Going brunette

The end of a relationship hairstyle change took longer than normal this turn round. Oh yes, I've learnt, none of this it's all over so I'll make myself look rubbish with a style that suits Demi but makes me haggard nonsense. No siree. It's only now, nine months after the official parting, that my official parting (albeit a round about the middle, not sought out with a comb, version), has finally changed colour.

Mum decided Sunday afternoon, without so much as a medicinal glass of vino inside her, that she fancied being the family hairdresser. Her hubby told her that she could piss off if she thought she was getting her claws in his barnet. Sensible enough, you may say, were it not for the fact his barnet is grey, receding, and hardly haute couture. Personally 'not very supportive' was what went through my brain. Much as I'd love to say it was this thought that prompted me to throw myself in, all benevolent volunteer to the salvation of damaged pride fashion, it wasn't. I'd decided I wanted to go natural for autumn, this thought started the whole, hardly domestic strife of any magnitude, off in the first place.

Half an hour later we're in Sainsubry's. Mum's urging me to wait a while until we found a semi-permanent solution, went by in vain, but should have alerted me to the crisis in her own ability, to follow. I'd made a decision. Not only that. I'd learnt from the Morticia from the munsters, deep brown decision of previous winters, and gone a shade lighter.

A couple of hours down the track Mum was saying stuff like 'you do know don't you it won't be one colour?'. No, I didn't know. One colour, my natural, was the original intention, but dutifully prompted, I revised my expectations. Little choice really, the stuff was burning a hole in my scalp and, washing it off only five minutes in, to have mud meets blonde, hardly seemed alluring.

'It won't look professional, you need to go to a salon for that' Mum piped up hardly a second later. Resisting the temptation to say 'why on earth didn't we have these conversations earlier' I stoically readjusted the shower cap and through barely clenched teeth, smiled. I was beginning to think hubby had a point. I was beginning to doubt the family hairdresser idea. Actually, truth be told, by this point, I was right off it.

'Boring brown' was the favoured description yet five more minutes in. 'What colour are you going Julie? ' asked step-dad 'boring brown' apparently the answer, from a mother who, I was learning, had some sales skills to hone.

I'm omitting much of the tussling with the hairbrush and hysterical laughter that followed at this point. Mum reads this, I adore her, some things are best kept between us.

I'd love to climax on some story, equivalent to the time Sam, much more than half cut, decided to do my highlights... Not because my wallet or self esteem would enjoy a repeat of that experience, but because, from a pure writing point of view, it would serve a purpose. Happily, or sadly, depending on the degree of sado-Masochism with which you read this, it all turned out rather well. Step-Dad's comments that I looked 'respectable' was not exactly what I'd been after, but with a vat of make up and cleavage showcasing tops, I've been able to mitigate that particular charge.

More optimistically, I adore my new barnet. It is, amazingly, all one colour, only with natural looking shiny highlighted bits coming out, and, less amazingly if you actually know my mum, doesn't look salon done, but only cos you wouldn't know it was done at all.

So much so that I even had to ask my housemates what they thought, they'd been fixating on my skirt wondering what looked different.

I notice it though, every time I get in a lift, and in stark contrast to all previous post relationship hairdos it has the perfect impact. Makes me feel fabulous and all Demi Moore, minus of course, the surgery / waist line / part in Charlie's Angels. But hey, who needs it when they have a family hairdresser?

Love it Hate it

My team get hammered by a Minister today. Not what she expected, not up to scratch, pull your socks up.

My boss says afterwards 'you know that 4 day week thing, any chance, tomorrow....'

I know, I'd been thinking the same, there's 4 of us on an agenda bigger than anything else the department is doing. There's no space for 4 day weeks, even the boss is working late, starting early. Sometimes.

I'll see what I can do, but am pretty resigned to, bar the odd day already booked somewhere else, working like a bugger from now until Christmas.


I get a call at half six 'could you come and brief the Deputy Prime minister at 8.45, he's doing Trevor MacDonald'. It's a rhetorical question. There is only one answer.

'Righto, just sending across the briefing pack'
168 pages later my printer runs out of paper and the boy in the office who's job it is to do absolutely nothing except for refuse to do anything well, or anything at all really, appears to have locked the stationary cupboard on his way out. It's initative, I'll give him that, but a bugger when I'm searching for paper.
20 minutes later I'm back in business.
I call the DPM's office, 'um, this briefing pack, am I supposed to be able to answer questions on it all, I know bugger all about demolitions in salford for example you know?'
'well, um, yes, you are the full briefing team'
'righto, excellent, see you in the morning then'.

Taken a few minutes out of page 83 to write this.
Better get back.
Love it, hate it.

Call off the lawyers, feed me wine through a drip......

Well, maybe not a drip. Just a large curly straw.

Sam and I are nearing the final stages of total separation. You'd think with two puppies whose custody has long been sorted, a couple of shelves of books and CD's, a few pictures, none of which really qualify as 'art' and a tiny house the size of a bedsit, this would be a fairly simple process.
Naturally, you'd be wrong.

The physical incarnations of my life shared with her are gathering damp in a garage in Sydney. The emotional ramifications of our failed relationship are being lived out, through the wrangling over a barely valuable piece of real estate.

I remember my mum. I was proud of how she handled herself when she divorced. Head high, dignity in tact, 'offer it or keep it' her style.

Sam and I have, sadly, fallen short of that. The gentle parting has led, as is so often the case others tell me, to acrimony in the financial stages.

I spent today in a fit of feeble concentration as the latest round of emails were fired to and fro.
I found myself close to tears at my desk, on the tube, past close behind closed doors.

We've been counting our contribution. Then I realised, if there were things I could go back for, the odd wad of cash splashed or some shared momento would not be on my list.

I'd take the soaring self esteem I had when I met her. I'd take the conviction I was a woman worth loving.

I'd take the laughter that saw us far beyond giggling. I'd have the feelings I had on a sofa in a flat overlooking the ocean, the night before Mardi Gras. When I was utterly certain she wasn't just the woman I wanted to marry, but the woman I would marry, would be with past my teeth falling out. I'd have the companionship that saw us working as a team in the kitchen. Me creating, mess as momentous as the flamboyant dishes I stacked up in the fridge, awaiting guests. Her clearing space for me to work, seeing how much many mouthfuls she could slip in unnoticed, selecting the perfect music to accompany each course. I'd have the moaning as I marched her miles along cliff tops, and the agreement that 'yes, actually,' she did want to continue when challenged. I'd take the cups of teas offered, teased, tricked and charmed from each other. I'd have the threat free silence that saw us sprawled in the sun, broken only to say 'you must read...' before exchanging the sections of the weekend papers.

I'd take the friendship, hard won, dearly cherished.

Maybe I'm paying the price for my early proclamations that I'd stumbled, albeit inadvertently, upon the formula for the perfect break up.

I'd like to think not.

I'd like to think that by next week these feelings will be put in a box labeled 'melodramatic blip'.

I'm scared that if we don't find a different way to do things, quickly, the damage will be done.

If I'm not out the other side by this time next week, please, someone.......

Call off the lawyers, pass me that straw.

I have an alter ego

Her name is Faith. Faith Singer. She was loosely born out of a book by the same name, a protagonist, ditto. (By Rosie Scott, an Aussie author, a cracking read) the fictional Faith was this older matronly woman who ran a bar and nurtured street kids in Kings Cross, Sydney. I loved her because she was kind, and dished out her copious bosom by the ladle. Kids from all over came to hide in the crevices of her chest, of her house. She was also an old soak, an unfulfilled artist, a singer past her prime who never really believed she had what it took when clearly, no one else would have thought that.

When I first joined the pink sofa ((my all female virtual playground) I was thinking of opening a bar in Sydney. The reason for joining was to research the whims and fancies of Sydney's lesbian community to create the perfect place for them to play in. Faith Singer seemed a sudonym that matched that ambition, a bar owner in sydney, a cool woman who made a difference, a role model I could emulate, albeit fictional. The bar dream died, in that particular incarnation, although it lives on in the 'later, not too much later' section of my life plan. Faith Singer grew regardless.

My Faith is not matronly, she's an out there brunette version of myself, only an extension of the bits I would like to extend, a retraction of most loathed flaws. Self doubt is banished for example. As are diets, she never needed them.
My faith is not an a wanna be artist, she's a fully functioning creative machine.

She slips between the cushions of the sofa, pops up in chat rooms, makes it her mission to make people laugh, get to a whole host of strangers playing games, even when their day has been on the rough end of rubbish.
She's all the things I love about myself and more. She dresses in 1950's burlesque fashion. Silk gloves with matching stockings. Feather Boas and dresses that reveal nothing but the best bits. Veiled hats and pre-Philip Tracey inspirations. Naturally, she doesn't take too long throwing the perfect outfit together.

She collects a boho arty crowd, writers, musicians, divine dinner party hostesses.
She's empathatic without being too battle scarred in the process. Lighthearted even when glum, Playful, regardless of climate.

I bring her out only on the sofa, she passes round tiny dark chocolate truffles and fluffs up cushions for all the newcomers.

She's gregarious and entertaining, outrageous but never offensive, inclusive, but definitely discerning.

She's my role model for the day I open my bar cum music venue.

She's the person I take out to play when work has swept over my social life and the internet the only option for a entertaining half an hour.

She oscillates breezily between deep and frivolous.
I'm working on getting her out of the virtual and into the real world.
I Hope you'll meet her some day. I think you'd like her

Hankering for artistic Freedom

Much as I love the civil service, and I do, it does have the habit of setting a million other dreams aflutter in me.
My job is amazing, I couldn't have asked for a better one.
The people I work with are lovely.
Yet, the weight of the machine has me craving artistic ambitions. Burlesque images assail my imagination and no amount of grey suits can assuage them.

I'm using the day off each week to go into business with the flame thrower I met in Bali who designs clothes that make my mouth water.
I'm still dreaming of the bar / cabaret / music venue.
I'm still dreaming of writing.
I'm staying put beyond the clothes venture for now, staying with my job until we deliver what we need to deliver, but long term, enticing as the pension is, I'm still not sure I'll ever collect it.

I wonder about Freddie

I have issues with alcohol. I think it has a habit of sucking the good out of people. That's a bit wrong, rather I think it sends the harsh voice we all have, running riot through the heads of those that overindulge.

I'm not talking of course about the odd birthday blow out. I'm thinking more of the constant almost invisible sozzling that leads on a regular basis to obliteration.

I heard today that one of my great aunts (Jackie) has been in hospital through her drinking. She's had a problem for many years now. She's a funny woman, a woman with an old school BBC plummy accent. Which always struck me as odd as her stock is very traditional working class. That's not to say the rest of the family were cockneys or anything, far from it. My grandmother and her sisters are an elegant bunch. Well mannered, well turned out, well spoken. Head turningly stunning almost without exception in their younger years. But never posh.
Except Auntie Jackie.
Who sounded to the manor born. I always wondered if she cultivated the accent, or picked it up, almost accidentally.
She's being picked up herself now, on a regular basis, by neighbours, her kids, strangers who found her in the street and took her to hospital.

My mum is a nurturer. She nurtures and feels a responsibility to do so in situations where others would have long since washed their hands. It's one of the things I love about her. She does it so well. It's something I hope to inherit.
She's worried of course, devastated by the images of the awful journey Jackie's been on. Discharged herself to get back to.

I found myself trying to comfort Mum. Failing miserably. Telling her the only person capable of helping Jackie is Jackie. I'm sure that's true. Not sure it's enough of a reason for others to stop trying. I knew I sounded hard where I wanted to sound soft.

My stepmother was a drunk. I wish someone had told me. I just thought she was a bitch. She used to ring me up, say things, then accuse me of lying when i asked her about them.

If I'd known I'd have realised she didn't remember. That the hysterical conversations were symptomatic of her inebriation. I though she was trying to get at me.

When she died I told everyone she had choked on a twiglet. I really believed it. I thought it was a bit weird, a freak accident. It's what my sister and I were told, the official line has since changed, to something more credible.
A salmon sandwich.

(I'm joking, I know, it's inappropriate, for some reason, I found it wildly funny, the line's heart trouble)

I think the saddest thing about drink is that it blurs the edges of the good stuff. Makes everything an up and down and swallows the gentle equilibrium of life at the best of times.

Freddie Flintoff had a lot to celebrate this week. It'll probably never get any better. I watched him lurching towards the congratulations bus, slurring his speech on camera and stumbling up the path to Downing Street, I couldn't help wondering....

Would he remember the moments he'll be trying to replay in his eighties. Would he feel proud as he saw himself amidst all the ticketape, swaying with his baby daughter in his arms, or would he just feel like it was an opportunity missed. A mindblowing memory dulled by the depressive effects of alcohol?

I hope not, that would be such a waste.

New Toy

There's nothing like a language barrier to reinforce the value of understanding. There's nothing like pigeon English and sparrow Indonesian to make words I can't use assume gigantuan proportions.
There's nothing like an internet based translation tool, I discovered today, to make me feel beautifully, suddenly, liberated.

I have no idea how well it works. I painted him verbal pictures for the first time. Put the struggle for simplicity aside. Sent him the link, with instructions for use I'm not sure his computer skills are up to.

Even it's if it's beyond the limit of what he knows now, even if it's a one sided conversation, for the first time, it was the conversation I wanted to have. Nothing deep, nothing seriously, just playing with words.

sod the ipod, move over PS2, au revoir gadget phobic old me. I've a gadget that rocks my boat. It does everything gadgets were meant for, saves time, makes life simple, gives pleasure. No savings required, except on sanity.

How Jammy?

So I go to my boss. Say, 'look mate, I have no life'. I've decided - I'm doing my hours twice over - I need to have a life outside of work - currently it ain't happening. ' Can I do 4 days, intensive (i.e normal) effort, then if sometimes I need to pick stuff up at the Weekend it won't hurt so much?'. Add that the staffing situation is due to ease, and a promise I'll get the job done. He says, 'whatever honey, fine by me'. (As expected, hard to say that ain't fair when he's swanning like a lunchboxed ballerina and I'm grafting like a pit pony.)

How much do I love the civil service though when stuff like that happens?
Off on Friday's normally, but tomorrow this week as I'm being flexible!

Duly refreshed and impressed with my own courage. Full pay, 4 days - did 13 hours today, and didn't mind a bit!

My life

Can currently be found crumpled somewhere between my inbox, reading mountain and 'deliverables this week' list.

I'm working harder than i can ever remember working. Everyone's decided I'm fantastic which is all well and good, but gives me a lot to live up to.

My boss is a swanner, a man who just about does his core hours and complains of being stretched whilst the team under him pick up the pieces. He is however lovely so I resolve to try and get a bit of his work life balance whilst not letting him down.

I can't believe I'm only six weeks in, my skin has gone civil service grey, evenings and a social life are out of the window, even the basics like blogging and banking and having the odd early night seem impossible.

Plans are currently dreams, a thousand practical things like a place to live, flown out of the window. I am running on empty already.

I thought today the end was in sight, I've recruited a fabulous new woman, and my deputy's back from leave Monday, only turns out he's likely to be poached so it's a case of new people to train and rotating gaps to fill.

I want a bit of balance back, but luckily, I love the agenda.

A few technical issues

For those of you who are not anonymous but rather, waiting with baited breath to hear tales of my permanent rage against the machine, please bear with me.

I'm trying to find a way to post under different names, but it won't let me. I create new blog accounts - give different usernames and passwords, but, presumably due to the fact I only have one email address, it guesses me every time and links my blogs up. Hence, the new blog had posts by the gypsy - a tad of a giveaway, so I've taken it down until i can sort it out.

Luckily the fabulous boys at blogger help are on the case.....

Back to basics

This web site is supposed to be a good old gossip, here's what going on in my love life site. Somewhere amidst celebrity love island, seeking out mentors, getting new jobs and starting new blog sites, i forgot that.

So, to the chase.

I went to Bali looking for answers.
I found them.
They were harder than I wanted to hear.
They offered choices.
Tough choices.
But choices none the less.
I'm lucky, I have more of them.
But I made mine first time round.
And got them spot on.

The mystery of the vanishing blog entries

Did a cyber hog eat them? Was my imagination running wild? Have the blog police vetted your blog site? These questions and more may fly to the lips of avid blog followers. Those that read and commented on the back to work amidst the Maelstrom of bureaucracy posts, may notice they've got.

I may not be, as you probably know, publicity shy. But Government generally is, and sad but true, I love my new job. So took a decision to be risk averse and pull down the being a bureaucrat posts. They'll be back, albeit in a more anonymous less traceable, the names may have been changed to protect the innocent, place. Yes, you guessed it, another blog site. Anyone who wants the address and is willing to sign the official secret acts in return for it, drop me a note here or via email, and I'll make sure you can see it.