Peers out from under a mountain of paper

So, I've been costing this week. Preparing Ministers for negations with the Treasury, over, literally billions of pounds. Find myself wondering things like 'how many millions is a billion?' (1000) and what happens when you get past billions, is squillions a real word?

It's hilarious, here I am, clutching my c grade maths GCSE and writing stacks of briefing on what we should ask for and how to negoiate it.
The boss is at Centre Parks. He passed me a pot of chocolate hob nobs on his way out. It got him a bit off the hook for leaving me flailing around in a pool of my own sweat, but naturally, not once they'd gone.

The rest of the Directorate, who we rely on to be experts that help us, but ultimately don't have arses on the line, say things like 'I can't, I've a training manual to read' when you ask them to 'just pop that in writing for me to use would you?'. It's been warfare, literally, the bosses, bosses, boss who's a very big cheese said 'Julie we're all under pressure' when I railroaded one of the heads of division who was doing a 'just set up a meeting and I'll dictate' routine, an hour before my three papers with 4 annexes Deadline. 'I think you'll find some of us are more up against it that others' I responded before telling him 'look, it wouldn't be a bad thing if you told your people your line is on the arse as well as ours and they had better start pulling stuff out of the bag beyond a load of sweet smelling, nice sounding, wind'.

Point was taken, I think.
The boys just watch me, then proffer a plethora of pats on the back when out of nothing I manage to conjure something vaguely reasonable sounding.
My great team are disintegrating, the boy wonder deputy, whilst good, needs everything checked, my new fabulous fast streamer is fabulous, but can't it seem handle anything more technically challenging than turning on her PC (she needs training - I've told her, book it, now!) and the admin assistant, (who isn't the one who has just stopped coming to work who works in the other team), but is the one who keeps agitating for promotion, decided today that the stress of designing 30 place names for an event she's known for 2 months we're holding tomorrow, is possible out of her depth. I found myself showing her how to use word, coaxing her with phrases like 'I know you can do it', when, quite clearly, action before the 'print unit' (I ask you?!!!) turn up to work in the morning was just too much to ask. Honestly, it's like turning up for a medieval battle with one geriatric and his steed the sturdy zimmer frame.

I've had to cut back the dating ambitions to one, Friday, he's meeting me in the office.
I'm having very little time to ponder questions like 'who seriously, would describe themselves as 'very attractive'?' and 'does he seriously think I'd travel to Jersey for a date?'. Luckily I'm also having little time to lament the loss of the boy who I never met. Naturally I've had to take his number out of my phone to prevent the urge to text in a 'that seems like a good idea' post glass of wine, frenzy.
Hilarity turns to hysteria
Then Nettie creates an oasis at home, and suddenly, when I'm wondering if I'll stay afloat, I think of all the marvellousness I'll return to, sanity descends.

It's been a long time coming

The scissor sisters have hung on as my top tune to tap feet to for two whole years. An unprecedented period of time for one track, but Filthy Gorgeous is still I reckon a dancefloor anthem that takes some beating. I never envisaged that the Camptastic scissorhood would lose out to the Bratplastic brothers who behave so badly I have to swallow to buy their records, but life's funny like that.
Liam and Noel I discovered are back to their poptastic best with 'believe'. Not since I daily started 'a revolution from my bed' has their music hit the spot inside me with such ferocity. Powerwalking through Victoria Park clutching a bright pink kids walkman (worth every one of it's nine hundred pennies), I really got into 'the importance of being idle'. So much so that I had to start walking cross country in order to be able to sing without the persistent blushing that those joggers who creep up on you, can cause. So much so that having checked no one was looking I had a little dance amongst the autumn leaves. So much so that I didn't even realise until I got home that the serious stomping induced by the beat, had actually caused me to blister my heels.

It's got the best marching band thing going on, it's got brilliant guitar / drum combos and it's even got enthusiastic cymbal playing. And whilst the lyrics are hardly profound, they do make me smile...
'I don't mind
As long as there's a bed beneath the stars that shines
I'll be fine
But Give me a minute
cos a man's got a limit
I can't get a life
If my heart's not in it'

My particular favourites

Thank you to the Goddess who created Pop Music, it's not deep, but it makes me happy.
Oh, and breaking my own rules so recently created in 'note to self', I've got two dates next week. Both with men called Simon. A happy coincidence on the not getting the name wrong front. One wears very comfortable looking jumpers and has just got back from 4 years down under, the other has waited patiently and not complained when I said yes, put him off, then reactivated, his offer of a coffee.

It'd be fair to say that neither have rocked my imagination, but then, not getting excited is probably a better way to go. Lathering myself into an ultimately anticlimatic, daydreaming frenzy, is out from here on in.

Smiles at the drama queen, pops her back in the cupboard

Yesterday was rubbish. Although I must say the fantastic wide brimmed hat, military jacket and pencil skirt I managed to, not very convincingly, label 'retail therapy', are fabulous.

I woke up this morning after a pretty bad nights sleep, expecting to be steeped in the after effects of too much red wine. Then decided, actually, no, I feel fine. Getting blown out by men I haven't even met yet totally agrees with me 24 hours down the line.

I giggle at myself for the melodramatic blip, sail on, feeling marvellous in said jacket and wide brimmed hat...............

Note to self

Only write about dates once they are 'in the bag'. Pat on back though for not saying 'whatever' when the offer's retracted, if 'whatever' is a bullshit description of how I feel.

He proffers a daytime date

I'm sure that means he's married. Nettie concurs, says 'trick him, or ask for his landline number'.
He sends his mobile.
I ring it.
He says call the landline. Heart soars, then he doesn't know the number, says, 'tell you what I'll ring you'. I vow to do 1471 at the end and if it's 'the caller withheld their number', stand him up.
By the time I leave the call 90 minutes later, landline number remembered, the need to do so has been shot away.
I'm glad. I'd have been gutted if he'd been married.
After that call.
He offered a daytime date because he was worried I may have personal safety issues about meeting after dark.
I tell him if I had personal safety alarm bells, I wouldn't meet him in a crowded bar on a Sunday afternoon.
We agree to go out Saturday night. Dinner, then he's coming to see the fabulous Ms Hook play in a crowded basement in Angel.

Saturday seems the longest way away.
He sends me his favourite words each day.
Writes beautifully, despite the fact he only learnt to read at 15. He designs gardens. Has a masters in urban lanscaping. Buried himself in plants from an early age apparently. Adores his work. He's happy, very funny, incredibly sane sounding in an utterly unconventional way. He's not a Tory. Doesn't have an offputting voice. Says he'll be really nervous. Said after his date with a woman who turned up in rubber, me indulging my passion for overdressing is really not going to touch the sides of freaking him out.

70 hours and counting
xxxxxxxxxxxx

There ain't nothing like a Dame, and other stories

Dame Mavis retired this week. I miss her already. She took her office and former office staff out for a slap up meal in a very fancy pants restaurant in Covent Garden. We made some bad speeches, but amended with fabulous presents. I went with Aubs armed with a £300 handbag budget and mistaken belief that we could have our pick for that. Oh no, do you know that a bog standard Chanel handbag costs £1200? I didn't. I was appalled. I wanted to lamp the liposuctioned princess in the shop buying a couple, shake her and say 'for Goddsakes woman, that's immoral'. That may sound like handbag envy. It isn't. They were really not £1200 gorgeous. I prefer the Accessorise autumn collection.

Mavis got a lesser name label, we tried Prada Gucci, everyone you would think of as a really fancy handbag label, found we could afford a purse, retired to Coccinelle. She thought it was from Marks and Spensers as it turned out. I didn't have the heart to correct her. I'm sure she'd take it back, get a nice winter coat if her hubby ever tells her what the receipt says.

I realised in lamenting her departure that it wasn't that she was irreplaceable professionally. There's lots of very good , very inspiring civil servants. There just aren't that many who are as human as her, who you can shop with, giggle, get drunkenly inappropriate with. Who you can swap 'wine stains on the boobs' anecdotes with. She was fun. I'll see her again, but miss that at work.

Talking of work, it's nuts. Like really nuts, working all hours and having half the Cabinet peering over our shoulder, nuts. I'm shattered, suffering light deprivation and barely getting to talk or sleep or see daylight. Writing, cooking, reading, such pleasures are now crammed into what section of the weekendend I can, guilt free, cordon off for myself. It isn't a full one. I'm hating the hours, the pressure. Loving the work, loving the team. This week was the worse so far. Home between 9-11. In when I'm normally still sleeping.

Out of the hideousness came Gerard. I've joined another internet dating site.(this one's for boys - and before you all go on about being greedy in keeping my options open,I should mention I've had a bad date with a Tory and rubbish sex with a virgin who 'learnt from the telly for you' since last December, hardly binging!). Gerard is a 38 year old divorcee. He writes the best messages in the world. Apart from looking sexy, he's very bright, endearingly quirky and has totally got my attention. I'll keep you posted.

If you're wondering at this juncture what happened to the Bali Boy. Nothing happened really. He he just made the usual bugger all effort, and I decided to let it go but be his mate several weeks ago. Before the bombings in fact. He didn't bother to feign faux guttedness, just said 'whatever you want'. We still chat on the phone, it's fine, but time to move on.

There a number of men on Dating Direct who haven't got my attention despite their best efforts and a number whose attention I've failed to attract. Flatteringly the former outstrips the latter.

I shall of course whirl you through some of the highlights and lowlights, things I am learning about internet dating, and give you a compare and contrast of the girl site / boy site experiences at some point. Next time I get let out of the cage in fact.

J xxxx

I am here

Only I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time and money and the chiropractors........and, shock horror for the girl who's social life previously revolved round a PC, I've been out and about. Loads to tell, a plethora of parties, a wave of fabulous hosts and hostesses, big nights, great days, and a neck stiffer than a unmilked..

stops, leave that thought there
a very sore neck

and back

I've not stopped writing, just been away from my tools..
bare with me

Tennyson said

'Come dear friends, there's time for newer worlds'. It's the first thing I've heard, in a day where my head has been dominated by thoughts of Bali, that makes any sense.