Funny Man goes the distance

All credit to him. Most men would go 'stand me up cos she can't shut the front door, seeing her again? Too blonde. No thanks' Not so the funny man. He calls last night, says 'you free?'. I'm not but break my own rules as it's special circumstances and swap an old friend's dinner date for a quick glass of vino instead.

Meet him at 7.15 for supposedly a quick drink. We end up getting chucked out the pub. he drives me home (safely as he doesn't drink), calls to make sure I got in OK. Chivalry indeed methinks. Bonus points.

He's amusing, very black and white, reminds me of my Dad, excellent company and talks so much he makes me look positively introvert.

He's darker than Green and Blacks 70% cocoa, despite the amusing veneer. I wonder what it's like inside his head and conclude being gentle with himself is probably not a strong point. I like him and would see him again if he asks, not be devastated if he doesn't. Can think of a lot worse positions to be in.

Go to see my mentors today to talk jobs. Both say they'll get on the case immediately. Again I give thanks for how lucky I am. fabulous friends who put me up whenever I need it, fabulous family who support me through whatever hits the fan, fabulous mentors who make time to see me in diaries more crammed than a battery farm.

Loving being back in London. The sun's out and the place glistens. The gypsy in me is sated, feet no longer itching, worn instead from so many miles. Now I just look round the Capital and ponder where I should set up my knicker drawer. I find myself strangely fantasising about growing Jasmine in a garden, picking fresh basil from plants in my kitchen and having enough space to set up a writing area and entertain my friends. It's a shock, very un - let me see the world, but something I am planning to go with for a bit.

Who is Grant Edmunds?

So there's a comment in the comments section of my blog. So rare is this (xprints, gareth, you're unhooked from that naturally) that I decide to follow the link, see were the maze leads.
First off think, he's a fascist little pig
Then think, 'oh, my mum will be upset if she just does what I did then reads this guys blog and thinks he's my mate'

Then read it properly
and laugh, and laugh
and find the intricacies of it hilarious

am convinced it's the funny man
but it isn't, although it is another very funny man.

Mister, love your blog,
everyone else, go have a look via the comments under 'nourished from..' if you get a moment, and if you're feeling that way inclined, the link of the side that said Neal that ultimately unmasked the man behind the humour, is that other blog about Jane's Colenut's bloke, only not really written by him.

I think there's a sit com in Jane's flat begging to get written

I decided not to write about dates... But this one doesn't count

My life is a comedy routine and I should currently be practicing. Sharpening my wit and picking up tips over coffee with the funny man. Only I am trapped in a flat on the Mile End Road.

To recap, I meet the funny man a couple of months ago. Decide he makes me laugh and therefore I am getting to know him. Only trouble with this plan is at the moment in question I was plastered, having shared a bottle of wine with Sam to wave her off back to the land of marsupials at lunchtime and decided in the post traumatic stress disorder that followed that to carry on with the vino into the evening was a good idea. I don't let this deter me, and chat him up, somewhat incoherently. I think it's fair to say my first impression was probably memorable, though who wants to be remembered as the girl who can't sit straight on a bar stool?

I offer my phone number, he declines, he says, on the basis I am heading to Edinburgh, then drops me home. I send him an email saying 'come on, my numbers worth having, and to be that trashed is a rarity' and he replies, 'ok, let's meet for coffee when you are in town'.

In the two months between then and now we have texted sporadically. I have so far failed to convey my wit or charm through this medium, but somehow, whether through dogged persistence on my part or generosity of spirit on his, managed to retain the coffee date.

In Italy the girls and I have much merriment with the whole thing. They gently mock how pants I am at flirting. They scream 'no' when I make little comments like 'I think I may wear a sun hat, you know those sixties floppy ones, I love them'. Amy says 'all he'll think is BIG HAT BIG HAT BIG HAT / lunatic' . Ailsa says ' go in Hessian so he doesn't think you've made an effort' or words to that effect. Louise chipped in with the suggestion I cover up my cleavage, but after much conversation we all agree that this really would be out of character and being me is the best strategy.

Come the morning of the date itself I am all calm. The weather is fabulous, I shower, iron my clothes, have a chat with Amy's cleaner then leave her in the flat whilst I wander round the East End getting to grips with what's going on with the housing market. With an hour and three quarters to the date and a 45 minute walk to the venue I am pleased with my timings as I return to the falt. Happy again as i re-exit, feeling casually glamorous at quarter past two.

half an hour later I am sweating profusely, chatting to Amy from my mobile outside her front door. 'no, there's not normally a problem with it locking' she says. 'didn't you lock it earlier?'(no, the cleaner did and I've only been here two nights and always left when someone else is home during that time). 'try the drawer, there may be a spare set of keys' she says. Sadly.... 'just get one of the locks shut' she says, sadly....

15 minutes until I am supposed to be there. I have scrapped the walk plan and decided to get a cab, only the sodding door won't play ball. So I call him say ' look, we need to change plans. I can't lock the front door'. To his answerphone. Amy meanwhile has said, 'get him to come to you'. Only he hasn't responded to my message. I call Ames, say, 'look if he comes here, how do I let his car in?'

The answer to this apparently is that the funky gate opening gadgets are in Amy and Si's cars, parked at their respective workplaces, but I can haul the rubbish bins in front of the gates and fool the sensor into thinking it's a car. Given these rubbish bins are the size of a small field and made of the kind of metal more oft seen on bridges, the sensor is hardly making a big leap. They practically are cars. Only they weight a tad more and have last nights vindaloo smeared where the window would be. My sense of humour kicks in at this point and I am envisaging the guaranteed success of saying , 'stay there, I just need to wheel this giant trash can out'. In my heeled boots, before explaining that he can either house sit or go get milk for his coffee.

In any event, he doesn't call. Whether this is because he thinks that a girl who can't close a door is too blonde to date, or he left home without his mobile and is still sat in the park waiting for a hatless woman, I don't know. My money would be off the latter though and I suspect that's the last we'll hear of him.

nourished from the inside out

By the warmth of my female friendships, the Medditerean sun and the fullness of sun ripened Italian produce. Indulged in female re-bonding, more laughter than you can cram in a beach bag, a plethora of Gelato favours.

So relaxed I can barely stand up straight. So happy the smile is etching wrinkles in my temples. Home now and whilst it can't compete with the castle and pad by the sea the holiday afforded, the high continues.

J x

Gettin High on the Big Smoke

Driving over London Bridge last night I catch my breath. Even after a life lived more in London than elsewhere, it gets me. The bridges regin over the Thames, Tower my Queen.
The glass buildings intermingle comfortably with those that showcase the proud architecture of generations past. I exhale, remember that breathing is important.

I head down the Mile End Road this morning. Eyes are fresh from elsewhere I note the new. A funky see through building by Sainsburys, blue and green hues showcasing the elevators within. A shop called Arabian Nights, an upmarket version of the sari shops that litter the neighborhood. The kind of place I could see Cherie Blair shopping before Muslim Festival nights. I pop in, savour the smooth silk scarves as they slide through my fingers. Marvel at the craftswomenship that produced such delicate beading, get the cut glass embedded in fabric without the lump of thread and rouching that would surely accompany, were I to attempt it. This isn't self deprecation, as those who sat in the needlework classes, where I alone turned a skirt into pantaloons by mixing up the seams, will testify.

I remember why I love the unreconstructed East End men. There's no coquettry, no West London mild mannered charm. If they like your look they let you know, whether by beeping horns, shouting out of windows or whilstling appraisingly as you pass. Faded with my youth the days I would retort 'I am not your darling' with righteous indignation. Now I think, 'Ok it's not smooth, but it puts a spring in my step and makes me lift my head with confidence, thanks boys.'

I am flooded by memories, My house, sitting pretty back from the main road, a place I was far from happy yet am now able to wink at as I meander past. Sitting by Ailsa's bed in the Royal London hospital. Nipping over the road for Pizza Hut supplies when they forget to feed her for the second morning running. We giggle now, but I walk past remembering it wasn't always so.

I notice Foster's Phallic Rocket, the gherkin to change all the damage McDonalds did to said pickle. I love it, want to wave at it, shout 'hello sexy' and burst into song. Instead I smile, think, 'fuck me, it's good to be home'.

Crash and Burned

on the Shelter job, not interviewing me becuase they had loads of Scots with better Scottish networks apply apparently.

Thought I'd be dissapointed, but funnily am already over it. Partly because I would rather be in the big smoke, partly because a few years in this climate seems like a bigger challenge than I want to take on. Mainly because I'm good at going 'ah well, move on, this stuff happens for a reason and frankly, I've handled harder knocks than this'. The fact I am flying home tonight and off to Italy for a week of wholesome friendship with my girls also makes the future seem rosy regardless.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Sometimes I read something that makes my core ache. Makes me well with empathy. Makes me celebrate folk in all their flawed fabulousness. Makes me a better person, who works harder at changing the world.

This site did that.

The gypsy gets responsive

Following feedback from a few of you that's it's a bugger to comment here, I've gone and got all technologically literate and worked out how to change the settings. No need to be a member or have your own blog now, you can now type with hassle free abandon. I hope

xxxx

Dip me in chocolate and feed me to the sexy folk

I know I am ready to start dating now.

The me, myself and I phase is over. Buried.

The Balinese man still rocks my boat above all others (others being the odd virtual flirtation from January to now but no action as such), and could have my heart on a platter. I may try and see him in the summer. But. In the meantime, the pherenomes are raging and he has said nothing to get me carving at the rib cage.

Yesterday I met this woman who has a fashion shop, a hugely successful swanky top end one that stocks the kind of clothes that made me realise why some women sleep with men for money.

weird, given I had spent half the night thinking clothes and business, that the meeting happened when it did.

Anyway, this woman, whose mum opened the shop, had a philosophy degree, had been a catwalk model for a bit, then came home, helped mum out and doubled mum's profits in the process so took over.
She's 31, and on those most eligible lists.

I sat in this meeting, with my editor, feeling like a child with aspergers on the verge of shouting 'please, run away with me, let's get married, have you ever done girls?'
But decided said Ed wouldn't like it.

Then I go to dinner
With seven of the most lovely people I have ever had the pleasure of dining with
Including a female couple who restored my battered faith in female couples.
And Louisa and Miles who restored my faith in love full stop.

Get this girls
Miles spends Saturday boot shopping with Louisa
A whole day, lots of advice, not one whinge, not one 'is it lunch time yet'.
they don't find what she's looking for.
later that week he's walking past a charity shop
Sees a, brand new labels on and everything, pair of boots.
Thinks, 'now we didn't find them but they sound exactly what Lou said she wanted'
Nips in
Secured a two hundred quid pair of boots for a fiver
and got the choice spot on.

For the cynic boys going 'obviously not shagged her yet', I should point out they have been together for five years.

Were I a get rich quick so I can shop in the Amazonian Princess' Edinburgh boutique kinda girl.
I would have stolen a swab of his DNA whilst pretending to do a Gillian McKeith tongue analysis, sold it for cloning and been well on my way to fame and fortune this morning.

instead I just spent the night telling him how perfect he is.
I had a fabulous evening.
I love friends.
I love my friends
I want more and more of the ones I have already. I want to make up for the two and a half years I've largely missed. And stop collecting new ones now. I have enough. I am sated.
I am, as I have said before, the luckiest girl alive.

And, ready to play again. So if anyone wants to do any of those, set you up dinner party things, with lots of sexy people and some really good music, please invite me.

J x

Edinburgh Friends Festival

I have a load of mates in Edinburgh it transpires. Turned up here with only Jo from school to count, and that started patchily, but

discovered the lovely Miss Jane Colenut, of previous school walking fame, is here
who leant me her boyf for inclusion
repaired things with Jo and made friends with her partner Laura
and her boyf PC
then bumped into Louisa from my Sydney acting class (who I had forgotten lived here)
and her lovely man Miles
who are doing dinner with a group of friends for me tonight

and suddenly, it's raining friends and I'm just about to leave

So I have agreed to come back for 4 weeks post holiday lured by a pay rise and a want to see it further through

sold another two ads in the last two days
Am actually getting people ringing me now.

Have realised I want to live alone, have never done it before and am loving it. Sadly also did the sums on what that means I need to earn if I live in London, which is loads. Sell your soul to the private sector loads. Or hope for a miracle

No news yet on Shelter either. But that's ok I think.

Woke at 2am this morning and decided that the fire throwing mistress I met in Bali who designs the most fabulous clothes, but hates selling them, should team up with me. Wrote down ideas for three hours, just cos it was keeping me awake anyway.

Hoping I can persuade her to let me help as a spare time project. Alongside writing. Which is progressing well . The plot is done, the characters are largely done. The first few chapters are in draft. Hoping Italy will give me a bit of space to think through and get into shape. Hoping by August to have something worth showing around to try and elicit some interest.

That's me. The funny man is still running scared.
I thought about texting 'I am outside your front door, let me in' last night. Naturally I wasn't but there's a bit of me going, 'well if he thinks I am crazy, hey, play with that'. The other wiser bit prevailed.

To the lovely Gareth (see comments)

I say, 'darling, that's a nice boy view'. The ratings have gone through the roof (presumably since hot action with a playgirl albeit one glued to the mirror (that's glued, not pinned!) has become a feature). I know that I am not the only saddo suffering from CLI obsessive compulsive disorder. Saturday night saw me sitting with fellow compulsives as a CLI themed barbie, with an eviction sweepstake the focus of the evening's entertainment. Admittedly I was the only one rocking and rubbing her hands together during the build up, but I was also the winner of the fabulous eight pound bonanza. Maybe there's a link? Ailsa gets back from a weekend in Ireland and is almost as desperate for a CLI update as she is to hear the details of my renewed text relationship with the famous funny man.

Which, obviously I could fill you in on. Seeing as how I am currently succeeding in making him think I am a slightly unhinged loon, and luring him towards retracting the offer of a date / coffee faster than you can say 'stop, now woman!'; I'll leave it there for the time being.

I can't believe

The one night I don't watch in the entire series and the celebs on aforementioned love island go getting all steamy. Actually I'm glad I missed it as it involved Paul Danan (of, call me a movie star i.e. I have been a bit part in Hollyoaks, fame) who I currently want to stab for hurting the lady.

Far be it from me to rush to the aid of the aristocracy under normal circumstances, but this particular Lady (Isabella Hervey) is so vulnerable, so lovely, so honest and so much like my mate Ailsa that it's only the fact I am on a too strict to be believed budget that keeps me from texting her name repeatedly every time she's at risk of eviction.

So Paul, to those not following, spends three weeks trying to snog her, employing a range of seriously dubious tactics from getting drunk and begging to calling her cold, followed by getting drunk and begging before trying for a fight to showcase his masculinity, to calling her cold and begging again. Amazingly, after a few days of behaving like a semi-human being, she decided maybe his consistency was worth a look in and started getting all warm and 'you can come in'. At which point they ship some plastic playboy centrefold who spends her life in front of the mirror in and hey presto, Paul's off claiming it was never love and it's the lady's fault for 'messing me around'.

The knife is out. Please can everyone email everyone else they know with a 'let's get Paul off the island' campaign to stop the lads who'll go 'I can't believe he got the playboy model in the bog, go man'. Which will undoubtedly translate to ill deserved votes.

Whilst the playgirl in the toilet episode unfolded I was at the launch of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival followed by a tad of dancing at a girls night. This I braved all by myself and thoroughly enjoyed. I was mid detox and barely transgressed at all ( one glass of wine). I got a dose of my joint favorite exercise (dancing) and made new friends. I got home sober, at a reasonable hour (2am) and alone, despite a number of offers for company. Having resisted the usual usual chips en route, I realised this is it. This is grown up life. And liked it.

The blog got sporadic

Amid the mayhem of trying to persuade Shelter Scotland that I am in fact the saintly all rounder who can juggle a million tasks whilst shedding sweetness on staff and looking gorgeous on camera.

The application is currently sitting with my favorite HR whiz-woman in all the world who's doing her 'too much information, cut cut' stuff as I write.

The application goes in tomorrow.

Life in Scotland has had a sunny blip today and suddenly I can see myself living here again. Given that this is the only sunny blip in what should have been the end of spring and the start of summer, I'm not sure how long it'll last.

The networking / ad selling frenzy hots up, tomorrow it's the launch of the Edinburgh fringe Festival, last night was Harvey Nics summer party (less party, no summer) the night before the world's least interesting seminar which seemed to go on for hours.

As I am currently detoxing in an effort to look gorgeous come my Italian holiday in less days than it'll take to shift the plethora of ginger biscuits and Cadburys products sitting on my midriff, the party circuit just got a whole lot duller. There's naught like saying 'oh , is that water?' and wanting the skewer the waitress with her hoi sin kebabs when she loitered longer than is healthy for any faster, to kill the amusement.

Fortunately fasting day is over, veggie day is over and I am now savouring strawberries as if they had been dipped in Green and Black Orange Spiced chocolate, which naturally they haven't.
Today I sold the second ad, we need to fill about twenty pages, so it's not going stormingly, but this one counts as two as I didn't have to haggle one bit and therefore got twice the expected page rate. It sounds worse than it is, we have others coming and the girls have sold none between them so I am not getting hammered, but still, the mountain is steep and the commission not exactly getting me out of my overdraft crisis.

That's me, and where are you all?

J x

Blog envy

There's this girl from my school, she's excellent. She used to live round the corner from me, her mum and my mine were mates, we walked to school together and attended church together in what was for both of us less secular times.

She's in Edinburgh, and last Wednesday we met up at some awful establishment function that made the inner child go ballistic. I don't know if this happens to anyone else but stick me in a room full of stuffy phnah phnar networkers chatting to chums and suddenly I am back to my thirteen year old Julie. Desperate to have a fag in the loo, accidentally pop out a boob, be as outrageous as I possibly can just to kick back against the confines of it all. This urge came over whilst chatting to a man who used to run gentlemen clubs. I resisted the urge to pull his hair and chat up his wife in partial retribution for the fact I couldn't have entered his establishments.

He very snottily told me John Prescott wouldn't have been welcome when I mentioned my work background. Tempting as it was to say, 'look you pompous little ferret I am sure the Deputy Prime Minister has a bit more going on in his life than to sob over the fact your elitist pretentious little place wouldn't stick out a mat for him', I resisted. Naturally that part of the evening wasn't much fun at all. All that resisting.

Luckily aforementioned school chum, Jane to those who know her, took me back to her flat post bash where we necked a bottle of wine and chatted to her tecky and utterly charming housemates. One of whom is Jane's fella Neil and has a faux blog written about him.

Now Neil wants this blog taken down. Neil thinks the piss taking has gone a bit far and the fact his mate writes a blog under his name is becoming something of a diminishing giggle.

I however am so vain that I had blog envy. Not content with being mildly green over the blogs that make 'blogs we've noticed recently' on this site, or blogs that make their authors millions on others, now I have blogs not even written by you about you to add to my list. Other than political hacks with over zealous researchers trying to get out the 'yoof vote' during election time, who else I wondered could be so fortunate? Neil is naturally the right answer

So if any of you have so little to do you wanted to add writing as me to your list, I want you to know that no matter how rude you were, no matter how much you took the piss, no matter how venomous your idle fingers fancied being... I would love it! I know that doesn't say much about me and it's bad impression management to admit as much, but it's true.

I am so fickle

Totally out of love with most of the Celebrities on celebrity Love Island, bar Lee Sharpe of Manchester united fame (not just because he could probably get Rood's number) and Lady Isabella Hervey who seem the only ones with under control egos.

Rebecca Looe's doe eyed 'I can't seem to manage fidelity' got me over that mini-crushette faster than you could say 'home wrecker'.

All in all the celebs are conducting themselves in a manner I haven't seen since the Kent University Rugby team played drinking games after matches. all ego, mayhem and wanna fight nonsense with a dash of 'i really love you' (cos I've known you two weeks) chucked in. I am still glued to the telly.

Only tonight I have a double date, half work, half with an old school friend, doubled booked so combine was the idea. I will endeavour not to rush off early to catch the last fifthteen minutes because that would be really sad wouldn't it?

The job application is nearly done. I have been wrestling with the 'what should I do with my life' demons again since the opportunity came up. I don't want to apply unless i can commit to at least three years of it. That means saying goodbye to lots of things, Australia and residency, the Balinese possibility, a summer even as sporadic as London could offer. (it's six degress colder here than London every day - and currently seems like full on Winter).

However I chatted to the demon a lot, said look, no half hearted applications, you decide to go for it then you go for it girl, and yes that's a lot of goodbyes but also a lot of hellos. hello fabulous job, hell0 city that offers a lovely lifestyle, hello serious managemnent / delivery experience, hello decent money, hello a chance to feel good about my career after a spell that at best could be described as draining. Hello no boss, hello using my leadership skills.

So I am applying. I am in a whirlwind of job descriptions, person specifications and covering letters, I am pondering what to edit and whether I've covered the full gauntlet of saint the post seems to require.

The job here on the mag has suddenly become fun. The girls have chilled out a lot and I have done likewise, the belief is growing in the product we're pulling together and the revenue looks achievable if tough to tie down three months ahead of the launch date.

Then comes Italy, a week of chilling, chatting and spilling beans with my University and so much more since girls. I can't wait.

I think I am the luckiest girl alive sometimes.