Working from home is hard

Contrary to popular belief, working from home is hard.

I used to think working at home was a phrase that should always, forever, without fail be enveloped in the warm, snugly arms of speech marks. Like this..

"working from home"

...and accompanied by a speech bubble, which is preferably being uttered by a smug looking person with a knowing wink, like this:



Turns out, working from home does actually require work. You're not just doing the actual work you're meant to do, which is in my case writing an article on Croatia. You're also doing the job of manager, secretary and office snitch. It takes incredible self discipline to keep yourself on track when there are so many distractions dotted around your office, aka, the home.

The Manager is there to keep you doing what you're supposed to. Like visiting the fridge, which beckons every 2 minutes with it's knowing "I got what you want, I got what you need" whirr. Then there's the dogs which require numerous walks and general head patting, and the need to watch The Apprentice before you touch any other page on the internet, just in case you're inadvertently told who got fired.

Another distraction is the front door because unfortunately, Charity Shop collections only happen in the daytime. Then there's the house phone which I now have to answer even though it's never for me. In this way, despite my best efforts I am still a secretary.

To avoid falling into all these little potholes, my brain must also take on the role of Office Snitch. You know, that person you get in every office who keeps unconscious tabs on how many times so-and-so has been to the loo that morning. Or how much time they're spending making tea in the kitchen. Or how many times a week they're late coming back from lunch. Or what time they sneak out of the office at the end of the day.

So after a lot of thinking and organising, brain racking and timetabling...I've found the answer to my procrastination problem.

Staff. I'm hiring.

You'll be paid in a fresh, continuous stream of o2, which I hear is at a premium these days given the porky epidemic.

Just reply below, with your suitability for any of the above posts.

Any takers?

Custody Battle

A lot of my friends from university seem to have migrated to London, obviously lured by the thrill of overpriced pints, expensive rent and redundancy pay offs. Most were friends, male and female, who I met through ski & snowboard club, which was also how I met my ex. However, over the years they became good friends of us both. Some would have got to know me as part of a couple, others knew me before; but although there would be 'boys nights out' which I wouldn't be invited along to, most of the time they were people me and the ex would go out with as a group.

It was one of these blokes, Ben, that I found myself in a Soho pub with last night. I'd arranged to meet my Partner in Breakup for a drink after work, and as she's currently freelancing at the place where our mutual friend works, he came along too. As he's someone that I knew before the ex but don't often see that often now we're not together, I was really happy to see him.

Half way through our first pint, the Ex's name came up in conversation.

"Talking of The Ex," said Ben "How are things between you two, do you still talk?"
"We're amicable" I replied.
"Ah, that's good."
"We don't really talk, but there's the odd text and email now and again. We don't see each other though. It's a shame because now we've split up, I hardly get to see you lot. I think people are warey of inviting me out in case it's awkward"
"Yeah" he said, "That's why I asked..."

The conversation moved on, but it stuck in my head and got me thinking. A bubble of annoyance was rising up inside me. Not directed at Ben, just at the situation. I thought about how much I miss seeing all those boys, and when my Partner in Breakup mentioned she'd had a text from one of them last weekend inviting her to an event they were all going to, I realised I'd been left out.

It's starting to grate on me. It's like a divorce where he's wangled custody of the friends; a few of them were his to begin with but others, like Ben, (if I can go all 2 year old for a second) were mine first. Whenever I do see them, they express guilt that they don't see me more often: but I know they're in a difficult position. Although I do get the odd text, mostly they choose the ex over me, he's a bloke, and they're a group of blokes. If we're both there, it might cause a problem. Which, as much as I hate to say, it probably would - for me.

I can deal with losing the Ex. I can't deal with losing the friends too.

Why does he get to keep them?

Hotel

I've always said that if there's one job I could never do, it's working at a hotel and in particular, cleaning the rooms. I can only imagine the horrors that must greet these cleaners on a daily basis, no matter what star of hotel they're working in. Especially if the hotel is deemed a good base for a 'romantic getaway' and frequented by couples, copious amounts of champagne and yeah, come on, a lot of sexytime. Anyone who spends an afternoon stripping sheets has got to have seen some serious mess. Grimbo.

Although I imagine that cleaners become a bit desensitised to the remnants of a guest strewn about the room, I always try and clean up a bit before I leave a hotel. You know, "make the bed" (in inverted commas because I'm pretty sure my version of a "made bed" is not what most house trained people would call a "made bed"), shove rubbish in the bin, towels in the bath, that sort of thing. If I don't manage to do this, it's definitely the hotel's fault. Why on earth some hotels insist on a 10 or 11am check out on a weekend is beyond me. It takes the whole relaxation element out of the weekend when you have to be up, dressed, fed, packed and tidied by silly o'clock on a Sunday morning. Oh sure, you can usually pay extra for a late check out, but if I've paid extra for a lie in, you can bet your lottery winnings that I'll be wide awake and restless at 8:30am. It's always the way.

Saying that, I had no trouble waking up at 8:30am yesterday, despite not leaving the hotel bar until 4:30am. In fact, I was in superb spirits. Literally. Alcohol was still trickling through my veins at a rate of knots and as one friend nipped into the toilet to throw up, I woke up the other and demanded some Nurofen to fend off any headache that might come once I'd sobered up.

Our room was a state. At 4:30am, we'd raided the complimentary mini bar and chowed down on whatever we could find. Dresses, make up, face wipes, handbag contents and hair straighteners were discarded all over the floor. And then I noticed one of the towels.

"Oh bloody hell. There's no way I can just leave that there. Look at the state of it" I said, holding it up for the others to see. "They'll think I'm a right minger. What shall I do? I can't just hide it. That'll look worse!"

The stained towel could have had any number of unmentionable origins. The thought of a cleaner having to come in and touch it, trying to deduce what it was and who would leave such a mess, left me feeling really guilty.

So there was only one thing for it. Honesty is the best policy and, I reasoned, clarification is a cleaner's best friend.



And if they weren't English? Shove a smiley face in for good measure. That'll do it.

Oh yes it's ladies night, oh what a night (oh what a night)

My dad's a Freemason. I'm not sure about what this actually means, except he goes to these meetings with other masons and they call each other worshipful brothers and stuff. It's like a secret society as far as I can gather, and at the moment my dad's pretty high up and in charge of something, so him and my mum (his laydee) get to throw a party this Saturday. Although the term 'ladies night' sounds a bit pimp, that's what it's called - it's just a black tie do at a hotel and the lodge members get to bring their wives and guests. There's 101 Dalmatians guests, dinner, dancing (woo), funny handshakes and a toast master. Ha. I love that: toast master. Master of the toast, word to yo mother. Or worshipful father. Hahaha. Anyway.

One of the main things you have to do if you're a mason is to believe in a 'supreme being'. But over the last few days in the run up to this Laydeez Night, I am convinced that when my dad took this oath, the Supreme Being on his mind was, in fact, my mother.

When I dropped him off at the shopping centre to meet her yesterday, there were a few small but important things he needed to get. Contact lens solution. Gift tags. Little stickers for the gift bags. He also had to get a present for my mum because it's their ladies night. Something nice to give her at the dinner.

When they returned 3 hours later, my dad was pale and wan. In his hands he clutched a jewellery shop bag and mum followed, beaming, while he appeared to have what I can only describe as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When I asked if he was ok, his eyes widened and rolled a bit in his head.

"Did you get my contact lens solution?" I asked later on, once he'd calmed down and had a glass of wine in his hand.
"Oh no, sorry, I forgot."
"What about the gift tags?"
"Oh. No, I didn't get them either"

Today, he comes home from work and is milling about the kitchen.
"Oh damn, I forgot the stickers yesterday"
"Dad, what exactly did you buy? You went to the shops for 3 hours, you had a few small things to get, and you come back with nothing except a shell shocked expression. What the hell was in that jewellery bag?"
"Earrings."
"So? What sort of earrings? How much we talking here?"
"Diamonds."
And with that, he shuffled into the garden to mow the lawn for the 3rd time this week.

There are a lot of reasons why I admire my mother. But the ability to make a man spend so much money on a pair of earrings; so much that he manages to forget absolutely everything else he needs to remember and has to walk around in a bumbling daze for two days, is a trait I really hope I inherit.

Enjoy your weekend all.

Everyday I love you less and less

I keep having these little moments where I count up how many months I've been single. I know it's just over six, but I can't help getting a calendar and looking at these months in their official form. I think I'm continually amazed at how wrong I was.

All that time with my ex and I was convinced, convinced that I'd never find anyone as good as him. That if we ever broke up, I'd be a complete mess; that my social life would deplete and that I'd carry around this aching heavy package inside for years to come. I don't. There's a little ache there if I think about it, but it doesn't weigh more than a feather.

I don't look back with rose tinted glasses, I look back and think "Bloody hell Jo, what did you put up with?". The only time I get that heavy feeling is when I remember how horrible it is to feel insecure, to feel that at any moment the person you love might say "this isn't working". Once a few weeks ago, I got that panicky, sick feeling - almost like a sort of physical flashback - and I had to breathe and reassure myself that it's ok, there's no one to make me feel like that any more.

Usually people wish they'd got in there first with the dumping, that they'd been the one to pull the plug, whereas I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad I put everything into that relationship and tried to make it work, even to the point of becoming clingy and over compensating, buying gifts and trying to make myself indispensable, scheduling things so that there were events to look forward to, so that he couldn't finish with me. I'm glad that he was the one who didn't want it to work. Because when I look back, I know there was nothing more I could have done and he's the only one who can have regrets.

I've made my last contact with him by email a couple of weeks ago, sending him a Charlie Brooker article which elicited a few words in response. I left it there, didn't pursue with further questions. When he text me at the weekend; a strange, short, one line text which was so random I assumed he'd got the wrong number, I nearly text back saying "Eh? What?" but then I just...didn't. Even when I worked out what he was on about, I still didn't respond. I felt I should to be polite, worried about seeming rude, offending him, but I didn't really feel the need to. There was no question at the end, no enquiry, just a strange bit of information with no explanation attached. Plus I didn't want to hear back, or have to wait for a reply, or to put myself in the situation where I had even a flicker of deep thought about him. So I just left it...which, now I think about it, I've never actually done before.

I sit here in my kitchen and I'm feeling confident. I've rediscovered short dresses and no longer team everything with jeans. I go out and I meet people nearly every weekend, get compliments and swap numbers on a whim. I don't care whether anything comes of it or not, it's just fun. I'm working from home, for free, living at home, for free, and have no one to make me feel guilty about it. The 'relationship' tag on my blog used to be my least favourite, but now it's the one that charts, for me, the way a break up should be done.

In conclusion: Under it all I'm actually very happy, more than I ever thought I would be after six months, and I just wanted you all to know.

They're all out today. Out for the count.

Stockwell's a funny place. For those not familiar with London, please reference the terms "Jean Charles De Menezes" and "bungled terrorist operation" and see if some bells begin to ring. It's a strange area where everyone seems to know each other; most the housing is in high rise tower blocks or on estates and the shops all look a bit, well, dodgy. But that's just me and my North West London sensibilities talking. There's a little cafe where me and The Writer often head for lunch, opposite which sits a little stall manned by a couple of Jamaican men - and if the smells are anything to go by, I'm pretty sure it's not just fruit and hot food they're selling. Ya get me.

So this is where I headed today to meet the Writer and make sure we were both on the same page. Thanks to Google Docs and Google Calendar, we are well on our way to sharing this same page online. And I have been given permission to nag, nag, nag. Apparently he responds well to nagging. Ha. We'll see about that. He'll know all about nagging by the time I'm done. Thank you for the advice in the last comments, I need as much as I can get. I'm new to this game, after all.

But anyway, given that the Victoria line was being it's usual reliable self (ie. the workers were all on Sun Strike, again), I had to use the Northern Line. Ahh, the lovely Northern Line, with more branches than Argos... and this ever so charming man.



No no no, I haven't caught him mid-yawn. He's having a nap whilst cleverly ridding our carriage of flies at the same time. Before this photo was taken, his legs were splayed and stretched so that the woman in front was enveloped in a kind of foot hug. And every five minutes or so he'd wake up, wave his hands in front of someone, and ask them the time. First up he asked me. Then he was back to sleep, mouth wide open, legs akimbo, before waking up and asking the woman to my left the same question. Then he must have really got comfy. He lent forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and fell asleep on his hands.

Which is about the point that he began dribbling onto the floor.

Dribbling. Strand by strand. Drip by drip. Onto the floor.

Yum.

The mystery here is not what he was doing: clearly he had an hour to kill before The Weakest Link and decided an afternoon Northern Line Nap was in order. No, the real mystery is how he managed to fall asleep on this particular tube; as I suspect that a journey aboard a 3 wheeled skateboard, being pulled by a blind, epileptic horse along cobbled Medieval roads in a hail storm would be capable of producing a smoother journey.

Ahh, the London Underground, where wonders never cease.

Let it all out

I feel a bit weighed down tonight. Whether it's down to me being tired after the weekend and a long walk with the dogs today, or simply 'mind on my money / money on my mind' - I'm not sure. So excuse me while I regurgitate some thoughts.

In some ways, I feel better than I have done in ages. I'm not in what many people consider 'normal' work and now the Easter holidays have come to an end, the hand over to the new admin assistant at the Little School of Horrors done, I can finally start life as a writer. Thing is, something just doesn't feel right. I don't feel guilty about not working as I have done in the past, but then I don't actually feel like I'm working. I feel like I'm just sitting at home tapping things on a laptop and running out of money. Add that to the constant stream of people asking me "So, what are you going to do now?", not realising that I'm already doing it. They think I'm just sitting on my arse at home, too. I've had my internship for nearly 5 months now, have been doing it "full time" or should I say, available, for almost three weeks, yet I feel like I'm in the same position as I was in December. Progress? Nil.

The Writer is doing little to inspire my confidence in him. The upside to working with a successful and busy person is the immense experience I can potentially get, along with the esteem of being affiliated with someone who others think highly of. The downside is again that they're busy and therefore difficult to pin down; plans are constantly changing, deadlines need to be met, he's stressed with a million and one projects on the go. I suspect that deep down he doesn't have the time to really set up the systems and procedures necessary to make good use of an assistant, despite my numerous suggestions and offers to help. The problem is that he's been doing this job alone for over a decade and has got to the point where he's making a decent living from it, and he's recognised that an assistant could benefit two people - yet we're 5 months down the line and we still don't have the semblance of a routine. I refuse to believe that this is down to me having another job, as I've always been flexible. Sometimes, like today, where yet again I've tried to call (by arrangement) and yet again he tells me he's in the middle of something and will call me back (but hasn't) - I can't see it coming together long term.

So here's the dilemma: do I devote myself full time, but risk having weeks (like the last two) when we don't see or hardly talk to each other? Or do I get another part time job, albeit not the dreaded admin / secretarial, and always have something else getting in the way of really making a go of it?

The third option is one I'm already putting in practice, which is to set a deadline by which time if I don't feel I've made significant progress, then I'll make tracks in a different direction. At the moment that deadline is the end of July, when I want my name in print and / or my first commission. In the meantime, I'm keeping my options open.

...And trying to keep some momentum.

Say what you see

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Jo's weekend sorted

Have a good one all!

BLOGGING SELLS!

How much does your bog standard company pay its marketing department these days? If it's more than 15p a week, they're getting ripped off. In fact, if you're a managing director of a company which has a marketing department, and in a meeting they come up with some new fangled suggestion such as 'Let's use blogs to spread the word'... sack them now, and let's spend that 15p on a pack of biscuits for the people who actually put thought into their job.

I say this because chances are, they spend their days emailing bloggers at random - like myself, a 24 year old from London (that's right, the one in the United Kingdom), who writes about me and my London stuff, or you and your awful trainers. So let's recap, this is a UK blog, with (stat counter says) mostly UK readers and mostly a UK, 24 yr old kind of theme. No ads. No promotions (unless its a really, really good freebie)

Asking me to promote something that has absolutely no relevance to any of these things is like asking an untrained monkey to sing a Lady GaGa song: utterly pointless, unlikely to happen and does no favours for anyone involved. Least of all the poor, poor monkey who'd have to listen to that vomit-inducing bile in the first place.

Oh, god - I hate Lady GaGa almost as much as Fearne Cotton.

It used to be just the odd fellow blogger, or online sex / furniture shops wanting my interior design expertise and "feedback". But lately, there's been a few legit, normal companies, American companies for the most part, wanting me to devote an entire post (one that would normally contain me whinging about my hangover) to their washing powder. For this, me and my readers get $2 off (does that include postage to the UK?) and "some cute little Snuggle bear widgets you can pop onto your blog to share with your readers ". Aww. Schnuggle wuggle. And I know you'd love all that.

This mass marketing strategy baffles and worries me in equal measure. When it's all a bit random, when it's clearly a case of "grab these email addresses, fire off some emails, tell 'em what a savvy blogger they are, and bingo, let's sell some washing powder"...I just think: there are a lot of unemployed people about, yet clearly the culling process has not yet extended to the buffoons in marketing.

A challenge a day

I'm not sure exactly what it is, whether I'm just keeping my brain occupied with random thoughts that will never come to fruition...but I keep coming up with stuff I want to try and do. Little challenges set by me, for me. If I was in some sort of counselling session, they'd be called something utterly repellent, like "Personal goals".

These whimsical little ideas range from stuff like "tidy my room before Eastenders" to more testing things such as "abstain from facebook for a day / weekend". The latter came about after Devilbook suggested that I might "know" and want to be friends with my ex's ex girlfriend, who I affectionately call Gromit (not to her face. I hate her face). If anyone else had suggested such a thing, repeatedly, every 5 minutes, despite me telling them to shut up and clicking 'x', I would disown them. And so it goes with the 'book.

Unfortunately, after 24 hours, I decided that I better log on just to check no one had sent me anything important. And change my status alerting the world that I was leaving Devilbook's toxic shores for a while. But since Saturday, I've not been on. Promise.

There's one other thought I keep coming back to, mulling over, churning around like a bad curry. It's a bit cliche, like I keep mentioning it to friends and getting the raised eyebrows of disbelief. It's that old chestnut...1,2,3... cutting out alcohol.

The reasons are not to do with my health, well being, or even those god awful all consuming hangovers the next day. It's money. I'm regularly withdrawing up to £50 two or three times a week to subsidise nights out. London is an expensive place to drink, and as you read the other day, an expensive, irritating place to get home from.

If I was in full time work, to be honest I wouldn't even consider it. But with no paycheck on its way and a fairly busy social calendar over the next month, my funds are already dwindling. I don't want to stop going out, in fact, I want to go out more often. I want to meet people, specifically blokes (my own age. another challenge?)and friends, old and new.

The downsides to stopping drinking are numerous: I hate being around drunk people when I'm sober. I do not find them amusing, just annoying. I'd hate having to drive obliterated people around like some sort of roving, shouting, gear stick grabbing drunk-mobile. That, and I find it difficult to get into the swing of things without a drink unless I'm somewhere the music is really good. I hate bullshitters, and people bullshit a lot when they're drunk; lies, exagerrations and false promises seep from their mouth like vodka dribble. I don't want to be the one whose on a different level of enjoyment to my friends on a night out, but part of me kind of wants to see if I can change all that ^, you know, maybe I'll get used to people grabbing the corners of my mouth upwards and yelling a boozey-breathed "SMIIILLEE!" into my face.

I could cut down, limit myself and be strict - but again, I find that incredibly difficult. Mostly because if I go out and only have two drinks, get a bit merry but stop there...I'm not that pissed, but still over drink drive limit and still paying extortionate amounts for a cab home.

I'm not thinking of doing it all officially like telling everyone and setting a time frame, because there are certain situations coming up that I will want to drink and have a good time. So I think it's just about cutting down, picking and choosing where I drink and where I drive.

I'm in two minds. I could just get a proper job.

But on the other hand, I like a challenge..and I'm curious as to how much money I'd save by being teetotal for a little bit. Hmmmm. What say you?

Beanz Meanz Heinz.

You know where you are with a tin of beans. Comforting, reliable, versatile - baked beans are the answer to anything. Hungry for breakfast? Beans on toast. Hungry for lunch? Jacket potato with beans. Dinner time? Get me some toad in the hole, and draw for the beans.

If there was a rival, a stark opposite, an anti-bean if you will, it would be taxi cabs. With taxi cabs, there is no Heinz; no reputable brand where you know, no matter where you are you'll get the same product. Taxi cabs are that dodgy supermarket brand which might proclaim to be the real deal, but they sure as hell don't taste it.

At least once a week on breakfast news, after they've reported on yet another sex-crazed maniac who has finally been caught after molesting a cacophony of women whilst posing as a cab driver, we are warned about the dangers of illegal taxis. Go licenced, get home safe. I can run with that. I've got a selection of cab numbers stocked up in my phone for precisely that reason.

What fails me every single time is the pricing. The wildly different quotes you'll get for the same journey time and time again. This Thursday AND Friday night me and my friends were quoted a price, only for it to magically increase the minute the destination was reached. I wouldn't fuss, but I'm nearly always the last one to get dropped off, meaning I'm always the one who gets to end her night with a confrontation.

On Thursday, the cab office gave us a 'round about' estimation, but refused to write a price down for the journey. Meaning we spent the journey home bargaining with the driver, appealing to his better nature for a reasonable price. On Friday, given our experience the night before, we used a different local company. The £8.50 we were quoted on the phone somehow jumped to £11 when I was dropped at my house. I argued my point, then eventually rang the cab company and passed the phone over to the driver for them to sort it out. £8.50 it eventually was.

A few weeks ago, I got a cab home from the tube station. £4.50, he said as he pulled up outside my house. I handed over £5 and gathered my stuff while he got my change. Except, he wasn't getting my change. He was getting ready to drive off. "Sorry, did you say it was £4.50? Can I have my change please? Unemployed person here, every penny counts n that...". I felt embarrassed asking for my 50p, but sod it - if I want to tip, that's at my discretion...not his.

Surely - surely - it's not too much to ask that a legit taxi company has a legit, unchanging tariff. Otherwise all that separates them and the illegal ones is the fact they're less likely to harbour a fetish for drunk girls. Nor do I want to spend my journey home directing someone to my house, particularly when they have a sat nav wired up showing them the route. Is it too much to ask that they know their way around? I want to use local companies for local journeys, because although companies like Addison Lee are standardised, you pay more for the privilege.

Going home is getting to be the part of the night I dread - but without any other option to get home after 2am, it's enough to make a girl give up drinking and drive herself.

(ok perhaps not. But you catch my drift - I'm fed up with it)

I'm staying in tonight in protest. Yes, thats right, in protest against the anti-bean. Definitely not because my friends put the L in Lame and aren't going out (or inviting me. One or the other).

My shoulder and superman

Something strange happened yesterday. Two hours after waking up, twittering about the most cringeworthy debate about Twitter ever to grace my TV screen, watching 5 minutes of Jeremy Kyle then wondering into my room to get dressed...my shoulder seized up. I can see no other reason for this, except that I had exposed my body to ITV and now I was paying the price.

Slowly the muscles tightened and knotted as I raised my arm to apply some eyeliner. Within ten minutes, my neck refused to grant me access to left and right without a shooting pain whizzing down my arm and the left hand side of my spine. Nevertheless, I slathered myself in Ibuprofen gel and got myself back to London, where I employed all manner of heat pads, pain killers and Green and Blacks dark chocolate to make myself feel better.

This morning, it still hurt - so an off work mum got me a physio appointment at the sports club. Now, bear in mind I was uncomfortable, in pain, but still functioning, i.e. able to dress, make toast, waggle about with the dawgs, generally hold conversation. We approached the reception at the sports club, where we handed over our membership cards and the receptionist said hello, and ah yes you've got an appointment, off you go it's in there.

"Yes. She's in agony." said my mum, eliciting sympathetic noises and cooing from the receptionist.
"Mum, I'm not in agony." I said within earshot as we walked into the gym.
"Aren't you?" she replied, slightly outraged as if she'd been tricked.
"No! Not agony. Like, it hurts...but I wouldn't say it's agony"

She looked at me as if I'd just sworn and farted the alphabet.

"Agony means an all-encompassing pain, like I'd be screaming in pain, and in tears...which I'm not... am I? I just can't move my neck and shoulders."
"Oh." she said, a bit disappointed.

However, as we sat outside the physio office in the air conditioned gym, waiting for an appointment that didn't exist because the physio, believing he had no other patients that afternoon, had gone home ill - it did get worse. And, as I was telling the apologetic receptionist not to worry, I'd just "go home and Nurofen-up", my mum darted after a tall, dashing hunk of a man walking the other way.

Next thing I know this man, who apparently runs my mum's exercise class and "sorted Lorraine's shoulder out once" (?!) has taken me to one side in the sports club foyer and is doing things to my shoulder, neck and back. Magical, wonderful things which are painful in an inexplicably lovely way. He's pressing and teasing out the knots, moving things around and wiggling the rocks that are my shoulder muscles. All the while, he's continuing to have normal conversation with passing people, who stop and chat, look at me and cock their head in imitation or mock sympathy.

"Alright Jay. We still on for 4pm?" or "Hiya Darren. How's it going?", while I am standing there in front of him, mouth agape, half drooling, half grimacing in pain. The man finishes whatever he's doing and tells me to stretch my neck this way and that, then roll my shoulders.

"How does that feel?"

And miraculously, this public, impromptu physio session has given me the gift of movement. Before I can thank him, in true Superman "my work here is done" style, he is running out the door and, I shit you not, sprinting across the car park. Literally, within seconds, he's gone. Me and my mum look at each other as this figure disappears out of view, wondering if he's coming back or what.

I like to think that he was late to an appointment...somewhere out there in NW London, another wounded lady was in need of his attentive Superhands. Godbless that man. It's an easter miracle.

Technology VS Liars

Paranoia. Lovely paranoia.

The world of technology breeds it in immeasurable quantities, like bacteria harvesting it's spawn on an unwashed gremlin. Now everyone's hooked up to email, paper, stamps, mobile phones, twitter, blogs, facebook, there's really no excuse for lack of contact. In fact, there is not one of my friends, bitter or twisted enemies, past boyfriends or recent dalliances that I couldn't contact right here, right now...if I wanted to. Even if not directly, I could contact someone...who could contact someone....who could contact them - but only if I wanted to.

And therein lies the crux of it. When you don't get a reply or people drop off the radar, there's no doubt that 99.9% of the time, it'll be down to nothing but personal choice.

Therefore, a lot can be garnered not only from the response itself, but the lack of it or the speed at which it eventually comes. With every person on the street clutching a phone in their grubby mitts or up against their sweaty little ears, it's hard to believe that hours, or even days without a response can be down to anything other than remote indifference to your witty little words. Perhaps they don't know what to say. Maybe they're busy doing something else. But ipso, facto, deffo: with technology, inaction definitely speaks louder than words: (s)he just ain't interested, sunshine.

Unless of course, you're me.

Who, having assured Leeds Bloke multiple times that "No no, of course I'll get in contact, why else would I take your number?", then proceeded (as we discussed yesterday), to forget his name. The next afternoon, I saved a number from my dialled list as 'Leeds Bloke' (what?) and sent a quick text.

Delivery report: Message pending.

(N.B While we're on the subject, delivery reports are the best invention ever. Oh, you didn't get my message? HA! YES YOU DID! SEE? IT'S HERE! DELIVERED! HA!)

Hmmm, looks like he lost his phone. Probably dropped it into a bubbling vat of acid, or plunged it into a puddle of studenty vomit on the way home. Two days pass, and I decide to investigate the matter further, just to be sure.

Well, accidents happen, and here's proof of how well I function after a week of mildly strenuous activity: I'd actually named, then text my voicemail asking how it's hangover was.

Forget remote indifference, I like to think it was just too busy to reply.

Cheap hotels and housesitting

After a pretty non-stop week, I've come to a halt. A lovely, quiet, sleepy, relaxing halt.

I was going to regale you with a drink-by-drink account of how hectic life has been since Friday, but we're all friends here so let's face it - you probably don't really care, and I can't be bothered to tell you. I can, however, recommend an Etap hotel for any group of 6 ex-university housemates looking for cheap, clean, city accommodation to supplement their night out in Leeds. I mean, don't take your girlfriend there or anything, but if your sole reason for going to a city is to meet 5 other girls and boys, dump your stuff, hit the town, eat, drink, be merry, get the £9 entry to a club reduced to £0, party on down, pull a hot 20 year old, leave at 3:30am, stumble back to the hotel, forget your room number, try your card in every door on the floor without any of their occupants shouting the odds at you for disturbing them - mostly because they're not in yet or are too inebriated to care - then jump on your two friends who got in earlier, climb into the bunk above and pass out until the hangover-friendly check out time of 12pm, this is the hotel for you.

I've now skipped east to Hull for a few days, where I'm staying in a family friend's empty house and have time to write, relax and eat the entire stash of Jacob's Club bars I've just found hidden in their kitchen.



Epic.

"Facebook in doing Jo a favour SHOCK!"

Last Friday on a night out in Camden, I met a boy.

(At an 80's night. Populated by 18 year olds and other throwbacks from the 1980s. Felt like I was back at uni. Nice n all giddy and drunk n that. Funtimes.)

Near 1am, two tequilas and multiple G / V&Ts later (that was my attempt to be hangover free. No wine, I reasoned, equals no hangover. Failed). I noticed him and, as is my way when slightly drunk and confident, went over and stood next to him. We got chatting, I got dragged onto the dancefloor, where dancing turned into kissing, and kissing turned into the lights coming on and a swapping of numbers. Oh, and we ID'd each other: he didn't believe I was 24 (shucks) and I was amazed I'd managed to locate and pull someone who was not only fairly good looking, but actually my age.

In text messages the next day, he asked for my name to add me on facebook (urgh, I groaned. Really, do we have to? Oh well.) and on returning from Italy, I sent him a text. Something fairly fun and (I like to think) witty, as I referred to current events in London n all that, which means I'm well up on everything, dunnit, lil question at the end, love me, love me, reply to me, blah yadda yadda. A few hours later I logged onto Devil Book and saw a friend request from him. I accepted.

Anyway, it appeared that text message wise, no reply was forthcoming. A couple of hours had passed, and I used this time to check Devil Book, clicking straight onto "Photos of Camden Boy" as is the usual practice (the scrutinising of wall posts would come next). I was pleasantly surprised at what I found. Usually Devil Book can only instill a sinking feeling of utter desolation and helplessness, but here I was getting more cheerful with every click. I went from wondering where my reply was, you bastard, to being surprisingly cavalier about my silent phone situation.

So here is the lesson garnered from this experience: Remember boys and girls, if you insist on playing the facebook game with your new kiss buddy, keep your drunken, tagged photos in check. A picture of you on the toilet may be a rollicking good time, but it does nothing for your credibility with that girl you met in the club the night before. He still hasn't replied, and thanks to a little photo-voyeurism, I'm still not that bothered.

Besides, tonight is another Friday. Unemployed Jo + Friday = Partytime. Smell ya later.