It shouldn't be this hard

The time was 8.47am. I mention this, not because of any particular significance about that time, but because it was before 9 o'clock in the morning. I am not a morning person nor will I ever be a morning person. I've tried being a morning person and though it sticks for a bit there will always be a part of me that just cannot deal with the world until around 10am. After 10 I'm fine. I can hold telephone conversations, crack on with boring admin, exercise, run*, jump*, kick*, climb trees* and most importantly - talk. Up until this point, no matter how early I went to bed or how late I arose, all these things are near-on impossible. 10am is when my brain decides it's awake time now thank you.

So, that is to say, pre-9am is not when I'm at my best. Just to make that clear. However, on this bright and breezy Friday I had promised my bro a lift to the train station so up I was at 7.30 giving the dogs their breakfast and putting on clothes that don't have flowers or Han Solo pictures on (my choice of jimbly-jamblys at this current juncture) and out the door all by 8.30. No sweat. I can cope with all that. On my way back from the aforementioned station I thought to myself 'ooh I could pop into Staples on the way home and pick up get some printer ink quick before work'.

That was my first mistake.

I walked into the store and was greeted by a dizzying array of inks none of which meant anything to me. I stood there open-mouthed and silent for a while, walking from one end of the ink selection to the other, and never quite being able to take it all in at once. There were a lot of inks. I rang my step-father:
'Papa Mikey, what is my printer called?'
'Derek?'
'Funny. What is it's number?'
'Epson Stylus 925'
'That wasn't so hard was it? Also, thank you'

I turned back to the inks. Having this knowledge was supposed to make things easier. It did not. I stood aimlessly for another minute or two before deciding this wasn't the best use of my time as I had no chance of getting the right cartridges. You may well as asked me to go to a fake-tan convention and try to blend in. The chances of either things happening are incalculable by the human brain. (Unless the way it works is the probability is zero in which case I think the human brain could probably handle that. What am I Professor Probability of Statistics University - Tenured? No. I am not) Whatever, I made to leave feeling a little dumb and also a little scared they'd think I'd been nicking stuff.

I was *this* [indicates tiny amount] close to making it out the exit doors and tasting sweet, sweet freedom... Then: 'Did you get what you were looking for today?' came a voice from Dante from Clerks's double
'No' I said.

Here I should point out that I was already predisposed to like this man - he looked like Dante from Clerks (I would have liked him even more if he looked like Dante from Desperate Romantics. Sometimes a human exists who is so beautiful it literally takes your breath away a bit, and not even in a 'creepy stalker Sting song' way but in a very real, tangible 'wah...' way. Dante from Desperate Romantics is in this category. I strongly believe he will only get more attractive as he ages in a George Clooney/Robert Downey Jr -esque journey where youthful arrogance turns into self-deprecating good humour and the beauty becomes slightly more manageable to the human eye - overwhelming beauty is almost as hard to process as overwhelming uglyness. Both things are extremely rare. That's why, for the most part, most of us are pretty passable. Some more passable than others but that's what it really boils down to - passability. Noone is completely perfect. Except Dante from Desperate Romantics).

Where was I? Oh yes, Dante from Clerks (Dear Santa, this year I would like a chunky guy in bovver boots, an oversized t-shirt and plaid. Yours, as ever, Sazzle) asked me if I needed help and after being taken aback by how Dante-from-Clerks-ish he was and assuming that noone just looks like that by accident so he must be good people, I went 'No. I'm looking for a printer cartridge. 925. Epson or something'

This is as coherent as I am able to be pre-9am. Particularly where printers are involved.

'How many cartridges does the printer take?'
'2'
'You should buy a new printer'

I laughed. I thought this was a joke. The world stopped spinning for a moment and he looked at me with such disdain that I could ever find such a serious, and helpful, suggestion funny that I almost was surprised he held back the obvious overwhelming urge to spit on my face.

The air, once clean, became laden down with awkwardness. I resisted the urge to run.

'Something something save £20' he said
'Ok' I said, trying to hurry this along as quickly as possible. I think he sensed my impatience here as I got another scornful look. We walked to the cash register (not fast enough! Not nearly fast enough!) and he rung up my purchases.

'Have you got a Staples card?'
I had already thrown it down , my phobia of social awkwardness suddenly giving me cat-like speed.
'There' I said, trying to hide the note of desperation in my voice.
'That'll be £100 then please.'

I could feel him looking at me slyly from under his downturned eyelids. I wondered if my gulp was visible.

I put my card in the machine thinking 'buying ink should not be this hard nor this expensive but I would pay any amount of money to leave this store right now so £100 is actually kind of a fair deal'.

Tomorrow I think I'm going to take them back. Wish me luck.

*Patently untrue.

We're off to the moon

When I went to go see 'Moon' the other day, in the queue I was thinking; 'Wouldn't it be funny if I walked up and asked for two tickets to the moon?'

I then went up to the booth and before I could censor myself said to the heavily-eyelinered cinema girl 'can I have two tickets to the moon please?'

She looked at me askew. I cannot blame her.

Nothing will ever beat the time I asked for two tickets to 'see Saw' though.

The big day

I have no idea what I wrote last night but I do know I'm too scared-slash-embarrassed to read it. Don't drink and blog is the lesson there methinks. The only reason I was half-cut was due to me going out for dinner and then pub with my brother and housemate Kes so I had a legitimate excuse not to attend my step-dad's sisters hen night (if that convoluted family situation makes sense? Forget Jake, it's extended family as result of divorce town). Hen nights, along with wasps, are one of my biggest fears. Groups of women stumbling around with veils and learner signs and pink cowboy hats with the addition of alcohol? Do not want.*

In fact, I don't really understand any of the wedding stuff that, as a women, is meant to excite and enthrall me. Like when I watch any tv show or film and the wife-to-be walks out in her wedding dress at the wedding dress shop and everyone gasps and goes 'you look beautiful!' I always think 'she looks alright but a fancy white dress is a fancy white dress'. Because, really, a fancy white dress is a fancy white dress. Or when females freak out that their wedding invitations were supposed to be printed on bone card and they've actually been printed on ivory card... Don't get me wrong; I understand perfectionism, I'm a complete control freak, I have very specific ideas on what contitutes aesthetic pleasingness but I can't ever imagine giving a shit about whether a bit of card is this white or that white. I can't imagine spending hours deliberating over what the central flower display is going to look like. Or what shade of violet to make the bridesmaids dresses. I have been to plenty of weddings were this sort of thing obviously has been extensively discussed and it's always lovely but, for me, I'd rather spend the THOUSANDS of pounds it costs to have a big do and fly my nearest and dearest to Las Vegas for a drive thru wedding performed by Elvis and then roadtripping across the states (because, as the first test of marriage, surely surviving traveling for an extended amount of time with them
is a good indication for how the rest of the marriage will go? i.e. if neither one of you ends up dead then it should carry on for another couple of decades at least right?). I just wonder if I'm genuinely an aberration against man and God or whether it's another 'culture makes you feel weird if you don't want to spend the cost of a house on one day of your life' thing.

Having said that, even my heart melt a little when I saw this because who doesn't want their groom to do a somersault down the aisle?


[Via everyone on the internet everywhere but especially Molls... She Wrote and Videogum]

*According to my moms it was actually a lot of fun. Which just proves I'm an uptight heinous bitch sometimes but, when all is said and done, I would rather have a 10 minute conversation about the joy of picking spots than go to Tiger Tiger and watch middle aged ladies get drunk. That's basic Sazz science.

To do or not to do

You guys, I really thought I had the procrastination thing licked. Like, I know if there's one thing that won't make me happy as opposed to making me happy it's wasting time when there's shit I need to be doing. And yet here I am, 11:22am - half the day is nearly gone and I'm still in my jimbly-jamblys and googling 'George Lamb girlfriend' just because, well... *looks ashamed* small voice: 'I kinda fancy him'. Actually, I did but then Holy Moly revealed the following (that may or may not be true but I am as susceptible to this stuff as any 20-something raised on a diet of gossip-blogs and Heat magazine):



and then I didn't anymore. Even if he does have salt and pepper hair (it's only since I noticed the salt and pepper hair that I've been in lust) and dresses really well (he really is an excellent dresser).

I also saw what his girlf looks like and ain't no way me competing with that.

Point is, procrastination. I hate it. I can't relax when there's things to do and I haven't done them yet but on the first night of a week off work I got suckered into a two-for-one cocktails deal by a homosexual and then spent more money on alcohol in the world's best ever pub (it really is. People go 'oh that pub, it's the best pub ever' and you're like 'sure, sure it is, people dancing on tables to Guns'n'Roses? That definitely sounds like the best pub ever' and then you go and you're like 'HOLY SHIITE! This is the best pub EVER! There are people dancing on tables to Guns'n'Roses! This is the best!' And there are and they do. It was a Friday night in July and everyone in that place knew all the words to all the songs and everyone was dancing like it was New Years Eve or something. But without the inherent feeling of depression because it wasn't actually New Years Eve. The best). 'Were there loads of poseurs' I was asked after (the death knell for any cool drinking hole in my world) and I said 'no' but, in truth, I have no idea. I was in a drunk bubble. Unless you were within a one meter radius of me and directly within my eye line I didn't see you or have any real notion you existed. That is the power of the drunk bubble. SO, that's an explanation for why I spent Saturday being queasy and watching Barbara Streisand films. Which isn't what I'd had planned for that day. I still have ironing to do, a shower to take, a yoga dvd to put on and maybe do (I probably won't do), paintings to paint (I gave my bedroom a spruce and covered the walls in bright yellow as a sort of physical manifestation of the internal changes I've gone through of me moving on and doing better and so I'm left with this gap where I pre-planned two paintings whilst seemingly forgetting that at some point I would have to do some actual painting of the canvases), I have my accounts to do (for real yo) but I'm not doing any it. I'm here, talking about it. Might as well finish off watching 'What's Up, Doc?' I guess. Babs is smokin' in this one.

Pity me

I am hungover.

I had genuinely forgotten what this feeling was like, the vague waves of nausea that wash over you, the continuous feeling that I'm slightly off-balance as if I'm journeying through a fun fair fun house even though I'm sitting down, the cold dead look my eyes get that, and the sallowness of my skin. I knew I didn't like being hungover and now I remember why.

The positive thing is that I have evaded the grump monster who was controlling my thoughts and actions over the last couple of weeks. I could say that my brother's motorbike crash on Monday (he's fine, has a load of owies that my nephew thinks is HILARIOUS to slap - it is - but other than that, fine) making me realise that some things in life are never certain and you should enjoy yourslef while you have the chance blah blah pop psychology etc. but, in truth I just woke up on Monday feeling in a really good mood. Positive, excited about the future even. Just cleansed of all the anger I was holding on to. It's nice. My baggage feels lighter. Makes it easier to twirl and swirl about the place should I so wish (I rarely wish. Unless I'm listening to Fergie in which case, different story). Well, except for today, because I am hungover. Today I can barely stir my tea let alone swirl. Which reminds me, I've just realised that I won't stir tea with a teaspoon that's been recently washed up because that teaspoon is 'wet'. I'm a few months shy of 27 and it's only just occurred to me just how counterintuitive that is. I don't think I'll change this compulsion but at least I know how weird it is now. Admitting you have a problem is the first step as they say.

No one else can speak the words on your lips*

I haven't been taking great care of myself lately. Most obviously has been my inability to remember to shower. It's not like, I'm anti-being clean at the moment or anything, it's just slipped my mind fairly often in the last month to not be a dirty skank. I'll generally then realise three days later that I haven't de-dirted myself in a while but, cruicially, still won't do anything about it. I can't justify this behaviour. I'm sat here now, a thin film of three day old grease covering my body and I don't intend to do anything more challenging tonight than watching The Hills.

Oh yeah, that's my other big 'not taking care of myself' semi-self flagellation thing. I've started recording The Hills. For realz. I mean, you know it's bad, I know it's bad, it's theme song is a Natasha Beddingfield number for chrissakes (if something starts with Natasha Beddingfield then, as a general rule, the only way is up from that point on but The Hills just HAS to be the exception to prove the rule). There's loads of bouts of weird silent staring which, I'm not sure happens in my 'reality' and this being a 'reality' 'show' you would think would at least attempt to follow some of the rules of societal convention and yet, and yet, no. It's as realistic as a Micheal Bay movie but with less random explosions and more silent staring for no reason AT ALL (like, at all). I've known about this program for a while given my non-official status (waiting for the paperwork to come through) as pop culture sponge. Like, I already know the names of everyone on the show. I know that Spencer looks like Mr Tumnus (he appears not to be in the early episodes. I'm strangely excited to see how he integrates into it all) but I've never really seen more than 3 minutes of an episode before. When it comes to pop culture explosions I either like to be really super geeky early to the party and show up while all the canapes are being laid out or just really super late and waltz in whilst everyone is throwing up into the gutter outside and having sex on the stairwell. I don't want to be there while the actual party is going on. (I'd rather be at home not showering for the most part. These are my issues, I'm trying to deal with them as best I can). In this case I've arrived as the sun is coming up and even the people who were puking and fucking at the same time have given up and gone home. Yet, I feel I owe it to myself to really understand this phenomenon. If there is one thing I want to achieve before I die it is that.

So I guess this means I'm going down the rabbit hole. Wish me luck. I don't know that I'll ever be back. It's been a blast. (If by 'blast' I mean 'slightly inept attempt at life thus far'. Which I totally do.)

*Unless you write them down Natasha, YOU FUCKING IDIOT

Trying and failing

Everything my therapist says (which is not a lot really) (oh yeah, btw, I totally started therapy. It's equal parts awesome and horrific) is like a series of bullet points from Duh Aficionado magazine and yet all of it, all of it, is like the most golden glowing genius shit anyone has ever proclaimed. And all of it, all of it, spins me off into thinking about the things I didn't want to look at, and examining the cupboards I didn't want opened, much more deeply than I've ever had to do before. Hence the awesome/horrific dichotomy.

See, here's the thing; for the last three months I've been existing, barely, and certainly not living. Which pisses me off a touch because I spent forever learning the secret to living (which is engaging; as much and as often as possible. Thinking is required but only gets you so far - what pushes you forward and makes you grow is engaging. It's as close to scientific fact that every ancient religious text will get; it's all there, written down: how to live, how to be human. We just need to decode it in the way that gets us to that place - the 'being human' place - and not to the place where transubstantiation is real and you're allowed to hate others for some arcane reason just because some book told you to) and now I have a different lesson to learn and another, vital, secret to unravel but I don't know what it is or where to even start looking for the answers. It's like a computer game where I've completed level one, which was tough (really tough), and now I'm on level two and all the rules have been changed and I could take none of the weapons I gained in level one with me so I essentially have to start from scratch. And now I'm stuck in this weird half-life where I know I don't want to go backwards (I've been there already) but I don't know how to negotiate going forwards.

I've had my heart broken before; a thousand times, of course I have. So have you, so has everyone, but this was different and decidedly darker because it was literally life or death and that is difficult to reconcile because this doesn't happen to me or people I know does it? Death is what other people experience, it's what happens to old people, people who have lived their lives and are wrinkled and crinkled and are done. Not to me or mine. And that's the thing, and part of why I've been scared to make any sudden movements; I don't want the Gods to notice me moving about and moving on because I fear they'll punish me by killing him off once and for all. They've been toying with me for three months and I have had to creep quietly around that whole time hoping they don't awaken from their slumber, praying they'll snooze long enough for him to pull through and start hitchhiking on the road to recovery right under their noses. But that means I can't take my eyes off them for a second, because the minute I do I know they'll wake up and everything will be ruined.

[Before I continue: I know this isn't about me, that it affects other people (not least the gentleman in question) but, on the other hand, fuck that, it is about me. This is how I feel about something; I'm allowed that much.]

So here am I. Creeping around quietly. Praying no-one notices. But that's not really fair on two levels; one - that's not who I want to be and two: no-one does notice. Literally no-one. See, he, assuming he is ok and things do work out the way they're supposed to (I feel scared and dirty even writing that, like I've already jinxed it by saying it out loud to myself that him being ok is a possibility means that he won't be. I'm genuinely terrified of those Gods. It's not just a metaphor) will just look at me and what I've done; working, writing, meeting new people, going to the cinema, sitting in a bar, whatever, and think 'she moved on quick'. I know he'll think that. I would think that if I were him. He won't see the baggage that's been slowly but assuredly accumulating as I stand here stock still. He'll only look at the mirage, the cyborg I created to distract everyone from asking too many questions about a topic I didn't want to talk about. Which has had the intended effect; everyone else assumes I'm fine now because I don't say I'm not ok and also because they wanted to believe in the illusion even more than I did. It suited them all to think I was fine than to deal with the fact I wasn't. I mean, I sort of am fine now, but only because the pretending is becoming second nature. And here's the thing; I've done this before (the pretending I mean), I've made nice with the people who've hurt me, I've smiled sweetly in the faces of people I've wanted to lobotomise - it works for what it is, it eases social lubrication if nothing else, but it's not who I wanted to be. I thought I'd found my way out of it. I thought I'd stopped hiding. I thought I'd learned how to express the truth and be the most 'me' I could be. And I had! That's the thing. I had. But 'me' has been drained. In it's place is a shell that looks, talks, walks, acts like me but she isn't the person I'd just started to know and love.

I said earlier I don't want to go back and that is true. It's not about wanting to wish everything away, it's about wanting to know where to go from here. It seems like everything that happened should have this big important life lesson attached to it. I don't just mean: 'don't fall in love with alcoholics going through a divorce'. That's too obvious and too much about him. I want to learn something about me from it all, see an aspect of myself from an angle I hadn't viewed before. At the moment, mostly, I feel empty, like everything that happened has just completely drained me. I just want to know how to fill myself back up again. I want a manual, a guide that explains what I have to do to get to where I want to go - but there isn't one and it pisses me off. It pisses me off a lot. I'm back asking a question that continuously haunts me and I never really seem to escape from: what now? (Really though, what now?)

Smells I have smelt

Last night, as my gay husband was escorting myself and my heterosexual life partner (HLP) home after a gig we had all attended (that I think we might have accidentally, and without our knowledge, been sucked through a wormhole at some point on the 'to' journey and actually witnessed an event from 1993 - or maybe acoustic singer/songwriter evenings always have and always will have that Jeff Buckley/Ani DiFranco-knockoff vibe about them - either way, beards, caterwauling and dyed red hair a-go-go) we smelt a curious, and distinctly unpleasant smell emanating from somewhere in the nearby vicinity.

I was the first one to notice the foul odor. Unlike my hearing, my sense of smell is particularly acute. It's a blessing and a curse, namely I'm good at identifying when I really need a shower but I also can't stomach milk that's 'on the turn' like the rest of my family (who appear to have the constitution of wild boars and will eat food way past it's sell-by-date as some sort of test of their man/woman-hood). Both my mother and father are like this, 'it's fine! It's only a week past the use-by date!' was a familiar refrain in my household growing up. If you want to impress them then going round either of their houses (them not living together and all) and chowing down on a piece of bread with signs of mold starting on the crust is probably your best bet. If you then agree to finish the yogurt that's been hanging around for a week too long at the back of the fridge my mother will probably insist you marry me or my brother immediately due to you demonstrably being of 'good stock' (my dad would be less impressed with that as he was probably saving that yoghurt for himself). Being a wuss (or 'woos' as my mother insists on spelling it) when it comes to food that's edible-but-yet-not-really-edible is another reason (and possibly the main one) for me being the black sheep of the family.

Anyway, the smell.

'It's probably just the magic tree. It's been stinking my shit up for days. That's all I can smell on myself lately' said Gay Husband.

It was not a magic tree smell.

To me it smelt of really strong cheese left over an open drain for a few days. HLP just thought it smelt of poo. Gay Husband insisted the only thing he could smell was the magic tree until, five minutes after the initial smell was smelt by moi it wafted over to his nostrils and he reacted like someone had punched him in face. 'FUCK. ME' he exclaimed 'I get it! I get the smell! OPEN YOUR WINDOWS!'

'That's making it worse!'

'Is it?'

I don't KNOW!'

'Do the windows up then!'

'No! It's even WORSE now!'

'TURN OFF THE HEATERS, TURN OFF THE HEATERS!'

'Oh god, it seems to be clearing. I can't smell it so bad now'

'I can! Jesus wept!'

'Oh fuck. I can too! SOMEBODY HELP US!'

We just couldn't work out if the call was coming from inside the house so to speak. Windows up seemed to incubate the smell yet windows down appeared to exacerbate the issue. However, it wasn't until I got home that I was able to verify that that's not 'just what Portsmouth smells like' which is what the consensus had agreed upon...
'Maybe this is just the smell of Portsmouth?'
'That's make sense'
... but was in fact dog poo on my shoe. I think I should feel more guilty for accusing Portsmouth of smelling like dog poo but I don't. People who have been there will be able to explain why.

It sort of reminds me of the time I smelt the foulest stench of my life, which was in fact originating from the newest garbage heap built on Portsmouth's border, but because it hit my nose precisely five seconds after my friend Farr ran over a dead swan ( :( faces all round) now, whenever the breeze is blowing my way and I am unfortunate enough to smell the garbage dump, it just smells to me like dead swan. As far as I am concerned that's what dead swans smell like. Like 15,000 tonnes of waste piled on top of each other.

Anyway, that concludes my discussion of 'bad smells I have smelt'. Tune in next week for 'gross things I have seen' (*spoiler alert* pus is involved!) that will conclude the series of lectures on 'shit no-one really wants to know about but you seem compelled to tell everyone anyway'*.

*Maybe that's just what I should rename this blog?

Oestrogen overload

After watching Gossip Girl, America's Next Top Model, and Project Runway I am suffering oestrogen overload.

At this rate I'll become a proper girl who washes her hair on a regular basis and doesn't figure that 'probably no-one will notice a little grease. But then it won't matter if they do'. A girl who doesn't get overwhelmingly excited at the thought of going home because it means getting to take her bra off and put her Wizard of Oz themed jimbly-jamblies on. A girl who has painted nails that can last more than one day without getting chipped (I refuse to believe such a creature exists yet I catch glimpses of them all the time). A girl who knows how to wear make up without eighteen tonnes of black eyeliner (I can do all make up or no make up - not in between make up). A girl who keeps high heels on for more than an hour without giving up on walking ever again.

You know, proper girls.

I probably won't ever be a proper girl.

Today's Lesson

You ever been about 5 minutes into a conversation with someone and realised you are not who they think you are but it's passed the point where you can comfortably point that out?

Because I live in a sitcom this is a semi-regular thing for me.

Last week I was doing an 'event' in the office canteen of a well-known multinational corporation. An 'event' for those not cool enough to know is where I stand at a table with lots of leaflets on it and look vaguely friendly when people nervously approach said table. Welcome to the glamorous world of outreach work.

I was earlier than expected and toyed with the idea of hanging around outside but figured I could just wait for my colleague (who had organised the whole thing) on the sofa's inside the foyer.

This was my first mistake.

As I walked up to the reception to check I could just sit quietly and mind my own business, not disturbing anyone, and await my colleague, the King of Nerds came out. I have, for my sins, worked for this particular multinational corporation before. The office I was located in contained, pretty much exclusively, the archetypal Nathan Barley-slash-David Brent character. In other words, they all have spiky hair and are dicks. This office was ancient hippy-slash-nerd central. Jumpers, beards, and sandals. I saw a man smoking a pipe on my way from the car park just to give you an idea of what we are dealing with here (this is 100% true. I even did a double take). I mention this only to draw attention to the fact at how curious it is that animals stay in their packs even when they belong to the same species.

As I didn't know any contact names and had merely walked up to the receptionist as a courtesy to, as I have already said, ask if I may, please, just sit over here and not bother anyone at all, she decided that the King of Nerds who had walked out of the office inner sanctum as I walked in was somehow connected to me.

'This is Sarah' she said 'she can't remember who she's been in contact with but I assume you must know about it' and then returned to playing computer solitaire (probably).

Hi Sarah. I'll just go get everyone else' he said

'This seems a bit extreme for something that had been billed to me as just standing in a canteen and handing out leaflets but ok' I thought.

The rest of the Nerd Herd came out to greet me and then started chatting 'bout shit that made no sense to me. You would have thought that might be my first clue but there's a lot of shit I have no idea about so I generally just try and smile and nod and say 'definatley' or 'oh yep, sure' in the right places whilst my brain wanders off and starts thinking about what I'm going to have for lunch.

'Sure... yes... oh right... mmm, definitely'

I'll be saying to your face

'I wonder if I can stop in at Greggs and get a veggie pasty on the way home. But then where would I park because it's right in the centre and I'll have to pay... Oh but I could park up at the top end of town and walk in, that'll only be 10 minutes in total. Assuming I get served in a timely fashion of course so maybe I should just get a sarnie from the garage? But they're always ming, hmm... Pasty it is. I'll risk it'

So goes my brain.

More often than not if I'm just blindly agreeing with you then I have no fucking idea what you just said. Don't let any of my enemies know about this, it could be used against me. Like when a gay called me Janine Butcher last week and I missed it and just nodded and now I'm being called Janine forever more.

It was around the time when the Mayor of Winchester turned up and I was introduced to him that I realised a mistake of some sort had been made. I am leaflet girl in the canteen that day. I'm not girl getting introduced to Mayor and Mayoress. If you had been watching closely you would have seen a look of dawning realisation followed closely by blind panic cross my face before I returned to polite indifference. I started staring out the window and willing my colleague to materalise in front of me there and then.

'You don't have to sit with me' I said 'I can just wait for Heather here if you have other things to do?'

Please leave please leave please leave. I don't know how I'm going to get myself out of this one with minimal embarrassment.

'No, no, it's nice to have a sit down actually'

Fuck you, goddamn middle-class politeness why do you continue to mock me?

This is when she FINALLY turned up. I've never been so happy to see someone I've only met once before. I practically jumped up and ran out the front door whilst shouting 'here she is!!!!'. I explained to her that I thought some horrible mess had been made and she laughed, walked through the reception doors and sorted shit out in less than 30 seconds. I was right in thinking I had nothing to do with whatever nerd project the Nerd Herd were running. So basically the whole mess was sorted and everyone was left thinking I'm a complete goon.

Again.

In conclusion, today's lesson boys and girls, is don't ever leave the house ever and certainly don't engage in conversation with anyone at all. Ever. Got that? Good.

Change has come

I finished knitting my rectangle, and by 'finished' I mean 'I ran out of wool and haven't bought any more and probably won't buy any more ever and I'll be left with an awkward shaped piece of knitting that is too small for a blanket and too wide for a scarf'. So that happened. I'm not sure why I persevered so long on that rectangle but it still feels unfinished and has no purpose other than to exist looking rectangular. Maybe I can bullshit it as some kind of feminist art piece. I didn't spend less than a year in art school and walk out without some bullshitting skills. That is basically all art school is good for.

I say that in the way I say most things, which is for effect ('If I don't marry Richard Herring then I will just DIE. I mean literally DIE') but art school did actually improve my creating skills to some extent and, looking back, some of the tasks they got us to perform (which seemed kind of lame at the time) I now have some appreciation for why they got us to do it:

Art bods
'Sit in a cupboard and then create something that makes you feel the way you did whilst sat in the cupboard'

My brain
'Um... no'

... One week later...

Art bods
'Sarah, did you actually sit in a cupboard? This doesn't have the feel of someone who really knows what it is to sit in a cupboard'

My brain
'Fuck you'

My mouth
'Of course I did. It was... dark and stuff'

Art bods
'hmm'

Actually, strike that one from the record. I still don't see the point of that. All I wanted to do was paint cool looking girls and doodle fakeband posters. They wanted me sit in the dark like some kind of early naughties Elizabeth Fritzl. I do however regret not finishing the year out at least. So maybe I have grown since then. Nowadays I have the presence of mind to complete knitted rectangles even though they are pointless. Change has come.

For Fudges Sake

This Saturday I'm DJing a wedding with my heterosexual life partner Farr and my gay husband Nick.

I told them both that I have spent the last week downloading music for this event but the most I've achieved is getting through the first season of 30 Rock.

Now I'm up at 3.24am, still a bit drunk from the pub, and making up for lost time by looking up songs by The Sweet and Abba and copying them to CDs and all I want is sweet sweet sleep.

Someone remind me that when I say I'm going to do something I should just get the fuck on and do it.

(However, I do really like 30 Rock so, in many ways, TOTALLY worth it)

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

Reasons why I am never leaving the house again #57:

Me: Can I get some non-drowsy hayfever tablets and some Athlete's Foot Powder please?
Pharmacist: For your face?
Me: Err no... [looking at my brother's foot as he raises the inflicted appendage off the floor (and I still couldn't tell you why either of us did that)] for... the feet
Pharmacist: Oh.

Reasons why I am never picking up the phone again #256:

Woman: Hi I'm from Blah Blah & Sons can I just ask you some questions? It won't take longer than 30 seconds
Me: [Note that I didn't even get to say hello as I picked up the phone so there was some hesitation while I considered hanging up, but I left it a beat too long so was forced to say...] Umm... Ok
Woman: Are you aged between 30 and 75?
Me: No
Woman: 75 to 80?
Me: No
Woman: Over 80?
Me: No, I'm 25
Woman: Ah

So, it would appear I look like I have Athlete's Foot on my face and I legitimately sound as if I am over the age of 80.

I'm never interacting with strangers again.

The sound of my life

Yes really

Winning at life

My two favourite hobbies in the world are being awesome and winning at life. So how is it that I’ve spent so much time and energy lately doing my worst two hobbies in the world; being lame and losing at life? Sitting and moping and sighing are not awesome activities. In the ‘Sazzictionary’ next to awesome are pictures of robots and Michael J Fox and falafel. There’s nothing to illustrate sitting and moping and sighing. So today I make a pledge – no more laming. Lame times are done with. I’m following the advice of one Barney Stinson; ‘when I’m sad I stop being sad and be awesome instead’. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just stop being sad and be awesome instead. But maybe from tomorrow cos today I’m a little hungover. Might I add, ‘a little hungover seven days into my new teetotal regime and the second day of hungoverness in this period of time at that’? Yes. I rule at being teetotal. We’ll add that to the list of things I rule at. Though, in fairness, I did get a half rather than a full third pint of Stella last night. That, to me, is quite a concession to make. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered a half pint in my life. Unless it was for someone else. Half pints are for girls who listen to Westlife and think movies without Reece Witherspoon constitutes edgy filmmaking; it’s just science. Although I’m happy to be an anomaly in many other respects I don’t like to argue with the immutable laws of science itself. But a half pint was ordered, thus creating a rift in the universe that will only be repaired when a version of me from a parallel universe wearing a Westlife t-shirt and with a ‘I [heart] Reece!!!!’ badge comes to find me and, despite our differences, we have to work together to put everything right. I’ll write about that more when it happens.

Anyhoo, I decided that teetotalism was a ridiculous idea for someone that is, how to put this.. erm… fairly liberal with their drinking habits. I’m someone that, when told of others who ‘don’t drink that much, I assume they mean ‘I only get comatose once a week through the healing power of liquor’. That is until I saw a tiny American girl get drunk on one pint and overheard a woman at work saying she’d gone all out at the weekend and had two glasses of Lambrini. This is a completely alien concept as far as I’m concerned. I understand teetotal means ‘no alcohol’ and that’s fine but ‘not much’ actually meaning ‘not much’. That’s… weird to me. How do you stop drinking once you’ve started? I mean really, I want to know. I guess you need a degree of restraint in the first place. I was busy listing my favourite robots when God was giving that particular life skill out. I toyed with the idea of cutting alcohol out altogether but I think my body would go into total shock if there wasn’t a certain level of Kronenberg or red wine in my bloodstream so plumped for only drinking on one night a week. Friday of this week was earmarked for that and I even managed to not go completely overboard. Half a bottle of red wine and then a pina colada while you watch Wayne’s World is pretty low-key as far as I’m concerned. Having zilcho dollarbucks meant I wasn’t tempted out of the house on Saturday but then on Sunday a certain gay boy phoned and said he needed a drinking buddy. Normally when I’m watching Curb’d and decorating mixtape covers I will refuse to leave my spot but when it’s your favourite gay and he sounds in distress you have no choice.

‘Now?’
'Yes'
‘Well give me five minutes so I can make myself presentable’
‘Should I give you an hour or so?’
‘I feel I should tell you I find that really insulting’

Anyway, despite that we went to the pub and bitched about boys and my resolve to drink only one night a week crumbled pretty much the minute I picked up the phone. If your favourite gay wants to hang with his favourite alcoholic skank then it seems disingenuous to not have her come out to play. I’m glad I did. It’s steeled my resolve to not be lame anymore. But the fact remains that this teetotal thing is not going quite as planned.

So why are you even bothering being ‘teetotal’ (try and imagine the quotations are pool of sarcasm in this instance) in the first place I hear you ponder (that was pondering right? What you did just now? Ok good, just checking). Well, there are two things, over the last few months I’ve given up a lot of things; sex, drugs, being awesome, which I kind of needed to for my own sanity (except for the last one… but it turns out if you use something to make yourself feel better and then take that away you’re just confronted with the alarming realisation that you have to make yourself feel better and then the awesomeness is left a bit battered and bruised for a while) but I haven’t ever considered not drinking anymore. Partly because I think teetotallers are boring and lame, and partly because I think I’m mildly addicted to alcohol (if addiction means that you can’t actually give something up) (see above). So I kind of wanted to see if I could. Until I realised that I couldn’t (see above). Secondly, I’m loathe to admit this, but I have started a new diet plan: The Good Life Diet*. Of course, at first I picked it up thinking it would give me some hints and tips on being more like Felicity Kendall but alas no, it’s to make you be less of a lard arse (which, I guess could be considered being more like Felicity Kendall in many ways). I don’t really go in much for diets and stuff, particularly after living in a house of bulimics/sometime anorexics. Apparently, being super skinny doesn’t equate to happiness. I know, I know. It’s going to take a while to process this fact but I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes. However, although I’m not looking to be Portsmouth’s version of Mischa Barton, I would like to be able to run away if I’m in imminent danger or late for a train rather than just stand there huffing and puffing like Homer does in that Simpsons episode when Marge becomes a policewoman. That kind of fitness is quite useful even if it’s infinitely more exciting to sit on a sofa watching The Hills and trying to work out if it’s real or not. It’s a reality show where they pause to get reaction shots? And act surprised when they’re enemies or whatever turn up even though they must have known about it because surely the producers would have mentioned it? Is it a soap? These aren’t really their real lives is it? IS IT? I find the whole thing incredibly perplexing. But yeah, this diet dealio, it’s got Oprah’s seal of approval and seems very sensible (the ethos being – eat less and move around more) but while you ease yourself gently into the new routines this contains you have to [cue sinister ‘dun dun dun’ music]… stop drinking. So that’s mainly why. Because a book told me to. But then I kind of ignored the book and did my own thing anyway. I have however been exercising the last couple of days. For reasons and motivations I’d rather not get into here I’ve amassed a fair collection of workout DVDs, some of which I like better than others (For instance, ‘30 Minute Workout’ with annoying piece of string Grade A bitch face patronising bitch is not as fun as ‘Bodylicious’ with Vogue from Gladiators and this dance dude guy who was a judge on Wade Robson’s Shakedown).

Saturday was my first try at my ‘Hip Hop 2’ DVD. Of course we all remember the existential pathos that Hip Hop 1 gave the world but would Hip Hop 2 deliver the goods? Well, yes and no. If ‘deliver the goods’ means ‘make you look like a twat’ then it did so in spades. I can’t do a freaking pas de bourrée to save my life. I can do jazz hands quite well. Pas de bourrée less so. It also doesn’t help that I don’t know my left from my right so when you’re being told to do something most people find fairly simple such as ‘move the left leg back’ I either have to pause for long enough to work out which is left or just jump and twirl and hope for the best. I did eventually start getting the hang of Hip Hop 1 and can now donkey kick with the best of them (assuming the ‘best of them’ are not actually that good) so I will probably keep this one up. Then, on Sunday I did ‘power yoga’. Sweet mother of Keith Moon. Basically you’re just standing and stretching and balancing. That’s all it is. It’s been a fair while since I did any yoga but I remember it mostly for the interesting noises it caused and having to hold wacky poses for a really long time whilst a kindly camp Italian man said things that you weren’t sure you couldn’t understand because of his accent or because he was a yoga teacher (knowing of course that yoga teachers are, by nature or design, nuts and therefore likely to be fairly incomprehensible). That, and being utterly rubbish (but surprisingly limber for a chubby chick). But this shizz is way more effed up than that. I was sweating like a fat dude after eating a 16oz steak. Profusely. You have to twist and turn and press and pull like playdoh in a three year olds hands. Up and down and round and round. Stand here. Do this. Now put your leg here. And jump back and do the downward facing dog. Now stand up and swan dive. It’s like a mildly more energetic form of twister. Yet, when all is said and done, all you’re doing is standing and stretching and balancing. I don’t get why it’s so hard. Unless it’s just that I genuinely am the most unfit person on the planet. But today I am aching from the tip of my shoulders to the backs of my thighs. But in a slightly smug way so I think I’ll do it again (being smug is my third favourite hobby).

Yeah, I can rock this being awesome thing. I think I owe it to the world to give it my best shot at any rate.

*It's actually 'The Best Life Diet' which is much less funny when it comes to referencing 70's sitcoms

Claims to fame

1. The back of my head is in The Datsuns music 'promo' for the song 'In Love'.
   N.B. You can't actually see me, just vague dark shapes that appear to be people shaped. I was upset they done it in black and white as I was wearing a bright pink headscarf that night so in colour I would have been easily identifiable. I still feel the same level of disappointment that you can't make me out now as I did when I first saw it all those many moons ago.
   SAZZ FACT 1: I once stood next to a winsomely geeky looking individual that was also living off this impressive claim to fame. Apparently he had been stood next to me for the entire gig. I did not recognise him.
   SAZZ FACT 2: The day after this was filmed my car was driven into by a lorry 5 miles outside of Newquay. The paramedics were worried that I said yes when they asked if I had neck ache but, to my continued shame and embarrassment, I had to admit that I had in fact been 'headbanging' the night before and my neck had been hurting all day so that probably explained that.
   
   
2. I once saw Russell Brand in the Oxford Street branch of H&M. This was back in the days of him presenting the Dancefloor Chart. Having now read his autobiography I know this is around the area where our Russ used to go and 'score'. He was on his phone for a very long time, so looking back now, I reckon he was making a 'deal' of some kind. I texted two friends both of whom were like 'who??' and when I explained further they were both like 'URGH! I HATE HIM!'. Which made me feel like an idiot for getting so excited but regardless, my mother and I flitted about all giggly and girly and desperately hoping he would notice AND YET AT THE SAME TIME would NOT notice us. Suffice it to say, he did not notice us. Bloody junkies.
   
   
3. I had two emails read out on BBC 6music. One was on a one-off show about the top cover versions of all time which Liz Kershaw presented. Alas, she RUINED my hilarious joke about M-People by using the wrong inflections on the wrong words and obviously not reading it through in her head before reading it out to the listening public. I am still bitter about this. (Although, rather ironically perhaps, I can't remember the actual joke... I think it had something to do with stabbing myself in the ears. I know I thought about it for a while before submitting the form with my picks of top 3 cover versions and worst ever cover version at any rate) (M-People were my worst one... Just to make that clear). The other was to Russell Howard's show, specifically addressed to Jon Richardson as the week before he had said no-one has ever used the word 'ennui' in a text message before, when I had used it THAT DAY to Chloe ('The coffee machine hates me too*. I ordered tea and got lukewarm milky sugar water. This is not helping my ennui') . He claimed that I was not using the word 'ennui' in the correct manner and basically implied that I wasn't as clever as I think I am. I loved him before but, from that day forward my love has known no bounds (it really *is* that simple if you want to pick up chicks - the ol' Kenickie mandate of 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' works a thousand times over. But then, men are just the same - the ones you want never want you, the ones you're *just* short of spitting on think on tend to treat you like a goddess. Universally, in the stages of evolution, something has gone a bit wrong somewhere).
   *This was following on from the fact that I had been previously been bemoaning the One Stop guy's unrelenting reign of HATE against me. I don't know what I did, or when (although I suspect it was the fact that I flashed my gusset once or twice (i.e. 'all the time') when bending down to get my weekend paper of choice and was constantly buying tobacco - he seemed like a bit of a traditionalist in the 'girls shouldn't really smoke or flash their gussets on a Sunday' type way) . He said probably 7 words in total to me over the course of a year which, considering I went in nearly every day and he served me, on average, four times a week, is pretty impressive. Sadly, under normal circumstance, I would have thought he was awesome as he sported a rather fetching moustache and yet I was forced to join in the game of non-communication on a level that even I found a bit much. No eye contact, no verbal directioning, he wouldn't even tell me how much my items came to. I would be FORCED to work it out in my head or constantly make sure I had notes on me just so I wouldn't lose the game by having to say 'how much, sorry?'
   
   
4. I came first in a Crayola colouring-in competition when I was seven (in the 'under-8's' category). I'm not entirely convinced this is true. I don't even remember what I actually coloured in to win this supposed competition and although I DO remember getting an AWESOME set of Crayola colouring-in pencils in this yellow spiral stand with ALL the colours of the Crayola rainbow (cerulean and magenta are still hands down favourites) I don't know for certain that this wasn't like, fifth prize and my mum just didn't want me to feel bad for losing. Although that's never been her style so maybe I did win. Or maybe it was all a glorious dream concocted by my child's mind. Either way I still fucking LOVE colouring-in.
   
   And in at number five with a bullet...
   
   
5. I once saw Paul Ross and his wife in Guildford High Street. Yes, THE Paul Ross that does This Morning sometimes and every single talking head show every produced. I basked in the presence of greatness and let me tell you... it was pretty wild. Paul had on jeans that were a mite too tight for him and had chosen the bold fashion choice of topping this off with a denim shirt THAT HE HAD TUCKED IN TO THE AFOREMENTIONED JEANS. It was, and I hope this goes without saying, insanely erotic. I still have dreams about it.
   

So that's my life. That's the anecdotes I live off again and again. When I meet people I don't bother with names or small talk, I just launch into telling them all of these little gems of my life. The one that didn't quite make it into the top 5 is the time that Lisa Moorish (she of the now defunct band 'Kill City' and Liam Gallagher and Pete Doherty babymama 'fame') complemented the tie I was wearing. It doesn't make the annuls of fame due to the fact that I still feel embarrassed when I think of it. See, I went to a gig at a TINY venue called The Joiners to see a new, much-buzzed about band, that called themselves 'The Libertines' with my brother. He went to get more beer whilst I held our position at the very front of the stage. Next to me where two very hip young gunslingers ('twats') that also had on ties. It was only when she came down off stage (they is no 'back stage' at the Joiners. There is 'stage' and then there is 'floor'. Although there is a holding area in the basement for the band and their hangers on but you have to walk through the crowd to reach the basement door so, as I say, there is 'stage' and there is 'floor') she said 'hey I love your tie... you three look great all coordinated with that look'. The two hip young gunslingers looked at her in shock and then looked at me which such DISDAIN on their faces that Lisa could think they would EVER allow a creature such as myself to be in their 'gang' that I vowed never to wear a tie again. And I haven't (for the most part). Although it was around the time that Avril was tooling around singing about 'sk8r bois' in her charmingly illiterate way, and I took umbrage with the idea of anyone assuming I'd copied my look from her so had to wave goodbye to the ties. I soon moved on to headscarfs (see point 1) and the world kept turning.

Missed claims to fame: Over the weekend I had a chance to tell one of my favourite bloggers (I hate that word) that I loved his blog and chickened out every time he passed me by. The first time he went by I think I seriously freaked him out as I recall my train of thought went something like this 'God there's a lot of people that dress like me here, I thought I had my own Sazz style but no. I'm just the same as the rest of them, that saxophonist is cute. I wonder what he looks like without his hat. Where's Chloe? I'm bored. Huh, that guy looks familiar, where do I... OH MY GOD IT'S MATTHEW CROSBY. STAY CALM STAY CALM. Should I tell him I love his blog? How wanky would that make me sound on a scale of 1 to 10? OH CHRIST HE CAN SEE ME I HOPE MY FACE ISN'T BROADCASTING ALL THESE THOUGHTS. Ok, he's nearly here now and he's looking at me with mild concern. I should say something so he knows I'm not a nutjob that stares at people for no reason [please note: this is a lie], shall I just tap him on the arm as he goes past and say 'hey! Matthew! Love your work!' or just play it cool 'aren't you Matthew Crosby? Oh yeah your blog is really funny' all suave like or just... oh. He's gone'

It's hard to look nonchalent when you're on top of a bin

I’ve actually been someone productive at work the last couple of days. This is probably the first time in 2008 that I could honestly say such a thing. Seeing as we’re now approaching mid-February this is possibly not something to be proud of.

However, it would appear that ‘The Man’ is doing everything in his power to restrict me in my productive streak and return me to my ‘wishing my life away’ state.

I know this because I spent the last half hour of a meeting that had already taken up 57 minutes of my life (I counted) discussing access and drainage issues in regards to Building Regulations and Planning.

Things I know about access and drainage? Nothing.

Things I WANT to know about access and drainage? N-O-T-H-I-N-G

Things I now know about access and drainage? Pretty much nothing. I can work a pretty good daydream in times of strife. Literally HOURS have been whiled away as I spend time in a reverie. I’ve become a bit obsessed with Hannah Spearritt’s hair in recent weeks. I love white blond hair and her white blond locks are particularly fabulous. My mum even told me off yesterday for mentioning it too much. I can’t help it. I’m thinking about it a lot. That and falafel. Falafel thoughts are occupying me no end of late.

However, despite Hannah’s hair and Israeli national dishes keeping me sane I figure I’ve paid enough penance to write a blog entry at work. So that’s what I’m going to do.

The day I locked myself out of my house
*what follows is based on true events*

The day I locked myself out of my house was 12 hours after my parents had gone on holiday. Before they left we joked about the wild parties I’d be throwing (apparently they think they’ve raised a daughter who lives her life according to the rules laid down in Animal House), the non-clearing up after myself I’d be doing, the irresponsible acts I’d be performing when not under the watchful parental gaze. The fact that I spent three of the last four years not living at home and I am 25 years old seems to have escaped their attention. I mean, we all know it’s just part of the banter my family indulges in (FYI if you meet me and I’m mean to you, that means I like you. It’s how I’ve been taught to show affection) but there is a kernel of truth in the non-trust my mother and step-father have in me. I’m not an untrustworthy person. I’m not the person you wait to see how and when they’re going to fuck everything up (well, not unless it’s got something to do with my love life). For the most part, I'm Captain Sensible (no, not that one).

Yet, I say that, and then 12 hours after my parents go on holiday I lock myself out of my house.

Despite my love of stuff I have a pretty free-and-easy hippy attitude when it comes to looking after the stuff I own. I have things and sometimes I leave things behind. It doesn’t bother me too much as I put my faith in the universe to reimburse me as and when it sees fit. Some people think this makes me a womble*, but picking up free stuff does not a womble make. It’s just a universe-bartering system that I have been inducted into. I often leave various items of clothing, jewelry, accessories in different places (normally the sorts of places where alcohol is served) maybe not intentionally, but I rarely get upset at this. I just always hope they find their way to a good home (I find if you're going to adopt this philosophy it helps to be slightly forgetful and not to swing too much or too often into the realms of sentimentality). Having said that, I have been really missing my leopard-print shoes that I’ve lost at some point between going to Spain in the summer and, well, some point within the last week or so when I suddenly though about wearing them again. I just have to remember when the tears start prickling at my eyes that possessions do not maketh the man (but they can maketh the man’s feet look really good and feel very comfortable. Oh shoes, where fore art thou?). [Oh, by the by, I’ve worked out a strategy to help with my inability to gauge timescales – I simply think back to what outfit I was wearing at the time (yes, for some reason, I have catalogued every outfit I’ve worn in the last two years in my mind and this - what can only be described as - superpower has only just been brought to my attention. I AM MOTHERFUCKING CLARK KENT! Sort of.) This obviously only works in the sense of ‘remember when we went to… and did…’. It will not work if you say ‘what were you wearing on Tuesday 12th May?’. For the record, one more time, I HAVE NO CONCEPT OF DATES. But if you try the first approach then I will immediately know what outfit I was sporting. If it was summery then it must be around summer time, same for wintry looks. Sazz friends are encouraged to put this to the test. I need to make sure it actually works and I haven’t just been tricking myself into thinking I have this superpower].

However, that wasn’t how I locked myself out of the house. I just thought I’d mention it.

No, what happened was that there were keys in the inside lock and the door was ‘on the snip’ as we say (I think everyone else in the world says ‘latch’ or ‘catch’). This means that you can only open the door by putting your keys in and turning. However, as I mentioned there were keys in the inside lock meaning that I couldn’t put the keys on the outside all the way in the lock to turn them.

Thus I was locked out without being able to properly lock the door in the first place. Welcome to my world.

This happened as I was leaving for work. I decided there and then to just go to work and worry about it later. I figured if I couldn’t get in then burglars couldn’t get in and also thought that if I had some more mulling over time then I could figure out a way of somehow solving this minor conundrum.

I got in my car, and, as I do every morning, prayed to all the appropriate Gods, said all the correct incantations, and it eventually grumbled into life so off I drove. Seven minutes into my ride to work I had a flash of inspiration. Lightbulbs flickered into view all around my head. If I can just fit my hand through the letterbox then I can take the keys on the inside lock out and then open the door easy as pie. A smug smile played at the corners of my mouth. God I'm good. I thought. Smugly.

Then I went to work, did work things, and finally got home ready to put my plan into action. I was, and I hope this goes without saying, kind of excited to see if this would actually work.

Question: Have you ever tried putting your hands through a letterbox?

Yes, I thought you would have done. As such, you will know that if you have arms that are wider in circumference than a strawberry bootlace (i.e. everyone but Amy Winehouse) then you'll know that the furthest a normal sized person can get their arm in is generally half way between your wrist and your elbow.

This does not leave a lot of 'bendability' to twist one's arm back and fiddle with keys in a lock. The most you can do is move it from one side and then back to the other side. And then back to the other side again. You can wave basically. That's it.

My cunning plan looked a little like it might have failed at the first hurdle.

What I need is something like an arm, but smaller than an arm and with some kind of hooking device,I mused. Looking around for inspiration my eyes fell upon such a thing. Hello Kitty umbrella. The only umbrella I've never successfully lost. Old faithful friend. I'm trusting you Hello Kitty umbrella. Work your Japanese cartoony magic.

Did she?

Did she fuck.

She was even more useless than my arm. Not helped by the fact that I was doing this blind. However, the feeling that this was quite similar to some kind of trial from the Crystal Maze did make me feel a little better. If I can somehow relate one of my predicaments to a tv show then it kind of makes everything ok.

I stood back and really took a look at what was going on. I was trying to break into my own house by using a Hello Kitty umbrella.

Something in my life had gone very wrong at some point.

A new plan of attack was needed. Maybe I forgot to lock one of the back doors! All that was standing between me and checking this out was the 6 foot fence that surrounds my parents property. How do you get over a 6 foot fence when you're a 5 foot 6 inch girl who is possibly the most unfit human being in England?

You climb your dustbin and scale down the other side. Thus fulfilling your Peter Parker quotient for the day. So that's what I did. In my mind I assumed It would be a hop and a jump. Easy peesy.

In reality? Not so much.

First I had trouble clambering on top of the bin. It had been raining and these new fangled modern bins are all smooth and slidey. Anyone watching me would, I imagine, be unable to shake the image of seals flailing wildly over rocks on the oceanside. But slightly less gracefully.

After eventually trying the running jump technique (failing), the hands behind ass, shimmy up with a jump at the end technique (success). I was now atop a bin. It pains me slightly to say this probably ranks top 5 proudest moments of my life ever. However, the journey was only half completed. A quick peek over the back gate established that I was not going to be able to jump. Not unless I wanted a broken ankle. I weighed up this idea but decided that explaining to the paramedics how I'd found myself in such a predicament would really be the uncomfortable conversation to end all uncomfortable conversations.

I will do anything to avoid middle-class embarrassment.

So, instead, I bent double over the gate and reached to open the bolt. Again, I was doing this blind, stretched out to full capacity and leaning heavily on a plastic bin and not-exactly-stable piece of wood. I pretty much figured that this was how I was going to die. Falling from a bin and smashing my head open, all in an effort to open a gate. Just as I was about to convert to religion and ask God for help/just kill myself there and then the gate swung open. I hopped off the bin and looked round the back of the house for any likely entry points. I started wishing I'd watched that program with Dom of Kristian-and-Dominic fame where people get burgled to see how easy it is for them to get burgled (I mean really. I hate people that say shit like 'and this is what I pay my tv license for?' but if they're saying it in relation to this show then more power to them). However, the house , as far as I could see had indeed 'Beat the Burglar'. It was tucked up safe. No living out of Julie Newmar fantasies for me. I was starting to contemplate whether or not to sleep in my car (honest to God, the reason I discounted it was because I didn't want to go to work in the same outfit two days in a row. Fashion dictates everything dahlink) when I remembered I had a corkscrew in my bag (don't ask) (well, you can... I like wine ok?). The back door keys have a lock that is slightly wider than the front door one so, on a whim, I tried jimmying the keys out of there with the corkscrew so I could use the keys I had on me to open the back door (again, if there are keys in the inside lock then you can't get the keys on the outside to go in fully enough to turn them. If I could push the keys out then it would be a bingo bongo bish bash bosh job done situation).

And that's exactly what I did. Saved by a corkscrew.

Who said being an alcoholic was a bad thing? (I know everyone does. Shut up).

* Which reminds me of the time Chloe saw my Moomin snowglobe for the first time and reacted as thus; ‘What?! You like Moomins?? Then why did you get all offended when I said you reminded me of a Moomin??’ I’ll leave you all to ponder that question for yourselves.

The Fall and Rise of Sazz

I was freaking out a bit last night. I had that 'funny feeling' in my tummy, and not the good kind like you used to get climbing the ropes in gym class. The bad kind where it feels like you swallowed a hunk of lead for a laugh, only to realise too late that you're so-called mates are laughing at you and not with you, so a hilarious prank becomes an embarrassing example of your royal dumbassness. To try and alleviate the lead stomach feeling I sat at my computer and rewrote the beginning of my 'opus' (please note: the use of quotations makes this name for it somewhat ironic instead of me coming across as a hideous egomaniac). I managed to discard 15,000 words of what I'd originally done (some of which I hope to salvage at some point) which sounds bad but I was really struggling with what I had. It felt constricting rather than liberating. Normally I get a sense of having unloaded a big bundle of tension after a writing session but I never felt that with those words, all of the words I had on those pages were jarring and inelegant.

Part of the problem, I think, is that for some reason I need to feel a little conflict to write well; not so much that I'm endlessly weeping into a pillow and indulging my self-pitying urges but not so little that I skip around humming S Club 7 songs and making small talk with kittens. Truth be told that latter version of me freaks me out a bit, I feel uncomfortable being comfortable, so, in some weird way, having spent the last few weeks feeling part of a team - both at work and in my social life - it was a relief to start this new job. I knew even before the interview that the new job was not going to be a good fit. Slightly too long in the legs and too short in the arms for it to feel like 'me' when I was (metaphorically) trying it on. The interview was fairly horrific (as regular readers will know) and I'm still *still* slightly incredulous that I was offered the job at all. I accepted the offer as it's the most money I can earn in the next six months without having to get my baps out. Although I'm not nearly attractive enough to be a high-class prostitute so possibly this current job will earn me more than I could get playing out my Billie Piper fantasies.

Anyway.

There was no-one there that made me giggle my stupid giggle today (which is all I've done for the last few weeks at the call centre - of course, only in between the times I was getting all of the 30 phone calls per day . When the phone calls were taking place I had just started to perfect the art of sounding bored enough so the caller knows you hate them but polite enough so that they couldn't take offense). I doubt there will be anyone at my new job that manages to elicit that giggle. Everyone is nice but in that friendly-yet-cold way, so I'm not holding out hope for becoming BFF's with any of the middle-aged ladies who populate the office I'm working in. That's ok though, I didn't realise quite how much I'd missed being the odd one out. It was a relief to be able to sit there reading through stuff I'm not interested in and listen in to conversations that don't concern me one iota. I feel a lot safer operating within those boundaries.

Apart from a return to the safe cocoon of social ineptitude, the other thing I love is the aesthetics of the office itself. It's pure Reginald Perrin. Beige, brown, and orange goes the colour scheme, narrow corridors, and plants on the desks. The canteen is just a sideboard with a hatch for chrissakes (AND a tea lady comes round every morning at 10.30! I mean, really, COME ON!). I adore it. I mean, it's horrible but horrible in the way paisley is horrible; ugly and impractical for almost every occasion but ultimately irresistible.

Anyway, to give you an idea of what I'm talking about take a gander at this (I know, I know, it's from a clip show but was the only thing I could find that illustrated the idea I carry around in my head of Reggie's office. Plus, you can always ignore the talking heads if you wish but you could do worse than listen to Lucy Porter, Steve Furst, and Mil Millington):



It's uncannily uncanny to where I work. Seriously.

What I liked were the reactions two of my friends had. When I told Farr she replied with; 'dont get takin your clothes off and disappearing into the sea reggie' and has subsequently decided I should now be honoured with the nickname 'Reggie' for evermore. I think a nickname update is in order so am more than happy with this, for a start I have the misanthropic and curmudgeonly personality down pat and it also means that I possibly will end up taking my clothes off and disappearing into the sea, only to reappear at a later date with a multi-million pound empire that sells useless tat to idiots. Something to look forward to.

Nick's suggestion was that I start dressing like Margot Leadbetter.

I think it's fair to say that I'd be doing myself a huge disservice if I didn't take his idea under advisement.

How can you become as awesome as you are and still feel like a loser?

Despite my social skills normally hitting somewhere around the 'lame' to 'retarded' mark, I love interviews. You get to sit in a room and talk about how awesome you are for an hour or so. Normally you have to pay someone to provide a service like that, but with interviews it's free! And what's more, it's kind of expected you're going to big yourself up so you have free reign to really lay your awesomeness on thick. I like to pretend to be this dynamic young go-getter who drops corporate-speak into conversation as easily as Britney Spears drops babies. I'm cool, I'm calm, I'm collected. I'm the diametrically opposed version of myself in everyday life. It's like playing dress-up.

But then, THEN, I went and had an interview at a certain County Council today and all my joy at partaking in interviews has been sucked out. Maybe forever.

I arrived on the dot of 11.26. This is about 20 minutes later than I would normally turn up for an interview (I freak the fuck out if I'm not early for everything. It's called 'being a control freak' and will probably contribute to an old age plagued with heart problems... the smoking, all-round-chubbiness, and no exercise might help with that too). This is after having been blown to bits thanks to the ever-so-slightly breezy weather conditions and left with a hairstyle resembling Amy Winehouse on a bad day (relative to her). The signing in process went all quite smoothly although I started to wonder if I'd overdressed a tad as everyone else appeared to be in tee-shirts and mildly-jazzy neck scarfs and I was in my 'I look and feel like a goon but at least I'm wearing a suit' suit. I had been pre-warned in my letter that there would be a one hour exam. 'Oh snap, there's no way I won't rock the fuck out of that shit' I thought somewhat naively (and arrogantly). 'My mad exam skills will see me through anything', figuring that maybe I'd have to read through some examples of the sort of problems I might encounter in the job and then have to apply some super-badass mojo to fix it. Again, bullshitting is one of the few talents I possess that actually does come in handy once in a while (my other 'talents' of procrastinating and sitting down whilst judging people is less marketable in the current business climate). But, no. They wanted me to DO WORK. Like, actual work that I might be asked to do in the job. This is something I'm less able to cope with. Not that I'm a bad employee but I learn by asking questions and being all annoying to whoever is training me. Not by being stuck in a room on my lonesome and having to emerge 60 minutes later with a handful of graphs depicting fuck knows what and a flow chart all about the process of obtaining planning permission.

For the first five minutes I had trouble reading the words and was overwhelmed with an urge to run very far and very fast away from the building and go chain smoke on a park bench somewhere instead. I'm much more comfortable doing that than being shown up as having no right in being given an interview for a job which I obviously know I am no way near qualified for. However, I persevered and then (what felt like) ten minutes later the very lovely-and-obviously-bordering-on-having-a-mental-disorder lady that was tasked with showing me into the office popped her head round and said in a much too jolly way 'Time's Up!'.

I was about two-thirds of the way through the most impossible assignment I've ever been asked to do (to the point that I'm actually wondering if they were just trying to mind-fuck us before the interview to see how we cope under pressure... but then this is LOCAL government we're talking about and not MI5) and was this (*indicates tiny amount*) close to asking for more time but by this point I'd pretty much decided that, to paraphrase George McFly, this job was not my 'density' so figured I might as well get the treat of running through my 'seriously, I'm fucking awesome' speech in the actual interview. The only problem being of course that they now had physical proof that I am in fact a complete wastrel.

At this point I feel I should point out that, even before all this, I probably should have been aware that the job wouldn't be a good fit for me when, well firstly, I didn't quite understand the job description one-hundred per cent. That might have been our first clue. Perhaps. But also, we were required to fill in a medical form which had the AUDACITY to ask 'Have you ever taken any drug for reasons other than medicinal?' I obviously ticked 'no' (as I'm not a complete imbecile) whilst smirking knowingly to myself (because I like to pretend I live inside a tv show at times and figured camera 4 would pick up on the irony). But COME ON! whose business is it of yours 'The Man'? I'm not a skag-hag or a crack-whore if that's what you want to know but other than that... Fuck off. Anyway, depends on what your definition of 'medicinal' is doesn't it? I won't start my soapboxing on the drug laws in this country but the idea that they even have the right to ask that makes me want to punch holes in walls. I even had to provide my average weekly intake of alcohol and tobacco. Am I going to coming into work drunk? No. Am I going to come into work hungover occasionally? Possibly. Am I going to reek of fags all day long? No. Am I giving myself a slow yet assured death due to my smoking addiction? Possibly. But, to be honest, it's got nowt to do with you (or you, or you, maybe you) so leave me alone to destroy myself if I so choose. As long as I guarantee to turn up for work and do the job your concern ends there mmmkay?

So there was all that running through the back of my mind anyway... and then I met the interviewer.

Good.
Grief.

Occasionally men around the 50 mark seem to get a bit 'familiar' with me. I have no idea why; I have Molly Ringwald hair, a nose stud, and I collect Moomin memorabilia. I have nothing in common with a white haired aging hipster (although I do really enjoy air-drumming to the first 3 minutes 24 seconds of 'Heart of the Sunrise' by Yes... but I also have generous-sized breasts and a fair amount of junk in the trunk which may have more to do with it). When I was planning on doing my masters in Guildford we were shown round a house by a man called 'Frank' who had no sense of humour, a cowboy-themed mobile ringtone, and a rather disturbing habit of staring at me incredibly intently when he spoke (even when it was Chloe asking the questions he would still direct his answers at me). Frank really really creeped me out.

The interviewer, almost immediately, reminded me of Frank.

I got up to shake his hand and we had this weird fumbly moment where our hands wouldn't quite get into the right 'handshaking' positions. I'm not entirely convinced Mr CreepyInterviewer wasn't just trying to find ways of holding my hand for longer than is comfortable.

I was then shown into a room where (thank Christ) there sat a pleasantly plump looking chap who must have been about 35. With introductions out of the way the interview FINALLY started. I was confident and relaxed and chatty (mostly because by this point I didn't care). The only moment I was thrown slightly when I caught Mr PleasantlyPlump smiling to himself as he looked upon Mr CreepyInterviewer giving me the eye (or 'sex look' to coin my latest phrase) whilst asking about my 'best attributes'. But I did manage to make them both laugh a bit (Creepy more than Plumpy admittedly) and think I made a good impression overall. But no, I don't know what SQL or GBT, or whatever bizarre acronyms they were asking me about actually mean. Yes, I did start to drift off when Mr Creepy was telling me more about the role (God damn my unable-to-concentrate-even-for-a-second-on-shit-that-I-have-no-practical-interest-in brain). These are probably more important in whether I will be considered for the role than whether Mr Creepy thinks I have a nice rack and Mr Plumpy finds me mildly amusing when I'm being all self-deprecating about my obsessive list-making tendencies. And thus endeth the interview. Although first I had to endure the most uncomfortable five seconds of my entire life and ride down in a lift with Mr Creepy:
'Shall we take the lift?'
['NO NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO' ] 'I'm happy taking the stairs!' ['Forced cheerfulness makes me puke when other people do it Mr Creepy, don't make me be someone I hate']
'Oh, I'm feeling lazy today, let's get the lift'
['IT'S THREE FLIGHTS YOU POTENTIAL DATE RAPIST'] 'Ok!'

Needless to say, I emerged unharmed. Thankfully. (Although awkward social experiences do affect me more than most so we have yet to see if there has been any lasting psychological damage inflicted).

However, the best thing about it all? The fact that I was getting interview experience, or that I managed to overcome my very real and irresistible urge to run as fast as I could and stuck it out, or I didn't get raped? No. The best thing was that as I got out of the building my first thought was 'That'll make a really good blog post'. God, I'm cool.

Don't need no credit card to ride this train. Because we accept debit cards or cash too.

I used to have great swirling swathes of time . I could wrap myself up in it like a great big duvet and have enough spare to make a three piece suit. But when you have an overabundance of something you neglect to give it the respect it deserves; you spend hours looking at facebook profiles of people you don't really give a shit about, or follow myspace conversations for no other good reason than the fact it's nice to read about other people having lives when you seem to have 'misplaced' yours, or you lie around for days in your own filth watching hammy sci-fi shows you were obsessed with in your teens just to get to that one episode that made you cry so much you actually had an asthma attack and you kind of want to see if you're still that emotional these days (conclusion: no... but that's probably a good thing).

Then you get a full time job and all that glorious time spent saving up special memories of moments spent sitting down and lying down get swept away with such ferocity that you wonder if any of it really happened at all or if it was just a sublime dream.

Or maybe that's just me.

Still, having a job is doing me the world of good. Not 'good' as in 'I like it', 'good' as in 'I have less time to concentrate on what an awful human being I am and more time doing something productive' (like decorating CD's and DVD's I've downloaded and burned to disc, writing blogs, getting out of the house to have conversations with creatures that don't have more than two legs, etc). When you're busy you get so much more done. It's nice. It's nice except for the fact that you find yourself waking up on a Monday morning having had approximately 5 hours sleep the night before and 3 hours the night before that. That's when you forget to rip your sudoku out of the paper and manage to stumble into work bleary-eyed and spaced out and five minutes late. Spending the morning in a daze and unable to form words, much less sentences, is not really the best way to start a week. Especially if you work in a call centre and a lot of your 'work' involves having to do those very things. A call would come through and for the first five or six seconds every time I'd be going '...', desperately trying to think of my carefully worded spiel and coming up with nothing. When you're on a phone and no-one is talking it feels like five or six seconds of silence is the longest amount of time anyone has ever gone without saying anything, ever. The best thing about a day like that though, when you're feeling a bit 'delicate' and can't think properly (unless 'thinking properly' constitutes being daydreamy and distant... I'm not sure it does), the BESTEST best thing is to get a call from someone who threatens to come down to where you work and 'do something Lloyds will regret and I won't be held accountable for' unless you fix his (unfixable) problem there and then. Yeah, that's why the word 'awesome' was invented. To describe moments like that. But what I love to do, to top off day's like this, is to forget to switch my headlights off so that my car refuses to start when I want to go home. I fucking LOVE shit like that to happen. It's what makes life worth living really. If we're all honest.

However, if you want good stuff instead of woe (I know you don't. I don't care) it feels like my stuff is starting to come together more and more every day. This strand is meeting up with that strand and that thread is creeping ever-so-slowly towards that thread. I don't know that any of these crazy pieces of the world are going to end up molding into what I expected but that doesn't really matter at the moment. It's good they exist out there somewhere for me, even if it's all raw material right now. Yeah, alright, I'm shutting the fuck up.