I rarely have a night off during the week and when I do, it's a welcome relief.

And now with only part time hours to fill and a country which is laying off jobs left right and centre, I think what worries me more is the prospect of getting bored once the novelty of a 10am wake up wears off. Bloody recession.

In all seriousness, tonight whilst strolling through Selfridges eyeing up footwear I can no longer justify splurging on, I actually considered getting a job in a shoe shop.

Don't tell anyone. I'm over it now.

I WANT IT ALLLLLL!

It's so annoying when people only show the first 100 words or whatever of their blog posts in their rss feeds. There's me, clicking along in my google reader dum de dah...then bam. "Today I was walking along and the most normal thing ever happened [...]"

Come onnn, give me the whole lot.

Half the time it doesn't make me click onto your blog, it just makes me move onto the next one because I can't be arsed.

So I'm just letting you know. If you've got your blog settings so that only the first paragraph comes up, I'm probably not going to be reading. Which is a shame, because I'm pretty good at reading blogs.

(Unless I think your blog is particularly good enough to warrant an extra click. Or I'm really, really bored or I really, really think I'm going to get something good out of it. Like some decent gossip. Or some sort of juicy info. Or a shock revelation. Yeeaaaah. That's worth a click. But normally, no.)

And if you're so stingy that you only have it so just the title comes up, PAH! That's all I have to say about that. "PAH!" with accompanying Italian chef hand gesture.

So, in the same vein as the Jo Hates Guest Blogging post, I want to know:

Does the whole post teaser thing bovva you? (I'm aware it will probably only really effect those who are very bored at work, like err, hmmm, I don't know who. Me? But still)
If you do it with your blog, why dya do it? Are you stat greedy? Want to know who's reading? Just generally like inconveniencing people? Enlighten me.

Veeting in public

Never mind putting your grimey germy fingers in your mouth.

This morning there was a girl who produced from her bag a pair of tweezers, and begun plucking her eyebrows on the tube into work.

That alone made me put my perplexed, slightly disgusted face on.

which, just so you know looks a little bit like this*


*nose not to scale

But personally, the bit I enjoyed the most was when she'd finished inspecting the two hairy catapillars above her eyes and turned her attention to the hairs around her mouth.

Ladies, please. Pluck your tashes at home.

GUESS WHAT!!!!???? I'm a broken record! Guess what else?

Despite there being no conceivable explanation, no reason at all, no way they could have ever got it wrong....

As if that having to wear a badge, not even one of those nice clippy on ones - just a crappy, curl up around the edges, stick to your arse when drunk computer labels usually reserved for folders in the office - isn't bad enough....

Even though it's a networking thing where the point is to get to know one another, mingle with different companies and their staff; where everyones eyes are immediately drawn to the label to see who it is they're talking to....

OF COURSE....

They got my bloody name wrong.



And after working here for 3 months, at last my boss (yes, my boss) has finally caught onto the fact that he should cease calling me "Joanne". He finally got the message . Literally, got the message I sent him after seeing yet another email telling them that "Joanne would get in touch and set up the meeting".

I fumed.
I hit reply.

"No problem. Will get onto it.
PS. Boss: My name is Joanna, not Joanne. Sorry. Pet hate"

It worked. One down, 3 million to go.