Strike, you're out

Perhaps yesterday was an omen. 'Don't go on the tube' it warned 'your life will be irreversibly ruined'... I'm sure I checked my horoscope on facebook this week and there was no mention of the tube strike, nor did it sage on the mega pain in the arse everyone who commutes in London will no doubt be enduring right now.

I wonder whether its worth actually going back over the last few days of horoscopes and seeing if at any time. any of these soothsayers soothed how fucked off we're all likely to be by the end of this week.

I read somewhere this afternoon that we could be looking at this lasting a couple of weeks. And what's friggen Ken doing about it? hmmm? The mayors office is strangely quiet for a change.

Seriously though, I would sack the lot of them, these tfl bunch. There are enough willing workers in London and the Brits sadly are a lazy mob. In fact I wouldn't mind paying the ninety pounds my monthly ticket cost me if I knew that the person who was driving me at a million miles an hour through to bowels of this great city actually enjoyed his job as much as I loved mine.

So now we're all catching the bus home. All together, all at the same time.

Really, there is only one decent method of travel in London, and it's called the Black cab.

The shitty week begins...

The shitty week begins.

So life goes on huh? I guess it does. Not content with having to work on Sunday, today I seem to be unnaturally anxious about my job, my life, my relationship, and increasingly, my sanity.

After a lovely afternoon where we had a couple of drinks at the absolut ice bar (yes, complete with thermal ponchos, mittens and glasses made of frozen water in which a caccophony of crisp cocktails spat and sizzled) and a brief dance along the masala mile that had transformed Regents street, we found ourselves yet again languishing beer in hand outside the sticky windows of Rupert Street in Soho.

My natural instinct in these situations is to be completely obsessed by the passing trade, after drinking a skinful, talking and gesticulating wildly to anyone and everyone who will listen, about a myriad of topics that generally revolve around me. I think this instinct comes from years of drunken laneway recovery parties in Sydney, with the divine Miss H by my side, conducting vox pops and stealing peoples party whistles and glow sticks, covertly disposing of them in the name of all things good and decent. There should be a safety warning in all bars and clubs around the world regarding serving me beer.

So back to yesterday, and on this particularly heady afternoon full of beer, yumcha and vodka, I launched myself upon the unsuspecting crowd of like minded Sunday revellers hovering expectantly like hungry bees around the open doors of the soho honeypots.

What I didn't expect was to run into a lovely couple whom we had befriended over a year ago in Montreal whilst attending the cities gay pride parade. We had spent many fun hours with these lovely boys in various bars around Montreal during our two week holiday there, and seeing them on the street in London was such a treat, even though it felt like no time had passed at all.

'Right' says me 'I think it was my shout' ....

I so wish this morning was as delightful.

Awakened to the tickles and purrs of the little Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins, After the busiest sleep imaginable, my lateness in getting out the door was soon after rewarded by a hideously crowded tube where in a last ditch attempt to jump between carriages to get a seat, I found myself quite embarrassingly tripping over the threshold onto the platforms as the doors slammed shut and the train breezed off without me on it. I swear someone laughed and waved to me too. Bitch.

Technology 101

So perhaps my shift out of blog space has been caused by an overwhelming need to pay much needed attention to my life, rather than being plugged into the USB of the fella's laptop.

It was revealed to me that I was spending too much time on his laptop and so I was promptly told to 'go and get your own bloody laptop, wouldja.'

Well, fair enough, it was about time.

In order to procure this splendid piece of new technology, I enlisted the assistance of my uber geek friend Scott (with the lot). We spent a good couple of days scanning the best deals online and came up with a plan.

I was meant to go pounding the pavement looking for bargains along TCR ( for those not London savvy, that's Tottenham Court Road ). Then we could compare prices online and would have had the chance to have seen, fondled, admired and potentially broken a machine in preparation for receiving my own via delivery some time in the future.

The worst thing about this is that I'm a terrible impulse shopper and need instant gratification. Walking? Window shopping? waiting? that's a big www.no if you ask me chaps.

Along with my fabulous new sony vaio I also went and got myself a new windows phone. it's really a little mobile computer with a qwerty keyboard and all. the worst thing about it is typing with the interpreting text on. it makes for funny reading.

So now, my dear blogging community, i find myself writing my blog entries whilst on the tube which, apparently, is the best thing to do. I promise to be fresh and regular from now on, and thanks to a heightened sense of annoyance, I'm sure I'll be lots more evil.

It's my birthday, I am 100!

today i am 100 posts old.

so to mark this occasion, here is a picture of super squirrel.

enjoy!

A bad dream

I wake up, it's a bad dream...

I have started exercising again in EARNEST.

It's MAINLY because I couldn't get the top button done on my Armani jeans.

OH, and because I'm going to Sitges in 2 weeks...

Fickle?

MOI?

But seriously, I am running 6 km every morning at the moment (3 times around Queen's park) and it's great. I have lost heaps.

Yesterday, I had the old iPod switched on my favourites, and on came Keane's "A bad dream", their latest single.

Whilst I laughed with irony about how I had just woken up from a dream where my parents and I lived in the house with the family from Malcolm in the Middle, I was moved by the lyrics of this song.

I often feel that I am more emotional when I have just woken up, on airoplanes, after a big dinner in a posh restaurant..and this was proven to myself as I found myself sobbing UNCONTROLLABLY, running along (it was really more a stagger) as I listened to the message of this song.

Imagine being a soldier in this stupid war. How would you feel if you didn't agree with it either?

We saw Keane in concert at Wembley Arena last week and they were amazing. These are the Lyrics...

A bad dream:

Why do I have to fly
Over every town, up and down the line.

I'll die in the clouds above
and you that I defend, I do not love.

I wake up
It's a bad dream
no one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired to be fighting
Guess Im not the fighting kind

Where will I meet my fate?
Baby I'm a man I was born to hate
And when will I meet my end?
In a better time you could be my friend

I wake up
It's a bad dream
no one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired to be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind
Wouldn't mind it,
if you were by my side
but you're long gone,
yes you're long gone now.

Where do we go?
I dont even know.
My strange old face
And i'm thinking about those days
And i'm thinking about those days

Don't bespeak to me.

MRS PUSSY'S WORD OF THE MONTH: BESPOKE

So WHAT is going on with the word BESPOKE?

The fella and I have a new little gag that we share. And, surprise surprise, we have become a little obsessed by it. Those who know and love us will know this is quite common in our house. Once we get onto something that amuses us, it may take many a year before we are able to put it down.

Case studies:

1. I'm still reeling from Pete's unusually late discovery and subsequent hysteria over the concept of the 'Jap's eye'
2. There is endless amount of spew in Fanula's purse
3. and then there's Kimmy. That gag has been going for nearly 10 years. Look at that. Ploise.

Since arriving on these fair shores the fella and I have noticed that the word is more popular than the Youtube video of Britney going ape with that umbrella on KFed's car. We have gone from being slightly amused to just plain flummoxed (oh yes, indeed) about the apllication of this little adjective to the most mundane and UNbespoke artifacts society has to offer.

And since I'm on a roll now, since arriving here, we have been generally satisfied with our grasp of the language (it is English after all). In fact, we feel positively superior in our commnd of vocabulary, and our elocution is excellent, even with our colonial upbringings. In fact, the number of people in the UK (especially in some boroughs of London and nearly everywhere up north) who really have a shocking use of language or an accent that is so damned lazy they might as well be speaking gobbledygook, is staggering. Case study readers, get your pencil out; Vicky Pollard.

So what is with this stupid little annoying word?

In any one day, I think i hear it used in conversation, or read it in print about 10 times. It is commonly used here to describe EVERYTHING. From the boardroom, to the bedroom, to the factory, to Lady Penelope Cossington Smythe's rose arbour. Londoner's just love this word and it is just EVERYWHERE.

Wikipedia has this to say

"Bespoke is a usually British English term for tailored clothing made at a customer's behest, and exactly to the customer's specification. Bespoke clothing is created without use of a pre-existing pattern, differentiating it from made to measure, which alters a standard-sized pattern to fit the customer."

The term begun in Saville Row, where the finest garments are tailored.

I have a bespoke penis. My hair today was bespoke, and I polished my shoes with a bespoke rag. We even have a bespoke deodorant. I mean, what is bespoke about a roll on? Do you get a special bespoke musky aroma that attracts other bespoke people and keeps bespoke sweat from forming no matter your bespoke workout? More like a special tailor made bespoke yellow stain in the pits of your nice new white shirt, that's what.

LOOK! A bespoke dog. No shit, google it, and on page 6 of your image search, this adorable poochie poo will pop up.

I think Londoner's like the use of it so much because it makes whatever they're consuming seem that much more important and special. Kind of car crash cache. Like getting relationship advice from Katie Holmes.

Maybe...

So it's new years eve.

So it's new years eve. Wow, another whole year has passed for me, and since it's also my birthday, I can really say that, mmm yes, another year has gone by.

It's been a busy one. I have moved accross the world, visited Canada, Ireland, Denmark, France twice, Iceland... Got a new fabulous job in London, had the biggest assembly of my closest friends ever (sadly to say goodbye), competed in swimming at the Outgames in Montreal and most impressively for me, survived my first Christmas and new years in the winter.

Well, almost.

Today, just to cap off our lovely week of doing f all around London, we decided to skip off to the Glorious London Portrait Gallery at the rear of the National Gallery for some culture. The wife had seen an advert for an exhibition of the Pet Shop Boys, and we wanted to make sure we saw it before it finished in March.

Ok, so, if you've been nodding thinking, "ooh, yes, I'd like to see that", well, let me spare you the tube fare. Go to your CD drawer, and open up your PSB "Discography" CD (yes, OK, I know you've all got a copy), and look at the inner sleeve. There you will find a better exhibition than the half dozen manky pictures hangin' in the cellar next to the shop in the basement of the gallery.

Pissed off mach 1.

After this occupied a whole 7.5 minutes of the afternoon, and I had already put on my best scarf, best brown boots and new Paul Smith pants to head into the west end, we decided to stroll down the Mall, just to have a nice London walk. This was lovely, we sauntered along the Princess Diana commemorative walk through St James park and laughed like lovers at the squirrels, the geese, the ducks, and the skyrats. We decided that the rain didn't really matter, darn it! lets be devvilish, and get a hot chocolate from the little kiosk adjacent to Buckingham Palace.

What could be more disappointing than a tepid watery hot "chocolate" in a plastic cup on a cold day? HMPH. I don't know, but it doesn't put one in a very nice frame of mind. In fact, when one of the other customers who were milling around sipping their cappucino THREW their swizzle stick ONTO THE GROUND about 2 feet away from the bin, I'm sorry, but I actually felt compelled to sacrifice my drink to decorate his balding head.

I work in an industry who's purpose is to create and manage the land - landscapes, urban spaces, gardens, streets, boulevards, palaces, stately homes, waterways and forests. So when someone blatantly litters in front of me like that (Which, I might add, is a chargable offence in Australia) I do like to say something.

"Excuse me, you dropped your coffee stirrer" as I walked away. As I watched, he was looking for what I was referring to, as if he'd misunderstood, and was looking for the gold Rolex I had spotted on the grass, and really wasn't interested in.
Go back to your own country, and litter up your own national monuments.

Pissed off mach 2.

Arriving back to Queen's park, it was raining, so we took shelter in the station before making a dash for it. We were in the company of another shall we say, largish family, whos 17 children were running around like midges over a dead fish head in a steamy summer rock pool, all eating manderines. One of these alien spawn had decided that the ground was where the peels would look their best, even though the colour scheme of the station clearly said "Lost on a mountain" and not "Carmen Miranda's fruity funbag jamboree".

SO there these peels lay scattered before me, and as my blood pressure started to rise, the child's mother appears before me, and she then begins to chastise the child for the action. I thought, mmm, this is good. She is pointing out that there is a rubbish bin, only 2 metres away, and that its not very nice to litter like that, because it might be someones bed. Caring lady.

To which the child answers back "But everyone else does it..."

Ok, so in my mind, I see my mother's back hand coming at me, with a shriek of "Pick it up or ELSE.."

What I hear from this...woman... is *grunt* "ok"...

I had to contain my fury as we ran out of the station. I would have said something, but I just had this image of Barbarella
being chomped to death by rabid metal toothed dollies as these foul dirty children circled around me.

Sigh

Pissed off mach 3.

Now I'm sitting here, blogging at 9.00pm on new years eve, because we have nothing to do, and we're comtemplating heading to Soho, but we kind of can't be naffed, because I would probably get into a fight anyway. I guess the herbal tea and vegetables diet has begun a few hours early.

Now where are my last ever 3 cigarettes and that bottle of smirnoff?

A few of my favourite things....

Whenever I'm feeling a little self indulgent, or, shall I say, depressed (thats gayspeak) I often like to go back to the music that has inspired my life.

You see music is an incredibly stimulating and evocative media, and through it, I am often able to recall memories from my past, incedences of binge drinking, episodes of former lives....its as powerful as sight or even smell (smell does it for me no end....)

So when I'm sitting alone on a friday night looking at all the christmas cards that I havn't received, I naturally pop the old i'book onto shuffle. I have around 3000 plus songs, and as the shuffle rotation has come around, I think I can safely say that a song by Electronic makes me feel 22 again, a song by Propaganda makes me 15 again and a song by ABBA ... well..

So Im Sitting here, and going through my mail, and there's a fabulous parcel from Dane, with a Montreal CD of pics and videos from Montreal and a lovely Christmas card for me and Peter and Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins. As I'm looking at it, what comes on the Itunes, but Kylie's "love at first sight" which was

FACT
1. part of the Glamourheads GOLD medal winning OUSPLASH performance at the Montreal OUTgames
2. My all time favourite Kyile song.

Its a nice relief from the Hell that I have just gone through sauntering along the west end shopping hell on a friday night before christmas; alone, with no frineds, mulling over the fact that I'm going to be spending Christmas alone in London (where everything I've seen for the last month has been decorated with tinsel).

That's right, Pete and I are spending XMAS alone. No friends. No Dono's after party (god Im thinking of flying back just for that) and no Boxing day with Fiona and Dan in the Kitchen. I think thats going to be the hardest.

In my whole life i have never met anyone like Fiona, Mrs W. Carnie Supreme. God how I miss her every day, someone who I know loves me as much as i love them back, with no limits.

My song for you Fanula: I give you my whole 3000 songs. because I know you know them all.

SIGH

xx

Come along then old ducky

My goddamned back again. What is going on? why oh why, Delilah?

You know, apart from the crippling pain that shoots through me every time i so much as look towards an object not directly in front of me, the thing I can't bear about back pain is the frustrating inconvenience of it all. I've had to take another day off work, because of the sheer annoyance of not being able to go from a very painful sitting position, to a less than comfortable standing position. And as for my dance class? pah! Jive Bunny gave up on me years ago.

What I do need to do though is walk around. So off I went today to the supermarket to buy a few essentials (L'Oreal, Durex, Lavazza) as well as some diced beef for the heavenly CSIRO provencale cassoulet. I shopped very light, knowing that I couldnt carry much, and that I am on a diet, and NOT buying rubbish, which, you'll be pleased to know, I did not.

However, I did buy a cantaloup, which, as my bag ended up weighing a tonne anyway, was probably not the most sensible of purchases.

......................

"Are you going to that register? Excuse me are you heading to that register?" I shouted at the near dead white haired old bat as she shuffled aimlessly around the register area, looking directly at me but not registering a word. She kind of reminded me of Madonna.

The entire supermarket was full of wrinklies. The average age must have been about 65 and that's INCLUDING the troup of guides selling brownies out the front. They were all kareening around the aisles mindlessly, as if blind, or drunk, or both.

"No, Eddie," I said to myseelf, "they're just old. One day, you will be like that, so be patient and tolerant."

ONE DAY??? how the frack about today then?

..............................................

So I'm sittin' at home, talking to JANET about me VEINS....no really, I feel like Lynn Postlethwaite from D-Gen..."you KNOW how busy I am today, you KNOW I have a letter to post.."

Which is what, In fact, I did do today.

So I hobbled down to the post office and posted off my form to the Australian Electoral Commission to remove me from the roll. I know this is a minor administrative task, probably not worth even thinking about under normal circumstances, but for some reason, I was strangely moved by the gesture. You see, as I lurched around flailing for a balustrade, lightpole, zimmerframe to hold onto, my age and mortality suddenly struck me like a bullet train. Having struggled at the supermarket and the post office during the frenzied pensioner packed daytime rush, I got to thinking that really I should go and see a doctor and put my name down for an MRI to find out what is actually wrong with my back. Then, by the time my name comes up on the NHS waiting list, I'll probaably be old and infirm enough to require surgery, and get whisked right in. When Im 65.

Diet day 3

coffee coffee coffee coffee
2 pieces white toast, honey and marmalade
2 slices of bread- snacking
2 chicken drumsticks, cooked in garlic and soy...mmm
ham sandwich
pear
Beef cassoulet - low fat low gi
mashed potato - a bit naughty
sneaky glass of red wine or 6
LOTS of water
no soft drinks

Lights Camera ACTION!

Good evening shoppers!

Why don't you make your way inside my emporium this evening where I'm sure you'll find all manner of interesting items for your delight at crazy rock bottom christmas prices!...

Just look over here, a tale of little old me, lugging a 1:250 scale model from Victoria to Canary Wharf, along with a big roll tube full of drawings, in afternoon (nearly) peak traffic... Thankfully I DIDN'T do a Greg Brady and get distracted by a girl and loose the plans en route. Nor did I fall off the Millwall into the sesspool of the inner Millharbour after some rude BITCH barged past me on her phone with her umbrella swinging around like the arms of a frenzied chav mole on her way to the Chicken Cottage after a big night on the babysham. No Shoppers, I delivered my prize to the client office with a few minutes to spare before knock off so decided to amble back along the aforementioned harbour edge, with a few cautionary glances around me as the heavy beats of Nina Pretty Ballerina pounded into me via the iPod.

So here I am, walking back to Canary Wharf through the docks. It must be kind of something only mad people or old people who have nothing better to do than be mugged and killed for their packet of Murray Mints might do. No signage, no special braille paving for the "visually impared", no lighting, no brightly tinselled banners, no gloriously strobe lit glitter balls heralding my way.

My second tale, shoppers, begins in the sordid cyber trough of googlechat, where I was engaged in a sneaky mid work affair with my buddy Scotty. Sometimes Scotty and I have lunch together, seeing as we work close by and on this day I received a rather fetching invitation from the young laddy, fishing to see if I was around for an ilicit carb heavy afternoon reposte.

Eager I was, to fulfil these urges of fried noodle and steamed dumpling. But alas. I was stood up for a 'west end' saunter and sandwich to see the Christmas lights in Regent's street (I can just imagine Scott marching around Leicester Square, stuffing a kebab into his gullet)....

Anyhoo, since I was on the stroll after my near death experience in the Docks, I thought I might go and see what was goin down on the Crescent.

Well, what a surprise dear shoppers, to not only walk right into the crowd gathering below the window of ..um.. well, I'm not really sure exactly where it was, but there was Sir Ian McKellen, in all his santa haired glory, waving to the crowd, and then *poof* on came the Christmas lights and off went about £7.50 worth of fireworks ( the ash of which Im still picking off my Prue Acton 1988 Bicentennial Wool fair scarf ). But I did get my glorious glitter procession, as i ambled up Regent street with firecrackrs, Chrissy lights and throngs of gentlemen in coloured scarves eying me off in my Prue Acton 1988 Bicentennial wool fair scarf.

It was, dear shoppers, a wonderful experience. Worthy of my emporium. I still had the thrill buzzing through me as I passed by Hamley's Toys where they had a SNOWMACHINE !!! shoppers, belching snow upon the crowd. How spesh! Such a thrill, even to this Wonder of the World.

My only criticism was, as i mentioned to the lady next to me when the lights came on, was that I thought Kylie always turned on the Christmas Lights...? hey? innit?

Fancy Slacks

Oh MY GOD! This month I have spent almost £500 in clothes. And I don't seem to be able to stop myself.

This evening I purchased a £160 new coat and £85 pair of new walking boots (admittedly for my trip to Iceland on Thursday).
I think I have a problem.

Here is a list of what I have bought this month.

White slim fit shirt from Zara - very sheer, very slimming
Green striped shirt from Zara - you know, looks good with the
Beige corduroys from you know where.
New gym shorts and G star T shirt on that day I just didn't like what was in my gym bag and I needed to check out House of Fraser
Black slim fit tshirt from Zara
green and grey striped tshirt from zara, on that Friday night i just wasn't appropriately dressed after work to fraternise at the gentlemen's bar in Soho
Brown and black and beige houndstooth pants from you know where for the staff party - what was i thinking? I went in jeans, and had to make a quick nip into my favourite store
Black knit to accompany said houndstooth pant (from HOF)
Duck and Cover thick coat
Rockport boots.

Sorry, I just like buying clothes.

Now I do have a monthly clothing budget, which I think has just suffered a huge beating for the next few months, so if you find me nude loitering around the windows of Selfridges, or any Zara store in the city, please take me inside and buy me something.

I put out.

Iron Maiden

The other night the husband was ironing his shirt for work and he blew up the iron, and very nearly damned blew up the whole house (well all the lights went out when the fuse blew and SHOCK HORROR GREY'S ANATOMY went off...)

So, looking like something that crawled out of a bag of dried apricots, I took myself off the next day to get me a new iron. There's this place called ARGOS where you buy out of a catalogue. At the counter, there are tables full of these catalogues where you can buy anything from pooper paper to and elephant. But the best thing is the jewelry. Now I know where chavs buy their necklace's, their diamond drops and their special Jordan pendants. That's right, joolery from Jordan, aka Katie Price.

How I wanted the diamonte love heart drop pendant. *sigh*

But in the mean time I have to be happy with my nice, pink iron.

Can you see the criteria upon which I made my choice from the catalogue? pretty pretty pretty pretty...

Now off to the tower with you! and you too.

Until this afternoon at approximately 4.05:34 pm, I had never seen the crown jewels of HRH Queen Elizabeth II, whom you all know I utterly adore. I don't know if there had been a conspiracy by my mother to keep me from them, or if my true missive in migrating from Australia to the England was to but gaze upon their regal splendour. I tell you what though mate, I sure would go for just 5 minutes with that lot on.



The crown jewels have been on public display at the Tower of London since the 17th Century in a number of locations including the Martin Tower and the Wakefield Tower. Today they are housed in the Waterloo Barracks, which was built in the 19th century in a castellated neo-Gothic style complete with elaborate battlements and gargoyles. It was built while the Duke of Wellington was Constable of the Tower (1826-52) to provide accommodation for almost 1000 soldiers.

The Jewels on display in the Jewel House are largely those items used at the coronation of a sovereign and are collectively known as the Coronation Regalia. Most of the collection dates from the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 when Charles II ascended to the throne. The old regalia used up to the coronation of the last king, Charles I, in 1626 had been destroyed after his execution in 1649 when Oliver Cromwell, the Parliamentary general, ordered that it be "totally broken, and that they melt down all the gold and silver, and sell the jewels to the best advantage of the Commonwealth."

In addition to their enormous historical value, the Crown Jewels incorporate some spectacular and priceless stones. The largest top quality cut diamond in the world, the First Star of Africa (Cullinan 1), which weighs just over 530 carats, is set in the head of the Sovereign's scepter with cross. Some stones are also famous for their historical associations and numerous legends surround the Koh-i-Noor diamond, set in the Crown of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and the 'Stuart Sapphire', the 'Black Prince's Ruby' and 'Queen Elizabeth's Pearls', all set in the Imperial State Crown.


I knitted this replica of the St Edward's crown (c.2004) with Jo Sharp Burgandy, white mohair, metallic gold, silver and coloured yarn. It took me a year to make and is my most ambitious knitting project to date. Next I will be knitting the trouping of the guards uniform, with full coronation regaila. Do you think I'm kidding?

What? Am I Invisible?

Um, Hello, can you see me?

You know, I dont normally expect, as I'm swanning elegantly through the busy streets of London, that people will just naturally get out of my way because I'm the damned Queen of the Universe or anything;

BUT I'M THE DAMNED QUEEN OF THE UNIVERSE SO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

Today about 5 or 6 people physically shoved me out of the way to either get before me in a queue, push me out of the way on an escalator, shove me to get into an ELEVATOR before me (um hi, I'm getting in after you and you're not going to get to your damned dictaphone any quicker) shove before me getting OUT of the elevator then dawdle in front of me accros the whole foyer whilst TEXTING !! ?? There was even a tour bus operator who was conducting a transaction with a client and thereby blocking the whole footpath and wouldn't even move when I politely said excuse me.... you see what I mean.

My favourite little tick off, is how people in this town actually walk into you because they dont look where they're going. In most cities I have been to, people have a fairly good understanding of the trajectories of at least the nearest 5 or 6 people around them so they dont end up wearing each other's Natural Glow or Simply Luscious Mascara. Nah uh, not here. Nobody dont wanna know about any damned trajectory. No sir. No forward trajectory planning goin' on no place, no time.

So from now on, BACK OFF and LOOK OUT coz I've got Natural Glow AND Luscious Mascara on and I'm making a line right for you and your cheap, white, blouse.


Mrs PTC

Snakes on a Tube

Ok, is it me or is the whole "Snakes on a plane" thing just the most ridiculous concept or what? It just goes to show how Hollywood hype can infect every sane thought you ever had, making you believe that even Gwynneth Paltrow might have an interesting opinion and it might be a nice idea to go visit the movie house and part with 12 quids to see some period rubbish with her in it only to realize that the best screen moment she ever had was when her dismembered head appeared in 12 monkeys. or was it seven? or did I ever bother to even see.. whatever....

But enough of that malarky.

What I really wanted to muse on this fine Saturday evening, whilst my chicken is a roastin' (no cottage, I think I have finally managed to give that one up) and the beans (bunnies) are a boilin', is about what ticks me off when I catch the tube.

Now having left Melbourne but a mere 2.5 months ago, gloriously putting crap public transport and a totally f***ed up banking system behind me, I have been generally impressed with the tube experience, being thrust down a dark hole squashed up next to total strangers, frotting hotly in their Zara work combo's.

So what the sweet fark is it about Victoria station? This is my place of work and every day I must sidestep every goddamned special with their cheap luggage with wheels as they amble towards the Gatwick express counter in a scene reminiscent of dawn of the dead.

The other day, I was dawdling my way to work, my iPod firmly in my ears iBlocking the iDin, and, upon arriving at said station of hell, Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf announced itself with that characteristic little "ha ha!" Bless, it was just the right thing at just the right time to lift my mood. I even thought about scratching some slowpoke tourist across the face for the hell of it. But I wouldn't want to ruin my new manicure, would I?

Thank you Duran Duran, I will always love you the most.

Now why am I sitting here on a Saturday night?

SIDE NOTE: Axis of evil! Introducing the CCCCC !!!

Chicken Cottage, cigarettes, cheap champagne

Well, being back from Montreal I have slipped into a destructive pattern of drinking, smoking and chicken cottage.

Im not really sure how Im going to slip out of this pattern, and it seems to be gripping my house meeeaytes also. Let me just explain how it works ( see diagram)



The equation goes something like:

too much fun = Champers = cigs = last bus = chicken cottage.

The chicken cottage is actually a type of fried chicken house. Damn them and their irresistable £2.00 treat of 3 pieces and chips! Damn them being right at the bus stop at the number 52 night bus to Willesden Junction! Damn them being open just about 24 hours a day for all my fried chicken needs! Im worse than Kirsty Alley and Oprah on Valentines day.



And then there's them cigs. (mum, dont read on).. I did give up for a while, but just reclaimed the sport following my relocation to London, with vigour. Shame.



You would think that this warning might actually inspire me to do something about my filthy habit wouldn't you? But then I just keep dreaming of the chicken....



Mrs Pussy...
xx

Dreaming of the Queen

Well after a trip to Windsor to visit the monarch, I was very tired. I have to sleep alot you see, except when dad is sleeping, then its play time and jump on heads time.

See dad and dad at the castle visiting the queen. I mean really. Is that what they brought me here for?