“it’s too close to home, and it’s too near the bone”

I should have written about this as soon as it happened, caught up in my righteous indignation as I was then; but the little white box scared me out of it, and so I let it go for a few hours.

Work was cancelled today, in favour of a much-needed jaunt to the doctors and uni stuff. I am now an official mental with ‘urgent’ counselling and real proper medication. I also booked in for a smear test, my first, and I am absolutely horrified at the prospect; possibly because I remember being told it was like scraping your insides with a trowel, but that may not be accurate. Anyway, my gynaecological health couldn’t be of less concern to you, I’m sure, so on with that which I would avoid saying.

Walking back along the posh main road I was lost in a chatter with my dearest girlfriend when some prick sped by in a car I hadn’t even noticed with a shockingly loud exclamation of:

“FATTY!”.

Now, we all know that he wasn’t talking to the size 10 walking next to me, and one can only assume that the incongruity of the Diet Coke in my hand provoked this troubled individual to action.

No, enough with the glib, it was like this stranger I didn’t even see had stabbed me in the heart. You know when actresses, really good actresses, do their reaction shots and it takes a good few seconds for them to run a gamut of emotions and then settle into a measured reaction? That’s what my face did. I always thought Judi Dench et al were simply showing range and putting it on for effect, but I felt each muscle move in time with the little bursts of different feelings that bitchslapped me one after the other.

I did try laughing it off, it’s what I would usually do. But hello? I’m depressed and hyper-sensitive to criticism so how do you think I took it? I’m on crying jag number three, and the book I’m trying to finish taking notes on is now a tear-stained mess (Democracy in America, since you ask). What makes it so much worse is that my instinct is to comfort eat. I want all the things that made me this way, because the familiarity and the short, sharp bursts of serotonin will make the whole thing seem more bearable. Yes I know, addict talk, but there you have it.

Very shortly, I’ll remember that this random guy is a social cripple with a tiny penis and a lonely brain cell. I’m just not quite there yet.

“tonight you owe my patience quite a debt”

Baby-making world leaders, oh my!

Leaving aside for a moment how thoroughly annoying I find it that there has to be a “Woman” section or magazine, this actually made me stop and think before my pilgrimage to the holy shrine of pill-dispensing.

It is possible to do both, although it doesn’t sound particularly easy. It probably helps if people stop dissolving your government at the drop of the hat, but maybe I’m just being picky.

What does stick in my craw a little is the cloying romanticism of giving birth. All this “it’s the happiest day of my life” malarkey. I’m sure you do feel proud of yourself after all the worry and pain, but anyone who can look back on agony and possible tearing with fondness needs their bloody head read.

It’s just not that difficult. Getting knocked up, cooking it for nine months and popping it out may not always be the most pleasant of circumstances, but really what have you achieved by the end? It’s just another person. You made something through biology and primal instinct, not skill or creativity. How can people take credit for something that is essentially the more complicated version of amoebas self-replicating? Just get over yourselves breeders, it’s not really that big a deal.

I know that I potentially want children; whether from preprogrammed urges, keeping my mother happy or just because I could, I’m not sure. One thing I do know, for damn sure, is that I won’t be giving up everything else in order to pursue it. If I can’t find a manageable solution, it won’t happen for me, and I won’t be any less of a woman for it. But if I do, it won’t stop me from running a company, or advising a government or flipping a burger – whatever my eventual career is. More of Benazir Bhutto’s approach, and less of the retiring at conception mentality please. While I respect the right to choose, it would help if there were to be a balance between the two.

In the viper’s nest

Oh thank God, it’s not my place. Because unfortunately, there’s every chance it could be. I’m loath to discuss the particular institution I (sometimes) attend since I have exams to sit, and don’t want to be ‘rewarded’ with a batch of fails. Nonetheless, it seems like the sort of thing we would do. For all that my particular seat of learning prides itself on super-lefty credentials, in many ways it’s as oppressive as I imagine Oxbridge to be. There’s no presence for anything to the left of the SWP (though the newly formed conservative Party is hopefully going to change that). George Galloway is something of a ‘celebrity’ and much to my chagrin our (compulsory membership) union is affiliated to his poxy Respect Party. I’m all for combating Islamophobia and the rest, but there’s such a thing as going too far. Anyway, on this occasion we’re not taking a dictator’s blood money, but if there was some pro-Africa cause attached to it, we probably would be.

So where am I on Bona Mugabe being allowed to travel here and study here? I’m not as sure as I expected to be. The knee-jerk reaction is ban the man and his supporters (by default, his family) and if he wants to enjoy the benefits of a country with human rights for his offspring, then he can bloody well start recognising the concept in Zimbabwe.

That said, why should the sins of the fathers be visited upon their children? A man for whom bloodshed is a viable political process isn’t exactly the ideal paternal force to rebel against. Distance yourself, perhaps? But that’s easy to say for someone who could easily escape her parents, and did. And despite my rantings about ninety bajillion media studies graduates who can’t even get McJobs, I do absolutely believe in a right to education. Plus, if someone paid the 12 grand for me to do my Masters at MSc, I probably wouldn’t think so hard about where the money came from, but that’s because my ethics really are questionable.

 Hmm, apparently it’s been retracted because whoever said it was true in Parliament got it wrong.  Ah well.

“when the skies go clear, the threat of rain is always here with you”

Confession time: my life or death essay that I’ve been pissing and moaning about for weeks? I didn’t make the Friday deadline. I have never missed a deadline in my life, and I know what you’re thinking: it’s a bit daring, and not just a bit sexy. Regardless, I feel ever so slightly bad about it, and there’s no payoff like there is for other naughty things (cf. sex, drugs, stealing) instead there’s just even more free time blighted by the finer points of how annoying ideology is as a concept. Given that I attend the university that I do, I also can never decide whether to err on the side of caution and be all “whoohoo! lefty stuff!” or rip the piss out of Communism like I usually do. So, to summarise, being an undergraduate is terribly irritating. Three years until graduation (even less until I wander off to Syria), and I can’t bloody wait.

Confession #2: If you could see the sheer oomph and enthusiasm with which I’m singing along to “Miss You Nights”, you’d either kill me out of pity or believe my depression was cured. Elaine Paige and CLIFF! Live! (By the way, this is clearly PTSD from when I worked all those freakish weeks on Cliff: the Musical. How I wish I were kidding.)

Also, how thoroughly and depressingly shite are England lately? Second Choice Steve, with his Boots teeth bleaching and Donald Trump quiff, gets on my wick at the very best of times but you have to question the FA when the very best they could manage for a ‘world class team’ is a manager from the dizzy heights of mediocrity at Middlesborough. The man comes out after a 4-0 win and talks about how many miles the guys ran, you start wondering if he’s not a London 2012 saboteur, trying to wreck football as the national sport and divert some of its megabucks to demolishing Hackney or whatever it is we’re meant to be doing for the next five years.

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the rugby. That giant dude playing for France who looks like the second choice for playing Hagrid (with no need for camera trickery!)! Ronan O’Gara who kicks everything and scores everything! Watching Scotland and finally remembering that Big Gav Hastings doesn’t play anymore! You can’t buy that kind of entertainment.

“when you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love”

The most appealing aspect of being a grown up, to a younger me, was always the magical state of being one seemed to enter whereby the opinions of others suddenly became about as significant as whispers in the breeze. That was supposed to be the payoff after those long teenage years of calculating every word and move to stay in with the right people, be saying the right things, be caught for the right wrongdoing. Looking back on it, how can that have been anything other than exhausting? And yet I remember it coming more easily to me, the contrivances of constantly being the smart-arse, more so than this awkward unfailingly polite version of myself I keep being confronted with.

I know it’s just work, the in at the deep end mentality of temp work, especially when you’re “an Executive Assistant, but don’t use the title because it upsets the other secretaries”. There’s this silent battle of wills, I’m trying to bowl over complete strangers with my talent and initiative, while at the same time struggling to appear nonchalant. But why work so much harder to impress people who will have forgotten my name before the last timesheet is faxed through? Does it matter if they think I’m God’s gift, or just a quiet girl who did everything that was asked of her? Why does it send me into paroxysms of panic and self-loathing whenever I make a minor mistake? They’re just faces, stuffed shirts who need to be handled in order to keep the cash flowing.

Though perhaps this work-limited perfectionism, these excruciating standards will stand me in good stead for what should be following in years to come. Shouldn’t the person advising Prime Minister Cameron (heh!) on global security be an exacting professional who doesn’t tolerate error or indiscipline? Or perhaps I’m still just a scared little girl who doesn’t understand why people never seem to like her the most out of the group, and isn’t going to give up without a strange and passive-aggressive fight.

“I tried to tell you that I’m slightly haunted”

Three Things That Scare Me:
1. Fire, though I’m proud of myself for now being sort of relaxed around candles.
2. Organised religion
3. Peckham

Three People Who Make Me Laugh:
1. Dylan Moran
2. David Caruso, albeit unintentionally   
3. Kaite, innit?

Three Things I Love:
1. The smell of baking croissants
2. Kitty cat nose kisses
3. Hitting things

Three Things I Hate:
1. Being patronised
2. Getting the Tube from King’s Cross to Farringdon
3. The colour, the smell and the fruit – peach (failure colour)

Three Things I Don’t Understand:
1. Supporting the Old Firm
2. Terrorism
3. Why I have to work for a living

Three Things On My Desk:
1. Lots of keys
2. A franking machine
3. My almost finished politics essay, which is rubbish

Three Things I’m Doing Right Now:
1. Wishing I had gone to Starbucks
2. Trying to look busy
3. Staring at builders to freak them out

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1. Learn to play the cello
2. Buy a really nice place in London
3. Visit Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro

Three Things I Can Do:
1. Pick up languages easily
2. Make people laugh
3. Cook, increasingly well

Three Things I Can’t Do:
1. Sleep
2. Behave
3. Resist a pretty face

Three Things I Think You Should Listen To:
1. “I Always Told You The Truth” Lynn Miles
2. “Real Men” Tori Amos
3. The sound of your life ebbing away

Three Things You Should Never Listen To:
1. Anyone who drowns their words out with guitars
2. Advice from people who haven’t been there and done it, and even then…
3. Those who would put you down

Three Things I’d Like To Learn (but won’t):
1. Russian
2. How to take criticism without letting it upset me
3. Patience – very much needed

Three Favourite Foods:
1. Lemon chicken (so common!)
2. French onion soup with gruyere
3. Steak!

Three Shows I Watched As A Kid:
1. Thundercats
2. Neighbours
3. The Queen’s Nose

“every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse”

As is so frequently the case, the more I bitch and moan about something, and drag my heels all the way there, it actually turns out to be a positive experience. Though not universally, since of the two agency torture sessions registrations, I had a decidedly mixed response.

The first did that really annoying thing where the job you applied for is gone (which I know, happens with temp roles) but then try to fob you off with some Junior Office Assistant for seven of your English pounds an hour. Sod that.

But the second? Oh, it was like an oasis of jobseeking positivity. From the hot pink carpets to the rugby banter with my consultant, I knew right away that it was going to work out well. I was praised, fawned over and generally promised the earth. But I like that in people who are essentially going out there to sell me to the highest bidder – a bit of arrogance goes a long way in my book. I’ve already been put forward for something which I’ll hear about later today, but they’ve guaranteed me that I’ll have something to start no later than Monday. Oh, to rejoin the ranks of the gainfully (?) employed. Really I’m all about the much-needed weekly paypacket, but it would also be nice to be noticed and appreciated again rather than just being one in a particularly large crowd.

I fell in love with London again last night – walking from Chancery Lane to Russell Square, then on to Soho through the sleet; neither the weather not the overloaded bag of books threatening to snap my collarbone could deter me. I realised last night that although there are other places I fancy (namely New York and/or D.C.) London is like a long-term mistress that I’m not sure I could give up for any length of time. Sometimes it’s complicated, and this isn’t where I was necessarily supposed to end up, but those private little moments between my city and me are irreplaceable. Except for when stupid kids are jostling me on the tube, but my ‘accidental’ whacking of shins with the bookbag seemed to earn me some personal space.

I think I might just be ready to get back into the world!

“and if there’s war between the sexes, then there’ll be no people left”

Naughty, naughty. Honestly, it’s bad enough that they’re trying to tell me cricket is a real sport (since its boredom levels are only rivalled by watching golf) but to pretend that these are super-athletes? While I do think that a certain level of decorum ought to be maintained when representing one’s country, can we just remember that really only middle-class Englanders, and a load of people from India and thereabouts bother to muster up some excitement over this non-event of an activity? Thank you.

This weekend has been a real something and nothing. No strict arrangements, just the two of us as free as proverbial birds and not so utterly penniless as usual. The missus and I have finally settled the debate as to which area of London we’ll be moving to in May – the search will soon begin in earnest for a place in Southgate. I lived there before the failed attempt at starting a fresh life at home in Scotland, and it’s about as practical and as pretty as anywhere else – not to mention affordable. I’m at a loss to explain this process to non-Londoners, the particular mating dance that lands you a swanky little place to hide your cats in. The encyclopedic knowledge of postcodes and tube routes and where that recent spate of stabbings happened. I’m sure other towns and cities are just as awkward, but there’s something about the scale of London that scares off the faint-hearted.

We discovered a darling little sewing machine for the missus – a real bargain considering it’s an antique. Maybe that bedspread I’ve been promised for two years will finally materialise… but my breath is most certainly not being held.

Tomorrow is a whistle-stop tour of some cringingly labelled “executive” recruitment agencies. There’s nothing that grinds my gears more than being patronised by some jumped up junior secretaries who presume to know everything about me from a series of radio buttons I happened to click on their website. Still, I shall overcome my inherent snobbery and go cap in hand to these people who should be able to find me the slightly more lucrative PA assignments. The days when I can stop dumbing down for interviews and starting pointing out that actually I could run the UN or similar can’t come soon enough, quite frankly.

It’s like you’re a drug, it’s like you’re a demon I can’t face down

The Flatmate tried to give up smoking this week, and people she is a heavy smoker. The reasons are personal, but I did worry to begin with that they were the wrong ones. It’s a freakin’ miracle that she managed from Sunday until today, but it finally got too much, despite sprays and patches and motivational speakers and the wagon has been well and truly fallen off.

I’m hardly going to appoint myself her nicotine addiction sponsor, but I did try to encourage her to stick with it. I tried everything the books tell you, but she was determined and so she smoked.

You know what? I’m proud of her that she even tried, and not in an entirely objective way but because it strikes at the very core of something that’s sort of been running and ruining my life for far too long now.

I have a problem with food, if admitting it is the first step then it doesn’t seem to be getting me very far yet. No, it’s not a problem – this is an addiction. I use food for comfort; I wilfully eat things I shouldn’t when there is a healthier alternative. The money I spend on food is a big part of the reason I have not enough social life, the reason for so much strain in my personal relationships. I hide it, I sneak around like a fecking junkie – the secret stash of chocolate, the guzzling of too much fizz, the takeout portions that are absolutely too much for me and yet I just keep going.

The interventions have been attempted but I am a cynical and manipulative person who makes so many promises to get better and then reneges as soon as a back is turned. I look forward to being in the house alone because I can eat what I want without judgement.

See, I do care what people think of me. Too much, perhaps, but it’s the reason why I only drink Diet Coke in public situations because I can’t bear to think that randoms are thinking “no wonder she’s so fat, drinking regular Coke!” – as if people really notice those around them that much. I care that people look at me and can dismiss me as fat, lazy, undisciplined and unattractive. Those things are far from libellous, in fact they’re completely true. I could remedy them, but it takes so much time and effort I’ve been reluctant to make the commitment.

Well this is the turning point. On Saturday morning I go for my first food counselling session (as distinct from the regular counselling which also starts soon). It’s not a case of me replacing love with food, because I am loved, but it’s more an escape and avoidance mechanism. A rigorous nutritional plan will be applied a.s.a.p. and there WILL be regular exercise as soon as my energy levels start returning. It doesn’t have to be the London Marathon, just swimming three times a week and maybe a spinning class or two to alternate that with.

The biggest obstacle has been my own petty shame, not wanting to admit in ‘public’ that which is so painfully obvious from looking at me. I want to take up less space, I want to feel good in my own body, I want to not kill myself through stupid and irresponsible behaviour. Overeating has not made me happy, but it’s stopped me dealing with so many things that have been ignored for too long.

It won’t be easy, and I will most likely get cranky and/or depressed about it, but I’m promising myself now that I will come out the other side.

(Also, I thought I had written this up on livejournal when I first realised it, but scrolling back to last year shows no such thing.) Scrolling far enough shows that I have known this since the beginning of August last year and done nothing. Digusting.

You’re no exception to the rule; I’m irresistible you fool

My recreational reading lately has been so tinged with guilt that it’s beginning to feel a lot like I’m back in Catholic school. Thankfully though, there’s less of the inappropriate boy stuff and more of the actually getting work done. It’s quite a transformation for me to eschew any pleasurable activity in the pursuit of work, but it seems to at least be possible these days.

My birthday present to myself consisted of a second-hand Amazon spree that considerably boosted my collection of books by this year’s favourite author Paul Auster. There are many things I love about his books, not least of all that his personal descriptions on the book jacket are mercifully brief. I can’t stand the distraction of feeling like I know the author (and yet, I devour autobiographies at a startling rate, hmm).

I suppose most importantly, I love the way he writes. I do have a predilection for male writers, whether by coincidence or a common thread of how masculinity presents itself in fiction. I certainly find more in common with his protagonists in Moon Palace and The Locked Room than I do with Bridget Jones or those supposedly closer to my demographic. More than that, I get swept up in the love he has for New York, and on a wider scale for America. His descriptive prose is an effortless digestion for me, and I’ve willing lost precious sleep to finish his novels. If I haven’t pestered you to read his work yet, then consider yourself pestered. (Lisa-Marie, the books are in the post on Friday!)

Speaking of guilt about my recreational pursuits, the other day I sat down with La Flatmate to watch World Trade Center. Having seen United 93, which hit every emotional cord possible and put me in a sort of dulled shock, I really expected this too-Hollywood version to leave me cold.

I was wrong. I know what the reviews said, and yes it was clichéd in many parts, but when something is based on a true story you can only adapt the lives that you’re handed. I didn’t find the staging to be melodramatic, how could it be after the sheer insanity of what we all saw happen. I’ll admit to being a little obsessed with the events of September 11th – it affected me then and I haven’t quite managed to shake that off yet. Even though I knew they had to survive, I still felt like I was sitting on a pincushion waiting for those two guys to be rescued. Crucially, I liked being able to walk away after watching and know that it wasn’t another chilling documentary, that what I had just watched was essentially fiction. If the film has any failing, to me it’s only that I was able to retain some detachment, unlike with the aforementioned United 93 where I had to remind myself all that night that it had been a dramatisation and I hadn’t actually watched those people plummet to their deaths.

So on that cheery note, perhaps I should go and feed the cats before they start eating my toes!