Hairy chin

The other night I was watching TV with my dad, a programme on BBC1 after Eastenders called Inside Out. It's basically a regional programme which investigates topics such as, in this instance, teaching children about same sex relationships in schools.

They had this author on who was being interviewed about her childrens' books, which she wrote depicting alternative families, like for kids who might have two dads or two mums.

All good right?

Wrong.

I couldn't focus on a word she was saying. Well, I did for a little bit, but then I noticed something and it made me go "Dad. Dad. Look. That lady looks like Mr. Tumnus" in manner of three year old at a supermarket. If you missed it, which lets be honest you probably did because this isn't the most interesting thing on TV at the moment, then here it is for your viewing..err...pleasure.



Now, you probably thought the same thing I did. Like you probably didn't see it at first - but then you look a bit closer and you see all these wirey, fairly bushy hairs sproating from her chin. It's not that I want to mock her or anything, but having worked in TV, I could only imagine what had been going through the producers' heads when this woman rocked up. Trust me, it would have been an issue. It reminded me of a time when I worked at the Huge Broadcasting Company on the programme last year.

Whenever we'd have contributers on, they would normally be members of the public or experts we'd found. If they consented and had a great story, we'd film them for the show. Except the thing was, that you couldn't really ask for photos before putting them on camera. So they might have had a great story, sounded normal on the phone, but until the researcher, camera man and crew had got up to their house - it was always a bit hit and miss as to what, or who, might open the door.

It wasn't that the producers were being particularly mean, it's just that you don't want the face of the person getting in the way of the story itself. You want viewers to get involved with what's being said, not going "oh my god, that man has an extraordinarily large boil on his forehead". Many a time the researchers would come back from someones house with hours of interview footage, and there would be debates as to whether they could use it. It might be because of appearance, or perhaps out of nerves the contributor had got drunk beforehand and we'd have the problem of someone telling an awful experience with a manic, pissed up grin on their face.

One such time, the team were gathered round a TV in the studio viewing footage of someone they'd just interviewed. The person had a great story, had agreed to go on camera, so the crew had gone up there. There was a lot of umming, erring, "I see what you mean"-ing, so I went over to investigate.

The problem?

The woman they'd gone to interview was actually a man. Now I don't know the ins and outs, like whether they were expecting a male or female from the fairly deep voice, but the person who greeted them was clearly a transexual. Long hair, female in every way...apart from the fact that it was evidently a man "underneath".

Eventually the producers solved the problem by only using shots from a particular angle, and no close ups. Close up, the manly features were obvious. From far away, and slightly to the side? They could get away with it. So that is what they did.

So if a researcher for a TV programme ever gets in touch with you, then suddenly after meeting them you hear no more about it - it may have something to do with your funny little beard. They'll tell you it's because they've decided not to use your story any more, but really it's your face. Sorry to shatter the illusion.

Oh - I think a lump of my brain just disintergrated and fell onto the floor.

My job and the majority of the people I work with bore me to the point of tears.

I seem to have become the resident 'tech expert' at the Little School of Horrors. This is because I can successfully insert an image into a word document and move it around, and put photos from a camera onto the computer. I now answer to the regular call of "JO??? WHERE'S JO?? JOOOOO??? Ask Jo. She'll know"

Which is fine, nay, mildly flattering. I know my way around a computer, can do things quickly and am clearly all down with the kids n that when it comes to all this newfangled internet stuff. The fact that people recognise this and see me as a port of call when things go wrong makes me feel like I have some purpose other than being a skinny, biscuit eating, paperwork driven donkey with an enviable selection of stationary.

Thing is, people take the piss. When you've shown someone how to do something ten times yet they still can't grasp the concept, or when they don't even want to know how to do it because you can - they're either not listening or can't be bothered to learn. This, coming from teachers who spend all day telling kids "there's no such word as can't" strikes me as fairly hypocritical.

I try not to be rude. I don't like being rude, but when they don't even attempt something before calling you, or, as someone did this afternoon, thrust their phone and a USB cable into your hand so that you can put (your Kings of Leon) music onto it because "you'll know how" and refuse to listen to how they might go about doing it themselves - I start getting annoyed. Software these days usually has very straightforward instructions because every man and their 3 year old has a mobile phone, so everyone aged 3-303 has to be given a shot at using its functions. If they've had a go, but genuinely can't get their head around it - then fine, gissa shout. Otherwise, seriously, tell someone who cares.

I have had a mindnumbingly boring day, brightened only by the 30 seconds it took to eat a pancake. Frustration kicked in at 8:30am, and I'm not even a donkey any more. Just a donk.

Ladies and gentlemen, please. Paste your anecdotes, youtube videos, poems, jokes, one word summaries of your day, life stories, photos of your one pawed cat, or (preferably) alternative words for 'vagina' in the box below.

I am so BORED and only you (and possibly some more pancakes, with sugar and lemon) can turn this day around.

Correct usage of a white board.

Ahhh, the first day back at work after half term, which started with the requisite hour and a half spent in traffic trying (ironically) to avoid more traffic on the M1. What could be worse than that? Errr...How about an empty biscuit tin.

As a note went up on the staff room white board asking everyone to pay their termly money, out of which tea, coffee and biscuits would be bought, I was put in charge of the collection. Because that's the kind of important thing an Admin Assistant is charged with. "Here, hey you with your degree and masters with distinction, keep hold of this envelope, will you? Don't lose it!". After a couple of hours, one of the teaching assistants went off on her usual Monday shopping trip, list in hand, and the money gathered so far in my carefully sealed envelope. Remember folks, this is tea, coffee and biscuit money.

Two hours later and Colonel Thicky returns, with £14 worth of tea and coffee. An outraged cry goes up in the staff room. Where are the biscuits? "Oh, I didn't know I was meant to get biscuits!"...Great, so you spent the whole lot on tea? Tea and coffee? Four packs of tea? Reaallyyy? What good is tea and coffee with nothing to dunk in it?

My day had been so boring that I'd been counting down the minutes until that sweet, biscuity goodness was in my mouth - and now my dreams were shattered. The money gathered so far was gone, spent, dilapidated, on 400 tea bags. We needed more money, and we needed it fast. I had a biscuity hole that no fruit bowl could fill (celery sticks, that's what she brought back as well. Celery sticks! Amateur). There was only one thing for it: whiteboard annotation.



Teachers can't live for the here and now though. They're all about the future. Which is why a few minutes later, my presently unhappy stick-ish Jo was joined by me in 20 years, post-biscuits and considerably rounder, accompanied by yet another chorus of "I was your size once!"

Yawn. Sunshine, your problems go way deeper than biscuits, let me tell you.

Early start to the weekend

See, now this is why I love blogging. Every time I click publish on a post like yesterdays, where I'm usually in tears as I'm writing it, the comments are always just spot on. This morning as I sat in bed at a mates house, I retrieved the emails on my phone and read them all, thinking how they all just made so much sense. All the advise and 'that happened to me' stories have really sorted me out. Thank you!

Clearly, yesterday did not start out well. Between crying and sorting out the cat, who seems to be spiralling into a feline form of dementia, I realised I hadn't really been making the most of half term. Yet with London on my doorstep and an afternoon to kill, I couldn't think of one place I wanted to go. I felt almost agoraphobic about leaving the house but knew I had to get out for a few hours, so I shoved on a dress, some boots, and headed to Oxford Street.

Within half an hour I was worrying about how I was going to get from Bond Street station to Selfridges without killing someone, The Ex demoted to back of brain once again. Then, an amazing thing happened. I went to the French Connection concession and saw a dress I've been lusting after for a while but couldn't justify spending £75 on. I stared at the ticket price. £25? I checked with the sales assistant. The dress was indeed in my size, my ideal colour, and £25 - limited edition for Fashion Week. I grabbed it, headed to the changing rooms, tried it on and decided that for £25, I'd buy it and get it altered to fit. As I was standing at the till, the girl next to me was also buying it, but she had the size down. "Oh, thats a shame. I needed the 6 really. Never mind". She looked up and replied "Well, I wanted the 8. We can swap?" and just like that, I got my dress...and my smile back.

Then my Partner in Breakup / Make up / Break up again called, her and a friend were heading out to a few bars, did I want to come? Off home to get some heels on, then back into town again. Two bars and a taxi ride later and we're at the doors of Whisky Mist in Mayfair. Now usually, I'd avoid this kind of place like the plague. But last night, spurred on by my need to get out, do something I normally wouldn't and get out of the hole I was in, we wormed our way past the clipboards and into what can only be described as the strangest place I've been for a while. With no sign of any A-Listers (thank god), we danced, drank extortionately priced drinks, and got spun around by random men underneath the mirrored ceiling.

With no work the next day and no money to get even close to home, I hopped into a black cab and headed back to my Partner's house for a 3am bowl of Shreddies and burnt toast.

This morning, dressed in last night's clothes with unbrushed hair and bleary eyes, still drunk and giggling, we walked to the tube and I headed home to bed.

The moral of the story? When in doubt, go out. I think this is the first hangover which has ever actually perked me up.

Definition of "to lapse":

Lapse

v. lapsed, laps·ing, laps·es

1. a. To fall from a previous level or standard, as of accomplishment, quality, or conduct: lapse into bad habits
b. To deviate from a prescribed or accepted way
c. To pass gradually or smoothly; slip

2. a. To come to an end, especially gradually or temporarily

There's not many people you can call on when you lapse late at night. Granted, there's about a million people waiting with eyes glued to the screen on the internet, but when the internet's the thing that's made you feel this way in the first place, that's one place to avoid.

Since meeting with the Ex on Sunday, he's been back on my mind. This is exactly why I didn't want to see him, why I kicked off a few weeks ago when the idea was first suggested. I'd called him, told him I couldn't: "I'm not ready to hear how great life is without Jo". But I came round to the idea, felt better having been away and we met up.

It was with this new found confidence and curiosity that I tested the waters by clicking on the profile of his friend last night, while having my nightly facebook chat with Northern Boy. The ex had brushed over her name when we'd met, both of them were in her profile picture and now, it finally clicked, living together in a shared house with others. Believe it or not, it's not that I think anything's gone on. It's the fact that whilst he'd mentioned living with a girl called Anna, he didn't say it was the one I knew. How would I assume they were the same person? Then there was the photo album of him, her, their other friends...including his ex, who until the late stages of our relationship I'd always kicked off about him seeing - all having a drunken, screaming, jolly old time in a pub somewhere.

As my brain began to scream at me for being so stupid, for not putting two and two together, and for even looking in the first place, it then began to whisper something else. "Look at all these things you stopped him doing. Look how he can see his ex now and not feel guilty. Look at him living with his girl mate who he wouldn't have been able to live with while he was with you". Feeling like you were a hinderance to someone's life on any level is not nice, no matter how irrational it sounds.

His life isn't on pause, but by not contacting him or allowing myself any knowledge of what he's been doing, I could almost pretend that it was. This worked for me. Now we've met up, emailed a couple of times and my head is filled with questions. We're over, but why does he want to meet? Am I on the backburner until he wants a girlfriend again? Does he think we can be friends?

As I lay in bed last night, I answered the questions in my head. We can't be friends. We were never friends, we were girlfriend and boyfriend. Now we are ex's, so we must be ex's. I'm not going to be on the backburner. I couldn't go back to him now, not with this whole period of his life that I don't know about stuck in the middle. He had me, he lost me and that's where it's got to be. Or I will be a mess, like I was last night and like I am writing this.

None of this meeting up shit, emails, texts - whatever. I was right the first time round, no contact is the way forward. I feel lke a broken record on this, but break ups ARE a broken record, unless you get rid of it and...err, buy yourself a new iPod.

Argh.

Twitter mania

Is it wrong that I feel cool for having clocked on to Twitter way before the Daily Telegraph got hold of it and did their explanatory "And this, people over 50, is a newfangled WEB THING called TWITTER!"

As I now follow enough people to actually get some fairly good nuggets of time wasted on there now, it kind of keeps me occupied. I'm not sure anyone really knows what to do with Twitter when they first sign up, but eventually it's like this little unicorn of impulsion takes you and suddenly, you must tell SOMEONE...nay... 66 people... what you just did.

I'm pretty sure half the population of Twitter have just signed up to feel a bit special about having a private line to celebrities though. Personally, MC Hammer was only good for that "HEY! HAMMER TIME! NAH NAH NAH NAH...Can't touch this!!!!" tweet which I couldn't help send him, but the rest of the time I never really know what he's on about. Every man and his dog's wife now follows Stephen Fry, you can't bloody get a word in edge ways.

In fact if you click on the username of anyone who has got a reply from a Twitter schelebrity, you will discover that they do indeed spend most of the day trying to elicit a response from their new famous friends. It's like seriously, chill out - stop trying to be Stephen Fry's Best British Friend, this ain't facebook, toots. Take this guy for example, whose current fascination is getting Jonathan Ross to admit to having two distant friends called Tommy and Alan. To the stalker's credit, he got a response in the end, but I can only imagine it was accompanied by a distant, spoken message of "Bloody hell, there are some right weirdos on here, Jane" which our guy will never hear. He's moved on to badgering Stan Collymore now, anyway.

So in conclusion, yes, it does make me feel all down with the kids and cooler than The Times (which did a '100 best blogs' in the Culture section this Sunday. Cringe). And yes, sometimes I do like to pretend that when I used my new found connection with Russell Brand to say "ooh you're on twitter. I think a little bit of wee just came out" that he put my name down on his "to do" list. Yes, I do think it's a wonderful little way to pass the time and keep in touch with bloggers which give me belly tingles.

But bloody hell - these schelebrities and their followers don't half take up a lot of space on the screen. Pipe down.

Actually, just before I press send, Stephen Fry actually said something half interesting:

stephenfry :
Did interviews with Sunday Times and PA (both British) before filming scene. Journos more interested in Twitter than Bones.

stephenfry :
Worry that talking about Twitter too much will somehow spoil it. But hard when asked all the time.Don't want to become a bore on the subject

It's not you that'll make it boring, Mr Fry. It's your famous-friend-hungry followers.


PS. Is Fearne Cotton on Twitter? I'd bloody love that. Please say she is? I'll be good, I promise.

Head fook.

It's strange how sometimes horoscopes seem to fit seamlessly with your everyday life. Or when you think of a song then it comes on the radio, or you talk about a person and then they call.

Today's been a day like that. Reading yesterday's travel section of the Telegraph over breakfast and the front page stuck out like a snail on speed: "Can a holiday mend a broken heart?" it asked, before launching into a feature on how a journalist managed to get over her disastrous 4 month marriage by building a hut in Ecuador. I got half way through then skipped to the next page. A second headline caught my eye: "How blue skies and calypso can help ease the pain". Another break up story, advising a holiday to the sun to chase away that feeling, the one words can't touch for authenticity. A few pages further, and there's a spotlight section on Serre Chevalier, where I spent last week skiing, partying and feeling better than I have in months.

What made those printed words so poignant? Obviously, I'm feeling happier after my holiday. The ex had quietly sloped off into the back of my mind, leaving me wondering what the fuss was all about anyway. However, no matter what you feel about a situation: when you're sitting in your car outside a tube station waiting to pick it up and bring it to your house, you never know how it's going to pan out.

All those stories about how a holiday can cure a broken heart, there's some truth in that, I've got no doubt about it. Without that holiday I wouldn't have been able to sit in my living room with a cup of tea and laugh, joke, tease and catch up with the bloke who's meant so much for so long. It helped me to stand firm, put myself first and not concede to his suggestion of dropping him back to Wandsworth instead of the tube station. It meant I could wish him well, say it had been really good to see him and actually mean it.

What a holiday couldn't stop was the long hug which said everything else, the difficult stuff, the things that a 'catch up' doesn't include or make time for. It couldn't stop me watching him in my rear view mirror as he walked to the station entrance, snowboard on his back, with every bit of me wanting to call him back and drive him home as I normally would. A holiday couldn't stop me from sitting in my car for another few minutes, tears running down my face, before starting the engine and going home to put our empty mugs in the dishwasher.

How to embrace Valentines Day like you would a loved one

You know what?

Yeah, I'm single.

But I'm not gonna get all bitter and anti-Valentines on you. Truth is, I never really indulged that much in Valentines Day even when I was with my ex. It was a day / evening you spent together, if only because it would be weird if you didn't. Like if you just decided to go out with all your mates on Valentines Day when you were in a couple, that would be odd. People would say "yeah sure, we're off down the pub. But shouldn't you be at home having a sexy fun time....?". I've never really done the whole extravagant cards, presents and rose petals on the bed thing (makes me want to vom a little bit, all that), but it is an occasion to mark, nonetheless.

I've put my foot in it a number of times on this day. I've even cancelled dates in the past which were arranged in a "Sure, next Tuesday?" kind of way, then thought "Shiz, it's Valentines Day. Am nooooo going on a first date on bloody Valentines Day". Another time I'd just started seeing my ex, so we'd arranged to see each other and he'd been a bit late for one reason or another. We just ended up wondering around the streets of Hull. I said "God, I'm so glad we're not one of those sad couples in that restaurant. Or at the cinema or something. All those 'orrible couples. Bleaarrruughhh". It was at that point he revealed that actually, had he not been late, that was exactly what we'd have been doing. Eek. Awkward. Romantic gestures were slightly less forthcoming after that.

Another equally unromantic Valentines Day occurred about five years earlier, when my then boyfriend had gone off to India on travels. At 7pm there was a knock at the door and there stood his best friend clutching a jewellery box and a card. Luckily I understood what was going on, and didn't attempt to engage the best friend in any sort of inappropriate tryst.

So, as with most of my yearly celebrations (International Jo Day, anyone?), I feel the best way to approach them is with a song and dance at high volume. Bang on about the inevitable loud and long enough, and in the end someone will give you something just to bloody shut you up. Hold out for the card you're not going to get. Shamelessly promote your new single status in the hope of a bit of love. Rally the troops for a Valentines Day Tequila Massacre, chez Jo. In other words, use it as an excuse to do what you were going to do anyway, but with more vigor.



I'm newly single. And if I get even one text message, e-card, facebook message, normal card, or phone call telling me I shouldn't be, I will be a happy girl. And if not? I'll be happy anyway, but that will purely be down to the copious amounts of alcohol in my bloodstream.

Bureaucracy

On Christmas Eve, you will definitely remember that I got fined £50 for inconveniencing millions of people, killing thousands more young children and puppies and oh, parking on the wrong side of the road outside the doctor's surgery.

Annoying, but ultimately a lesson learnt. You cannot beat the system very easily, and frankly I couldn't be arsed to argue with the charge. I went online within the discount period, paid the fine, and that was that.

Until 2 weeks ago, when through the letterbox another council headed envelope landed - telling me that yes, I'd paid £50....but I hadn't paid the £100 which was actually owed. There was no number to call except an automated payment line, just a slip for debit or credit cards, and a form to make a representation. In other words, to state your case, 'not guilty, you fockers'. I panicked a bit, thought what the hell? But double checked the e-receipt and found that I'd paid on time and that actually, there was no way I owed any more money.

Once again, irritation gripped me. This time I wasn't the culprit, it was their balls-up. I had the luxury of being able to quickly check my emails and find proof - but what about someone who didn't have the internet, or an old lady who would just panic and pay up?

I got angry. I got pissed off. I got a pen.



This morning another letter arrived.

Dear Miss surname [sic],

Thank you for your letter in which you made a representation regarding the above Penalty Charge Notice. Due to a processing error, it was only process [sic] after the discounted period had elapsed. However I have updated our records and this case is now closed.

I apologise for any inconvenience that this may have caused.

If you require any further information, please telephone our helpline on --------.

Yours sincerely,

Council Scumbag xx

Oh thank you, fair local council, for providing me with a helpline after my case has closed. Thank you for apologising...in a churned out letter laden with uncapitalised names and grammatical errors. You really do, sincerely, care about us little ones.

Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuugrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I am ridiculous

On the last two days of my holiday, I did something utterly ridiculous.

I began to fancy someone.

There are many reasons why this isn't actually a ridiculous thing to do; such as the fact that it completely takes my mind away from any ex-boyfriend related downtime and, because something tells me the feeling was reciprocated, it helps to reassure me that I am not Princess Jo, the Ogre of Singledom.

However, it is still ridiculous. That is the only word for it.

From the amount of times I've checked facebook since getting in from work, to the impossible-to-count glances at my phone screen for those precious words 'One Text Message Received' (and yes, predictably, both text messages today have been from T-Mobile), I have become a ridiculous girl who fancies a boy. A boy who lives at the other end of the country, who I am unlikely to see again without some vastly elaborate engineered plan, who has his own life just as I have mine, who I spent most of yesterday texting as he journeyed back up North. From the goodnight text which I have read at least five times, lingering on the 'x' at the end, to the absolute over-thinking about things that haven't and probably will never happen.

As the weeks pass, I am remembering the bits I love and hate about being single; the excitement Vs the not knowing. The freedom Vs the fear. The reassurance Vs the preceding panic.

When I was in a relationship, these were things I didn't think I'd feel again. But looking back, they were actually things I'd felt all along.

She's only happy in the...snow

Bonjour, I have returned from the depths of a snow laiden France. While you were all chugging to a standstill in our country which fails, year after year, to cope with any sort of extremes in temperature, I have been frolicking in no less than 3 foot of fresh powder and wishing I had signed up to a few private lessons with the selection of hawt Ecole Du Ski Francais instructors I came across. Yowza.

I'm tired, hungover, aching, slightly wind burnt on my hands, £200 lighter, apres-skied out...I've laughed til my ribs hurt, felt the tingling feeling of someone new catching my eye, bumboarded, vin-chauded, spent days wondering around with what feels like two lumps of concrete on my feet (aka ski boots), took photos of every stunning one piece suit I came across, scammed free shots, discovered a Swedish bar and generally had a bloody good time.

No doubt I'll crash land the minute my alarm goes off for work at 6:50am, but for now I feel bloody brilliant.

Which, I'm sure you'll agree, is long overdue.