"It's just not going anywhere."

So after a month throwing myself into this online dating lark, I thought I was becoming quite the Veteran. I was no longer feeling sick at the thought of meeting a stranger in a pub for a drink and feeling that my small talk skills were pretty polished - it's important you don't sound like you're interviewing when trying to make conversation.


I'd met various decent-seeming guys, and friends had been asking me how it'd been going, and where my blog posts on the topic were. I naively said that everyone I'd met had been perfectly nice so far, even if they didn't all have any chemistry with me. I'd happily regale the story of No'rn Ir'on's 'mental' who got excessively pissed off after she was too busy to answer a message and labelled her a timewasting girl who clearly like to mess men about. Mentally unstable AND hates women - what a catch!



"But so far, for me, everyone's been fine!"



Talk about tempting Fate.


Friday was the fifth date with the Doctor. I wasn't convinced of the compatibility between us but there was a definite chemistry which we'd been er, acting upon, since pretty much the first time we met. (Not like that,  I'm not some sort of slattern. In a rather innocent teenage type way.) He seemed to be a gent, taking me out on the heath in Hampstead for an autumnal stroll (now I've typed that, I also see how dodgy that sounds. Honestly, this cottaging lark has ruined mentioning Hampstead Heath for the rest of us. Are you reading this, Stephen Fry?) and sipping good bottles of red in cosy London pubs. The conversation was pretty good as you'd expect from an intellectual and I enjoyed his company.


After our second date, he was going away for a research trip to Budapest - upon saying goodbye, he promised to get in touch from his trip away. I said, er no, it's fine - just text me when you get back and we'll take it from there. The alarm bells should have started ringing at this point, along with the very premature coupley things like hand-holding in pubs and excessive PDAs. However, I just thought it was quite sweet that he was keen.


We carried on seeing each other, while I proclaimed to friends that I wasn't really sure about our long-term compatibility due to his a) extreme and self-admitted middle-class snobbery, b) his intellectualism and c) our very different lifestyles. As an academic, his life was the British Library, teaching students, endless coffee and erratic research hours. Mine's more 9-6 working in the City, pubs and extremely inappropriate conversations with my dear friends. I had a feeling that his softly-spoken nature might not gel that well with my friends who think nothing of telling a paedophile joke in public, or dropping the C bomb without batting an eyelid.


So, Friday - the fifth date. We arranged to meet at the German Christmas market on Southbank. He greeted me like his girlfriend outside the BFI, apparently we'd graduated from polite kissing on the cheek to all-embracing smackers.  I was taken aback but suggested we go and enjoy the market delights. Working our way through Gluhwein at the BFI bar and from the stalls, we wandered and laughed at the disgusting tourist tat for sale (who actually needs a Nativity scene snow globe that lights up? Who?) and commented on how pretty the London Eye looked.


We decided to go for dinner, unremarkable food at Giraffe but a pleasing respite from the biting winds. Halfway through the meal he asked about my plans for the remainder of the weekend. I explained that I was seeing various people on Saturday afternoon but other than that, was happy to go with the flow.


"Well, it's my friend's birthday party on Saturday night and I wondered if you wanted to come and meet my friends?"


I instantly thought NO - bit soon for the whole meeting each other's friends lark. I made non-committal noises about how I wasn't sure how long my afternoon engagements would go on for, and steered away from the topic. We got back to more light-hearted chat, and went outside to finish our bottle of wine and smoke a cigarette. Now I don't know if it was the wine or what, but The Doctor was telling me how whatever it was between us, he was enjoying it and would very much like to come back to mine. I said yeah, well it is what it is and right now it seems fun so that sounds good.

Which is when the night went a bit wrong back at my place. At the most inappropriate time he probably could have picked all night, he suddenly went from “come and meet my friends” and “this chemistry is amazing” to “I’m not feeling this. We could definitely go out for a few months, and we’d have loads of fun but you’re not The One.”

Naturally, I was taken aback as I wasn’t aware that the fifth date was suddenly akin to making vows and promising yourselves to each other forever through sickness and health.

“Riiight… and this occurred to you when, after proclaiming whatever this was ‘was brilliant’ or after asking me to your friend’s birthday party?”

He then proceeded to have a small Existential crisis about what he was looking for while I looked on, baffled.

“I don’t know you very well, but in all honesty, I think you might get disappointed if you enter every alright date with the notion that this person could be your wife.”

“I over-analyse everything. I’d fuck it up. I should go.”

Yes, I think that might be wise.

The following morning, I went to make tea in the kitchen. No’rn Ir’on looked puzzled.

“Here, were you wearing pearl earrings last night?” She held up a stud that she’d found on the sofa.

“Ohh yeah, I wondered where’d they’d gone, thanks,” feeling my bare ear lobes. I explained the evening, still bemused by the remarkable U-turn and flash of issues I’d been lucky enough to be exposed to at an early stage.

She shrugged.

“At least you can get a blog post out of it now.”

True that. Thanks to the Doctor for the inspiration.

Twenty-something girl WLTM Mr Wrong. GSOH.

A blogpost about online dating.* Here it is. The internet is awash with Carrie Bradshaw wannabes detailing the excruciating details of their dysfunctional love lives. So I thought I'd join in. 

While I love my single life (not having to answer to anyone, no-one else's issues to deal with, the total freedom to see whoever you want, whenever you want), I'd been discussing online dating with friends recently and came to the conclusion that it's no longer the preserve of hideous virgins and dodgy perverts. Our generation works online, socialises online so why not a bit of digitally-induced romance? I know of people who met online and are blissfully happy, even married. 

We've all heard the horror stories. My particular favourite is an ordinary-seeming guy, who halfway through the first drink asked my friend if she'd "like a good fisting?" Seriously. She politely declined. Aside from possible situations like this, I figured the experience could at least make for some funny stories, and perhaps lead to meeting some new friends, or the man of my dreams, Benedict Cumberbatch... what do you mean, he's not online dating? But how else am I going to find him? 

So, filled with curiosity and trepidation, I registered with a site and found myself stumped at the first hurdle of putting my profile together. It's hard to a) differentiate yourself from everyone else on there without sounding too 'quirky', b) big yourself up without coming off as a twat, and c) be funny without being flippant. A quick browse of other profiles reassured me that other people aren't very good at building their own brand either. I made a decision not to engage with anyone who self-describes using the words 'crazy', 'unusual', 'laid-back' or 'normal.' (Read: annoying, on some sort of sex pest register, boring and weird.)

It's clear that there are some oddballs on there. I've been emailed people's bizarre life stories, and had interest from a guy who has used some very weird song lyrics as his 'about me' section. However, am also having some interesting chats with people who on paper (or should I say screen) look interesting and normal. A date yesterday was perfectly alright but I instantly knew on meeting him that despite the eloquent and clever emails, there was no spark whatsoever and he just wasn't going to be funny enough for me. So I dazzled him with my wit, obviously, then after a quick lunch and drink, made my excuses and left. I'm certain he's not at home nursing a broken heart today. 

A few of us have joined the same site and it's going to be interesting seeing what happens and who we meet. A giggle if nothing else, and hopefully some good material to write about on here before I inevitably meet that male model millionaire with a PhD. (Or, Benedict. Obviously.)

* I should just clarify that I detest the word 'date'. It's just so fucking American. But there's no real alternative in English, is there? 'Online seeing-someone' or 'online flinging' just sound a bit weird and/or like you're cruising the net. 

Some commuter etiquette recommendations

I spend a lot of my time on public transport in London. Mainly buses. Now I know that I could save myself hassle and money, save the planet, get fitter blah blah by cycling, but I'm a menace to myself and others. It would take one momentary distraction of "Oh look, a bee!" and I'd cycle straight under the wheels of the 26 bus.

I avoid the Tube where possible as being on an oven-temperature B.O.-reeking underground train isn't my favourite thing in the world. I also don't really enjoy being full-frontally pressed against strangers at 8am. Or anytime really.

So, buses. A magnet for stupid people, it seems. So, to make everyone's lives easier, here's a few little tips to make everyone's journeys a bit more comfortable.

Brush your teeth before getting on the morning commuter bus. You're going to be in close proximity to other people, it's only polite. Imagine every morning journey is like a date, yeah?

Stop carrying massive fuck-off rucksacks/suitcases/boxes/suspicious parcels on the rush-hour buses. Get a chuffing cab if you have loads of luggage.

People with massive buggies who get on for ONE stop and force a whole bus load of people to move or get off. You can just fuck right off. WALK you lazy people.

Don't have loud, inappropriate conversations on your mobile phone whilst your mouth is roughly four centimetres from my head, because despite my earphones I can still hear you and I may well assault you.

If you're sitting next to me, don't sit ON me.

Don't use the fact we're standing in cattle-truck conditions to 'accidentally' touch me. One more hand brush anywhere remotely sexy and I will scream sexual harrassment. And swiftly knee you in the balls.

If you're a highly attractive man please don't stand right next to me, face-to-face as I will die of not knowing where to look or what to do.

Stop showing off if you think you're funny and you're having a comedy conversation with your friends. Listen, you braying idiot, you're not funny, you're a twat. Shut up.

School kids - just go away.

Right, that should make everyone's lives easier. I for one am a model bus passenger and would never barge you out of the way to scramble on the bus, never have very very loud music blasting out of my headphones and never scowl at other passengers when I am hungover and a bit fucking irritable. *beams*

"It's the weekend!!!!!!!! LOL x"

I've been quiet again on the blog front. Turns out having a busy job and getting drunk with your friends take up more time than you'd think.

I'm compelled to write to address some irksome social media issues. Now, for most people, these things probably don't matter. If you're one of those people and you're reading this, you're probably going to think 'get a life, who even cares?' in about 100 words time. This might piss you off.

So, I like social media, right? I'm pretty passionate about it. (That sounds better than 'geek'.) I think it's an amazing tool that allows us all to be connected, if we want to be. I know what my friends abroad are doing day to day, I can see their photos, I can read interesting blogs about my industry and I see the power of the ordinary person's voice on Twitter. I think that's quite cool. I work in communications so for me, it works both on a personal and professional level.

Lately though, I've been getting a wee bit irritated by some of the things I see on Facebook and Twitter. Maybe it's because I'm what you might call a 'frequent user', or because I am interested in the sector, I have more of an interest/understanding in style and etiquette than someone who just uses these things to organise football practice or stalk their crush.

Maybe it's because I'm a social media snob. I'm not saying that my Facebook or Twitter feeds aren't annoying to some people. They certainly are. I bang on about music, tea, the fucking London bus service, how much I love Guy Garvey, and I also have a lot of essentially nonsensical, bollocks conversations with my funny friends.

Saying that though, these are some things that I just don't understand - and I know it's not just me they bug because I've had conversations with mates recently about the very same things.

1) Using a MILLION exclamation marks on tweets or Facebook statuses. Why? No really, WHY? It's always attached to the most mundane of statements too. "I've finished work!!!!!" Or my personal favourite, "It's the weekend!!!!!" I am glad you wrote that on your Facebook wall, otherwise I would not have KNOWN. Also if you'd written it with only one, or maybe no exclamation marks, I might not have FULLY UNDERSTOOD. Perhaps this a wider English language thing I have, but either way, it translates really fucking badly on social media. I know the Grumpy Scot and The Director are with me on this one. It's like if you have to say 'I'm mad, me!', I can guarantee the most you can hope for is that you're 'mad' in a needing-medication way, not a 'carefree, spontaneous, risky' way.

2) Facebook photos. Right, this is a contentious issue. Most people chose a nice shot their mates have taken of them. Or a nice, not-too-twatty self portrait. Or something totally not of them at all. There a couple of other types of shot that grate a wee bit. Firstly, matching coupley profile pictures. I know, I know, I come across as a bitter spinster. It's not that people in relationships annoy me, I just don't understand why people feel the need to up the smug 'look at me with a LOVER!' stakes. It smacks of showing off if you match this with your partner's photo. What you're trying to say is 'look how sexually desirable and generally awesome I am, I'm an Other Half!' What you're actually saying is 'we didn't have sex on this holiday and I'm really unhappy but I think I'll stick with it because we have a lovely house and I won't give up custody of the dog.'

Secondly, perhaps it's just because myself and a lot of mates are at that age where people are staring to settle down - but KID profile pictures. Now I know, it MUST be amazing having children. I've heard all about it, from friends and sisters. When I see my niece and nephews there is something so profound about the trust they have in you, and how lovely it is having hot little bodies snuggled up on you on the sofa while dozing. It does transcend everything else. However - just because you've had a child, you're still my mate, you still have your own personality, you don't just become MUM.

In fact some people I know who aren't close friends may as well have 'I can't use birth control properly, LOLZ!' on their Facebook statuses.

3) Adding a kiss to the end of every generic status update/ tweet. 'I'm eating toast x' Am I missing something? Yes I write kisses on messages to specific people, but I don't get it on general statuses. It reeks of a kind of arrogance, like all your followers would be so grateful for your love. You're not Jesus, yeah? It just looks a bit weird, like you're bestowing something on people. You're not. It just looks a bit affected.

4) I'm not proclaiming to be the most exciting, entertaining person ever. My favourite recent TV programme was with Martin Clunes rambling on about horses, for goodness' sake. However. I do try a little bit to be slightly amusing. Someone I had as a friend on Facebook just used to basically list their household chores. Part of the point of social media I guess is making the mundane prominent if people want to. But you don't want to make your friends want to send you a hobby leaflet, or ask your family if 'you're ok, as you don't seem to get out much.' I know The Blonde is with me on this.

Some of you might think this comes off as snobbery or communication superiority. It's not, it's just observations that become apparent when I spend a fair bit of time using social media for work and for pleasure. Right, I'm off to get a real life. Either that, or tweet about what I'm having for my tea.

"Washing your car?"

Ah, Sunday. Papers, relaxation, pottering. I love Sundays.

Today was a little different to usual. I normally wake up bleary-eyed, wondering what the hell happened the night before (if it's been a good night, that is) and asking the nearest person to make me a cup of tea, immediately, PLEASE.

Today I awoke on a sofa bed after a wonderful university housemate reunion, with a ginger kitty called Horris purring in my ear. We were leaving early to get back to London so I could attend yoga and go for a swim.

The Cyclist and I boarded the train in Sutton, full of bacon sandwiches and tea from our hostess's fine breakfast. We'd not had much luck on the way down from London, as we'd inadvertantly boarded a train carriage that contained the Spawn of Satan. A gaggle of middle-class teenagers had whined, shouted, brayed and squealed through the whole journey. One of them was called Paris. I wanted to smack Paris, a LOT. Severely obnoxious with a total lack of self-awareness is a winning combination for others wishing violence upon you.

As we boarded, I said,

"If Paris turns up on this train, I'll punch her in the babymaker."

Luckily there was no Paris. But there WAS an insufferable, pseudo-intellectual bearded idiot sat with who I presume was his girlfriend. Or if not, he definitely wanted to fuck her and was using smart-arse film references to get in her pants. Now I love a bit of culture, don't get me wrong. I will happily sit and talk about music and art and films. But hopefully I don't do it loudly on a train with a smug, self-serving tone. If I do, let me know yeah?

The Cyclist and I glanced at each other as he harped on loudly about some film and some other pretentious crap. A stream of spurious culture references spilled out of his mouth. I was dying to a) laugh loudly, b) take the piss out of him, and c) self-harm so I could concentrate on something else. I texted The Cyclist as I just had to vent.

"Oh my god Jonny Lee Miller was, like SO understated yah? When I was at The Globe, yah? Shut up you massive drama student TWUNT!"

The Cyclist read it on her phone and smirked, I gritted my teeth. The braying idiot, now using his Magnum lollystick to gesticulate to his poor potential Rohypnol victim, shouted, "So Sara organised dinner at The Globe!"

We cracked up loudly.

We had to endure the following conversation before the sweet relief of arriving at London Bridge.

"So me and my sister yah, started saying 'Your Mum' to each other! And THEN my Mum started saying it too! Fnar fnar fnar."

"Devotion breeds complacency then that breeds IRONY, YAH?" At this point him and his friend erupted into peals of laughter. The Cyclist and I met eyes and did that quizical "what the fuck?" face. I sat on my hands so I didn't go over and beat him to death with his own copy of Empire magazine.

Journey over, I managed to be in time for the yoga class and both No'rn Ir'on and I managed to get through the class without getting 'too relaxed' which I'd heard horror stories about. Afterwards we went for a swim. The normally quiet pool was manned by two dodgy guys sitting in the shallow end, who watched us walk from the changing rooms to the water while pulling faces like a sex pest. I didn't understand this, since looking at me in a swimming costume is something you Just Don't Do, like looking directly at the Sun, or putting foil in the microwave.

We began our lengths of the pool, avoiding Splashy McPervert who was hanging around in our general vicinity and inexplicably splashing halfway into the middle of the pool then swimming back again. I was concentrating on breathing and my stroke, when I passed No'rn Ir'on.

"Guess what just happened to me?"

I shrug. "The weird guy touched you up a bit in the deep end?"

"No. I did a lap of the pool before I realised my right boob was out."

I checked she wasn't at risk of being arrested for indecent exposure in a public family place and we swam to the shallow end. She looked wistful.

"I wish I was a mermaid sometimes."

I disagreed. "Nah, there's loads of things that would be impossible to do." I dived under the water and carried on my lengths. I passed No'rn Ir'on in the deep end.

"Like bungee jumping?" she suggested hopefully. I inhaled a litre of swimming pool water and tried not to drown whilst regaining my composure in 12'6" of water.

She was obviously considering it, as the next time we passed she ventured, "Washing your car?"

We luxuriated in the water at the deep end after the pool was vacated by the Special contingent, floating and chatting.

No'rn Ir'on: "I need to wee."

Me: "Oh."

No'rn Ir'on: "Do you think they have that chemical that changes colour if you wee in the pool?"

Me: "Only one way to find out...?"

No'rn Ir'on: "No, after swimming about with one boob out for a while, that's probably enough embarrassment for me for one day."

Festivals

Summer means one thing. Well, lots of things, among which are chilled wine outside, horrendous tube travel and being exposed to more London body odour than usual. But the MAIN thing for me is festivals.

I let my Glasto ticket go this year for various reasons (Don't. Ask.), but I booked some other festivals instead. Because I'm now a bone fide Londoner, I have easy access to the city festivals. Days for middle-class types who think they're 'hip' and attend open air music events, but at the end of the day would like to sleep in a bed and use a proper, clean toilet. Fair enough. They do unfortunately also attract scallies. People who aren't that arsed about the music but figure it's an excuse to get off your tits on cider and narcotics outside, go topless (mainly the blokes) and generally behave like a bit of a yobby nob.

I went to Wireless with The Foodie, The German and some of The Foodie's friends. Despite the not-proper-festival-goers and the chavs, it was a fun day out and we saw UNKLE, 2 Many DJs and LCD Soundsystem among others.

This weekend just gone, I attended my only 'proper' festival this year. Ie, full-on camping. Portaloos. Being lost in a field. Being accosted by a friendly but MUNTED individual at four AM in the camp site who's on about the pink rabits and the universe, man. Lounge on the Farm is a lovely local festival I've been attending for years and is getting some major recognition and acts playing. Over the years there I've seen Mr Scruff, the xx, Quantic, Syd Arthur, Mystery Jets, Roots Manuva, Scroobius Pip and lots of others that I cannot recall. This year I didn't see as much music as normal as I was working for The Greek in a restaurant in The Meadows field but I did see Slow Club and the bloody magnificent Toots & The Maytals who I thought did a wicked set. Live reggae played by legends in a cowshed after you've had about eight pints - what's not to like?

So, things I learned at LOTF this year:

I never, ever have an easy time packing - but then once I am there can rarely be arsed to get changed anyway.

I ALWAYS get ridiculous farmer-style sunburn literally within the first hour of arriving. Even if it's grey and rainy.

During the late-night gatherings at smaller stages, or round a campfire, there's always a mash up individual who *thinks* they're some sort of bongo wizard and drums incessantly. They're normally not very good, but sufficiently have their senses altered to believe that the noisy offbeat tapping is some sort of primal rhythm.

There's always some dazed people wandering around in grubby animal costumes the day after the festival has finished.

Drinking cider with breakfast is PERFECTLY acceptable at festivals.

I am getting old, and every year exclaim HOW MANY TEENAGERS ARE IN ATTENDANCE!?

Despite my trepidation every time, I cope remarkably well with kipping in a tent and actually actively enjoy brushing my teeth in a field under the stars.

The toilets aren't actually as bad as you think they'll be. But maybe I was just lucky.

So, two festivals out of three this month are done. I'm making the most of Lovebox being down the road from my house and attending that this weekend. Let's hope it's mainly nice people and doesn't attract the stabby, shooty teenage Hackney types. If they're reading this, just chill out yeah?

"Deer park? Is that because it's expensive to get into?"

No'rn Ir'on and I decided that after the cocktail and wine excess of Bank Holiday Sunday, today we ought to go and power walk around Victoria Park. I was nervous about the squirrels but we braved it, those and the stabby gangs.

Hackneyites and their dogs filled the park, meaning that we got inevitably overexcited at the canine frolicking.

"Awww look at that one!"

"Ah, he's got a cool face, I'd call him Duncan."

We spied a couple with a few young Italian Greyhounds,

"OH look at those! Oh no wait. Oh no, they're REALLY going for it." Not really what you want to see on a civilised Monday afternoon.

No'rn Ir'on: "No wait, I want to see how they separate them, like."

I dragged her away from the doggy show and we marched around the lake. Of course, there were kids everywhere. Not No'rn Ir'on's favourite things. A family consisted of three squawky young girls whining and bickering.

"I'm not even sorry that I want to punch them."

We decided to venture into the part of the park that we've never been in before. The signposts promised exotic adventures - a model boating lake, the mystically-titled One O Clock Club and the deer park. DEER. In east London.

No'rn Ir'on remarks, "Is that because it's really expensive?" and sniggers to herself.

We actually do catch a glimpse of two sleeping deer and it makes my day.

As we meander around the model boating lake, laughing at dogs splashing around in the water, No'rn Ir'on picks her way along the edge. I resist the urge to shove her into the water, very tempting. I inform her of this and she poses, sticking her bum out. I realise that we look mental and we're in very close proximity to the children's play area so should probably move along.

Naturally, we encounter the scary east London squirrels, and find one holding court under a tree with a gaggle of pigeons. I think that it's going to launch itself at a pigeon and eat it. No'rn Ir'on is more concerned with that fact that they might get a little amorous like the greyhounds earlier.

"They're going to MATE and then it will get out of hand and before you know it, the park will be overrun with SQUIDGEONS."

As we wander off giggling, I spy a man who I've seen several times this weekend. Tall, east London skinny, massive quiff and some particularly striking and brave sartorial choices. I mention that he's quite beautiful to No'rn Ir'on.

"No way, he's so totally gay."

"Not necessarily! Even straight guys in Hackney dress like that."

"You only fancy guys that look gay."

"Maybe I do. Hence why so unsuccessful in these matters."

"I know that if I am about to congratulate a man on his TUNIC, he's probably a queen."

One to mull over there, I think.

"You Look Like Andy Warhol."

Another weekend.... another visit from the Blonde. What could possibly go wrong when I was taking an afternoon off work to meet her and go for a late (liquid) lunch?

It started off in Moro - for anyone who hasn't tried this restaurant, this genuinely is the best food I've ever had. Exquisite tapas and a great atmosphere and a wine list to die for. We promptly worked our way through a divine bottle of Txacoli and had a rather enjoyable little crawl round the drinking establishments of Exmouth Market. Medcalfs, the old butchers, is a nice place to chill out (we met The Greek there for one or two), as well as a brilliant spot for listening to Islington rah-rahs harp on loudly.

"Yah, I laaarve the names Poppy and Scarlet and Oscar, fwa?"

A twenty-something woman addressed her mum,

"Why didn't you give me a proper Spanish name Mummy?... Chloe is SO common now."

The Blonde and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh out loud.

We presented the bar man in Cafe Kick the brief of: dry, vodka-based cocktail please thankyouverymuch. He came back with a Berry Martini fit for a Queen and we promptly had 3. What, we had to check for consistency?

By this point, The Blonde was fully in Camera Club mode, taking arty shots of light fittings and such. She'd just discovered turning the flash off for better night time photos. We asked a poor man sat at the next table to take a shot of the two of us, and she wasn't shy with direction.

"Put your elbows on the table so it's not blurry... PUT YOUR ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!"

Fully getting into the stride of a slightly boozy afternoon, we happened upon my wonderful local where we shared a cheeseboard at the bar. Somehow, The Blonde came back from the loo to find me fully engaged in conversation about the design industry with a rather attractive young man. I forgot about this until the end of the night, when The Blonde nicked a business card off me and thrust it upon him.

"Call her! She's a designer!"

Me, dying inside: "No, Blonde, I'm not a designer. I work in design."

"Anyway, she thinks you're nice, call her. Byeeeee!"

I scarpered shame-faced from the pub and we went home to dance and for The Blonde to eat a serious amount of cocktail sausages. I played her some tracks I'd been listening to. She couldn't get her head around the Scroobius Pip track Thou Shalt Always Kill.

"Who's this? Scrupulous Pigs?"

"Yes. Time for bed."

It's never fun on a Saturday morning when some twat decides that pre-9am is a brilliant time to do some extraordinarily loud drilling outside your window. We come round with brews and talk about the evening before. Since we're both trying not to eat too many carbs as well (shh, wine and martinis so don't count), we get onto the subject of food. The Blonde looks wistful and I know she's about to come out with one of her cracking interchangeable quotes.

"I LOVE [insert random thing]" This time, it was, yep you've guessed it - potatoes of course.

We make our way to Borough Market for some mooching and sampling and probably quite a bit of Camera Club, and for some reason end up talking about marriage and taking your husband's name.

The Blonde says earnestly, "I'm quite attached to my name." As one would be.

Borough Market is overwhelming in its delights and we kick off the weekend in the totally normal fashion at 12 noon - Prosecco! The Blonde gets unbelievably excited by a sign in the Spanish shop Brindisa advertising 'Ham School'. No, really. One of the interchangeable quotes from above occurred while tucking into a plate of antipasti.

"I love ham."

The next thing that has The Blonde squealing with excitement is a stall selling Drunk Cheese.

"That's got my name ALL over it!" I have photos of her proudly posing underneath the sign and sampling some.

Next stop, Spitalfields for more wandering and shopping. I cross over into full Shoreditch Wankdom and purchase some of those fake glasses that look like the sort of thing Deirdre from Coronation Street would turn down on account of them being a bit ugly. You know the kind. The Blonde persuaded me. They just make me look more like the geeky one from Scooby Doo. I kept them in my bag.

We wander round Brick Lane, meet Oxford for drinks and then make our way to Broadway. On the way we pass someone's post outside their house. I was going to say that I'd love to know what goes on inside The Blonde's head, but I do already know and it's just baffling.

"Oooooh, LOOK, the phone book's thin now isn't it?"

I don't know how to come back to that.

We sat in Off Broadway and admired the east end lot dressed in their war time get up, and the large number of seriously cool dogs that people had in there. We complimented a lady on her fine-looking cocktail and she let us try it. How kind.

The rest of the evening involved takeaway and inane discussions brought on by The Blonde forcing me to watch Britain's Got Talent. (Questionable.)

"I reckon Amanda Holden could be in our gang, you know."

Sunday brings crazy cheese-related dreams, and I make The Blonde try on my comedy fashion glasses. It's a revelation.

"You look like Andy Warhol!"

"I'm not sure I want to look like that."

On the way back to Spitalfields, The Blonde is lamenting her fading fake tan.

"It dries your skin out, so you moisturise - then you lose your bloody tan. Double edged sword mate, seriously. It's a tough life."

Spitalfields brings the longest cash point queue in the world, the tannoy asking about a million times for 'Staff 200' who was clearly having a fag and a brew round the back, and The Blonde directing me to get her picture but only if I can "get the anchor-print jumper in!"

Lunch at Giraffe was followed by a walk home through some less than charming estates where a massive guy carrying a suitcase on his head kept shouting, "Hey lady!" to The Blonde. When she ignored him, he qualified it with, "I'm from Spain, I a nice guy."

One, he didn't look or sound Spanish. Two, the Spanish thing doesn't negate the fact you're carrying a suitcase on your head in an east end estate.

"Is that bloke having a POO on the pavement?!"

I spent the last week in a frenzy of cleaning and excitement, as my elder sister was coming to visit me in London with my gorgeous, clever, thoroughly excellent niece. I anticipated a civilised, cultural weekend with a few quiet drinks in the evenings once Pony Mad niece had gone to bed... It's Sunday afternoon and I am sat watching Come Dine With Me while nursing a headache that just won't shift, surprising myself that I am actually writing words that vaguely do go together.

Friday evening was a lovely stroll around St Paul's, Southbank, Shad Thames and Tower Bridge, culminating in an Italian meal where I carb-loaded quite spectacularly. Back at mine, PonyMad went to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in bed and Sister and I proceeded to demolish quite a large volume of white wine and cigarettes on the balcony while talking life, love and what giving birth is really like. About three glasses after a sensible person would have stopped drinking, No'rn Iron came home from a work night out and we cracked open the last bottle. She proceeded to tell Sister all about a bloke who was being an idiot while we made sisterhood-like supportive noises.

"Tell him to fook off, fookin' prick." I never thought I'd see my nine-years-senior police officer mother-of-two sister drunkenly, liberally pepper sentences with the C word, quite happily with my housemate.

Saturday morning I definitely felt a bit rough, but a magic shower and loads of tea helped. I was bursting with pride that PonyMad not only makes the family morning tea at a weekend, but drank two cups in a row before getting ready. The plan was to go and check out the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, this made me more excited than PonyMad. First though we went to Broadway market for a mooch about and she displayed her exquisite taste by choosing a swallow necklace from one of my favourite stalls.

We detoured on the way back to Hackney City Farm, just to show them how urban Londoners do 'rural.' Coming from rural Lancashire, they weren't that impressed but we did enjoy watching people try to catch very hoppy rabbits. Sister then persuaded me that if a cat or dog wasn't an option, I could SO get a guinea pig. And call it Duncan. Yeah!

We made it on the Tube to South Kensington, encountering a woman in the carriage who appeared to have had an amazing amount of work done on her face. I was sat opposite Sister and we caught each other's eyes and tried not to a) laugh or b) involuntarily shout "Look at her LIPS though!" As we approached the museum in the sunshine, it was clear I'd made a schoolgirl error and not thought about the fact that every fucker was in London with their kids to see the dinosaurs on Bank Holiday weekend. We made do with a wander to Buckingham Palace so that PonyMad could wave to the Queen. (Or 'our Liz as I like to call her.)

Strolling from Victoria station, we noticed a sleeping bag strewn across a pavement and a large beardy man crouched down by a lamp post. I clocked what was happening and chose not to mention it.

Sister, loudly in a Bolton accent: "Is that man having a POO? Is he? Is he having a POO on the pavement?!"

Sadly, he was. I'm glad they got to see all the important sights, no one should leave the Big Smoke without having seen a vagrant defacate in public in broad daylight. *Tries not to vom*

We chose to have a quiet night in watching Britain's Got Talent (questionable) and Sister, after having declared in Tesco earlier that "we'd only need two bottles of wine," suggested I go to the shop and get some more. It turned into us being tiddly on the balcony, and Sister commenting that, "by the time I was your age, I'd met the love of my life and was having PonyMad." I told her of my plans to be a cat lady. Well not so much plans, as my Fate.

"You know what? London men in skinny jeans with pointy shoes are TWATS. You need to go out with a nice Northern lad. Fuck these Fashionista types!"

"There's that bloke off the telly."

Waking up with no hangover was brilliant and The Blonde and I had big plans - Camera Club London was going to be in session, starting off in Columbia Road and making it's way to St Paul's and Southbank. We dandered to Columbia Road market so that The Blonde could experience the Cockney flower sellers shouting, and see the beautiful east end crowd again. It's so busy that I really want to punch people, but then I cheer up and forget all about it as I discover a vintage stall and spend money on a peach teacup set and a tin with a horse on. Brilliant.

We go and wait at the bus stop to go to The City, and a group of rather posh boys wanders past, clutching big bottles of Evian and looking rather disheveled. One of them asks,

"I say - do you know of any cafes around here? A greasy spoon, if you will."

I point them in the right direction and get a fist-bump in return for my helpfulness. I always gets asked for directions. I either look very friendly, helpful and knowledgeable; or like a cabbie. I think it's the latter.

The Blonde is sat at the bus stop and is rifling through her handbag looking for something. She pulls out a packet of snacks she'd bought for the train.

"I'm still clutching these fucking wasabi peas!"

She then eats a rice cracker that she found in her handbag and assesses it.

"Yes, salty and a bit cheesy. I want more."

After strolling around St Paul's and Southbank with every other fucking tourist in London, we park ourselves in a pub for lunch. The speakers were blaring out some R n B rubbish. I announce that it makes me want to hurt myself.

The Blonde: "Is this Chris Brown?"

Me: "I don't know... some TWAT."

After a hearty lunch we wander along the Thames Path and walk past The Golden Hind.

The Blonde spies someone and says,

"That's the bloke off the telly!"

By 'bloke off the telly', she means Andrew Marr. He's walking along with someone who we presume is his daughter, looking like he's talking very earnestly and knowledgeably about the ship.

The path runs along past the London Dungeons and we walk past it under the bridge arch. The Blonde is concentrating on faffing with her camera or something, and I spy a very tall, sinister-looking guy who works for the Dungeons, drawing the crowds in. I don't say anything. He walks past The Blonde and touches her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Go easy, my child...."

The Blonde literally does a comedy gasp and nearly falls over, tears filling her eyes. The man walks off and I'm laughing at her shock, but she actually is frightened and has to go and have a moment to compose herself as she tries not to have a heart attack and vomit and sob all at once.

"I feel sick! I'm going to be sick! Fucking hell! I've got a very nervous disposition!"

A family walks past with a child screaming it's lungs out and she wails,

"That's how I feel inside! I know where you're coming from."

I take her back to mine to recover by watching some DVDs and drinking some tea. This relaxed, sensible domesticity doesn't last long and before I know it, we're finishing off Sunday with another trip to my local.

I wince as the barman says, "You were in here Friday weren't you."

Me: "Yes, I am dreadfully sorry if we were inappropriate or anything - it was a little, er, messy."

Barman: "No, don't worry - you gave us some great business."

I smile weakly and slink off back to the table feeling like the local lush and deciding that maybe I shouldn't go in for a while.

We round off the evening by watching The Inbetweeners with a take away and laughing at one of my favourite lines from the show.

"The winky face is the mark of a moron!"

;)

"Baby vomit though, how would you get that out of military tassles?"

The Blonde woke me up by trilling "brew?" across the lounge. I think my response was "that would be lovely in theory but I'm a little worse for wear and that might not go down too well at this current moment in time." Well, that's how it sounded in my head but in reality I think I just made the sort of noise an animal does as it dies in tremendous pain.

The Blonde made me drink some tea as I wondered what the hell had happened last night and why there were bits of broken glass on the floor. She went off to get ready (weirdly chirpy considering the events of the previous evening) and left me with some toast on the sofa. I promptly put my foot in said jammy toast, whimpered a bit and announced that "I needed a little lie down."

After being forced to shower I had that amazing hangover euphoria where the glorious hot water tricks you into thinking that you're fine. The novelty of not feeling rotten anymore makes you thankful to be alive and you feel like you could take on the world. I swept into the kitchen in full make up and a cloud of Jo Malone and announced to The Blonde, "I'm baaaack! Let's go to Broadway market!"

We go and join the beautiful and cool hipsters of east London and wander round the market stalls selling over-priced handmade and vintage things and amazing food. We're both fully consumed by hangover shopping; The Blonde buys a brooch with a sausage dog on, and I spy my perfect piece of jewelry.

"Blonde, there's a necklace with a horse on. A HORSE. I fucking need it in my life." They also had gorgeous handmade teacups on necklaces which I very nearly spent a fortune on, but then thought better of. Next time I'm hungover.

We were both also charmed by the Scrabble piece rings from this gorgeous boutique full of delightful designs, and fifty quid lighter we flounced off with our rather lovely new purchases.

Randomly we bumped into Terry outside a shop on Broadway, and made the usual "eeek, I was SO drunk last night" noises. We asked what he was doing with the rest of his Saturday.

"I think I'm going to go home and read this article in The Times on child abuse." I do love a cheerful Saturday. The Blonde and Terry then discussed their performance of Erasure the evening before. I admitted that I absolutely did not recall that happening, and they both burst into song again in the middle of the packed market. I was both embarrassed and impressed.

After a little walk and some fresh air, and not quite enough water, we were starting to feel a bit grim again. So naturally, we decide that the best possible plan would be to go to The Dove (one of London's best pubs) to have lunch. And beer. I think some sort of post-hangover hysteria set in, as that one long lunch resulted in the The Blonde muttering the immortal phrases,

"She's not warm... or endearing... OH JUST PUT SOME FUCKING CONCEALER ON, LOVE!"

"You know when you're at home on your own? Well I love spinning around in the kitchen. And sometimes I skip to the bathroom."

"Puffin, drink your beer! And eat your meat! You'll feel better."

"I can't imagine her in a wedding dress... you can't polish a turd, can you?"

I can't quite manage my springbok sausages and mash, but start to feel more human again after a pint. The Blonde is fully back in the game and we decide to venture to another pub. The Cat & Mutton on Broadway was the lucky recipient of our vaguely hysterical presence, and we were delighted to see the bloke who plays double bass around the markets outside. He worked his way through some tunes by The Specials and suddenly an east end Mod turned up and joined in.

"'Ere mate, play King of the Swingers!" He then proceeded to give us a brilliant performance of that, only stopping to shout to his bald mate,

"'Ere, Dave! Dave! Come over 'ere with your big shiny face!"

Between songs he bantered with the crowd, coming out with priceless lines such as,

"I'm a national fackin' 'ero I am, you'll be seeing my face on teatowels in the future! This is a once in a lifetime experience!" Then he leapt off a bollard as The Blonde took photos.

We wandered back down the market and stumbled across Off Broadway, a lovely cocktail bar with a Frida Kahlo - lookalike landlady and vintage music, as well as an epic cocktail menu. We sampled the Amaretto Sours and a very good lychee Daiquiri. The beautiful people on the table next to us had a very cute, tiny baby in tow. Neither of us are particularly maternal but we did agree that it was dead sweet. The Blonde considered this, then glanced at her miltary-styled top with tassle detail on the shoulders, and asked earnestly,

"Baby vomit though. I mean, how would you get that out of military tassles? Have you SEEN this chainwork? It'd never come out."

"Do you want a cork for that?"

Friday evening. The Blonde had come down from Edinburgh to spend a weekend poncing about east London with me. Upon her arrival we went straight to the old man's pub in Clerkenwell for a catch up pint or two.

I was overjoyed at being presented with much-coveted Pantone teatowels, and I presented The Blonde with my home-made Camera Club badges. (During the creation of which I almost broke the Badge-It badgemaker, designed for kids but somehow unfathomable to a 27 year old professional woman.)

Next on the list was a trip to my much-harped on about local in Hackney. Impeccable service, great atmosphere and a nice mix of people. We bagged ourselves a table at the back and began the cackling and drinking. The Blonde thought that the lovely Aussie waiter was like a Summer Heights High character. We were meant to be meeting The Blonde's old pal from her teenage years; affectionately known in their friendship group as 'Terry Fuckwit' after the Viz character; for generally being, well, a bit shit.

Three hours later, Terry did turn up. Inexplicably clutching a DVD of series one of My So Called Life. I still never found out why this was. They'd not seen each other for two years, so an epic catch-up session began involving a lot of wine. Before we knew it, after ordering another bottle of Sauvignon, the lovely staff insisted that it really was closing up time and we had to go. Please.

A worse-for-wear Blonde to the Aussie waiter: "Can I take my wine home?"

Waiter: "Yes... do you want a cork for that?"

The Blonde, looking confused: "....for what?"

Waiter: "... the bottle of wine?"

The Blonde: "Oh. Yes." Stood looking baffled with a bottle and a cork.

Waiter: "Shall I put it in for you?"

The Blonde: "Oh yes, thank you."

Me, Terry and the Blonde staggered back to mine arm in arm, and it's about here I'm not totally sure as to what happened next. Things I recall:

Smashing my last beautiful wine glass.

Dancing to Pulp's Babies in my slippers. (Both cool AND alluring)

Telling Terry and The Blonde to stop putting their iPods on "because I'VE MADE A PLAYLIST!"

Apparently at one point, Terry requested Erasure. I didn't have it on my iPod, I think I presented him with a laptop, mumbled "Spotify" and smiled like an idiot. It wasn't going to happen. So, in order to fill the Erasure-shaped hole, they apparently burst into a harmonised, acapella version of the song. I wish I remembered this. Luckily, I was treated to another version the next day.

Suffice to say, around 3am, Terry left, The Blonde crashed in my bed and I found my way onto the sofa still mumbling "No, don't put YOUR iPod on, I've made a fucking playlist!"

"Someone should invent the transportater"

I'd been looking forward to this weekend for a while. The Writer was coming to visit and we planned a lovely east end experience browsing the the markets, critiquing the try-hard Shoreditch/ Hackney set and drinking in my superb local. We'd not seen each other for about two years so we knew it was going to be a big catch up. In a previous life we'd been fellow copywriters at a Whitstable agency working for a director of dubious mental stability, and bonded over a love of music.

Saturday started off well - glorious London sunshine, I baked a carrot cake and got the flat visitor-ready. I met The Writer at Bethnal Green tube and surveyed the amazing cross section of people passing through the gates to the Central line. East end fashion is sometimes so ugly it's hard to tell who's being ironic and therefore 'cool' and who genuinely is just really, really badly-dressed. Double denim for instance. So wrong, but apparently so now.

We began our catch up with civilised tea and cake back at mine, then decided to go and have a 'nice quiet dinner' in my lovely local. As always the welcome, service and food was impeccable and we were deep in conversation until a guy clocked The Writer ordering more wine at the bar.

He introduced himself and before we knew it, launched into his life story - apparently, a tv-presenting cab driver, born in the flower market, 48, owns a place in Sharm el-Sheikh, brother is the CEO of Britvic, went to school with Martin Kemp from Spandau ballet, he lives in the same block as art critic Adrian Searle and the fashion director of Burberry and his Mum knew the Krays... Brilliant, you can't make this shit up. We thought he did at the time, but a bit of Googling today does confirm a few of his tales.

He invited himself to sit at our table and we ended up spending a couple of hours engaging in bizarre but interesting conversation with this character. After a lot of talk about him being single and once he started buying us wine, I did invent a nice boyfriend. We've been together for five months apparently, he was in Scotland over this weekend and it's going really well. According to The Writer, he's also well endowed. I did question how she might know this detail about my imaginary lover but it all got a bit too complex to think about.


Despite Jonny Hollywood being very charming and fun, we decided it was a good time to go when, after saying "No ulterior motive!" all evening, he asked us again if we'd like to go back to his warehouse across the road to talk a bit more. Errrm, no. We politely declined and made our way back to mine, laughing at how strange the evening had been. The Writer grabbed a bottle of Rioja and we decided that staying up drinking until 4am, listening to music and debating the world was a really brilliant idea. Which it was. At that point.

I awoke to a text from The Writer asking if I was alive, at gone lunchtime. I concluded that if I was reading a text, then I must be. Just about. With a hangover so severe that I even had to think twice about having a cup of tea, I set about trying to take my mind off the pain with the creation of famously hangover-soothing bacon sandwiches. At this point, No'rn Ir'on comes in and we fill her in on the evening and how we got into the state we in.

No'rn Ir'on sat on a bar stool at our breakfast bar and tucked into some of my homemade cake with a brew. The Writer lamented the fact that she had to make her way across London then get a train home, which was the least appealing plan with a hangover, ever.

The Writer: "I wish I could just transport myself instantly home to my bed...."

No'rn Ir'on: "I know! I've said this many times, but someone should really invent a transport-, a transportater."

I instantly cracked up as she pronounced it with a heavy emphasis on 'tater' which is how she pronounces the Northern Irish crisp brand Tayto.

Me: "What, a device for the instant transportation of potato-based products?"

No'rn Ir'on leans back to laugh on the flimsy stool she's perched on, but suddenly the metal gives way and she slips off the side of the stool as it collapses. It's too much and I'm doubled over the kitchen counter, The Writer is laughing too but clearly at the expense of her pain receptors.

I see The Writer off on her awful journey and manage to get to the shop without falling over, vomiting on anyone, or coming into contact with any naked flame. Back in the kitchen, I complain to No'rn Ir'on about possibly sweating wine and she responds with a burp as she's finishing off her Chinese food from the night before.

Me: "I don't understand how we're single."

On that note, I drag my sorry arse back to my room and eat a Calippo ice lolly in bed.

Not Going to Glasto and Not Drinking Tea

I've had another quiet month on the old blog front. There's a few reasons for this, but it's mainly laziness I'd say. And being busy and all that.

A few things to talk about today: firstly, I got my hair cut off. It's the shortest hair I've had since I was about 8, so it was kind of a risk. I got a bit overexcited in my trendy hairdressers and allowed the heady mix of complimentary beer, loud rock music and beautiful androgynous hairdressers to warp my sense of reason. It might not seem a big deal to a lot of people, but I ran a serious risk of allowing myself to be shorn to look like a boy, circa 1984, with learning difficulties. Very few people can carry that off.

Luckily, Lorenzo was fabulous as well as gorgeous, and gave me a brilliant haircut which makes me feel liberated. Though one of the first responses I got to such a "forward, strong-look" cut was "Now you're definitely a Shoreditch Twat." I was hoping I was still borderline. I'm not wearing a fake-fur coat, red lipstick and pointy shoes. Well, just the pointy shoes.

Other things this month that I feel like sharing: I'm not going to Glasto. I know, after all the bloody fuss I made last year, sat whining on the sofa and pathetically trying to recreate the Glasto experience by drinking cider on my balcony, TV on loud and sporting a straw cowboy hat. I scored my ticket deposit on the day they were released, and spent a good few months telling everyone that I'd got a ticket. Then I started thinking about it as the payment deadline for settling the balance drew closer.

I know that Glastonbury isn't about the headliners. I know there's a million stages and acts playing, and you can see lots of epic sets without going near the main stage. But - Muse, U2, Stevie Wonder as headliners? Really? I could see myself enjoying Stevie on the Sunday night but I have a seriously ingrained hatred for Muse. I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps the weasely-faced Bellamy, the pompous, overblown rock anthems, the lazy lyrics, the "we are a stadium rock band and therefore are EPIC" sentiment implied in their unsubtle, teenage song-writing. Can't quite put my finger on it. Oh hang on, smug. That's it.

Same goes for U2. There's something about U2, Bono in particular, that makes me cringe. That stupid song about 'putting on your boots' makes me want to hurt other people, or myself. U2 and Muse in the same village at the same time (there are rumours of an on-stage collaboration, I'm gagging just writing that) - there's a serious danger of mass, passive smug.

So, I made the decision to let my ticket go to a Muse-lover. I am certain that come June, I'll be bemoaning missing out on the 40th anniversary Glastonbury. If you hear me bitching about it, please remind me that it was my own fault. I'm going to the brilliantly local-but-proper-festival-with-proper-acts Lounge on the Farm which mainly involves being a bit hazy in the sun with my Canterbury friends; and will be attending Lovebox since the line up is really good and it's in my local park five minutes from my flat - result.

In other news this month, I caught the utterly grim norovirus winter sicky bug thing the other week. Absolute hell. The worst part for me, apart from spending hours sobbing on the bathroom floor in agony, was not being able to drink tea for a couple of days. Seriously depressing. It wasn't so much the projectile vomiting and not being able to eat for three days that got me down, it was the kettle being sat unused and forlorn and my lack of hot, calming tea. I hope it never happens to me again. I've been tea-drinking with even more fervour since then to make up for the tea void.

Finally, I've been very angry this week. Furious. At the BBC's announcement of the closure of 6Music. BBc, what the fuck are you thinking? This is the only non-commercial station that actually caters for music lovers. I base my musical discoveries on it's playlist. It's like a friend whose music taste you trust, and actually follow their recommendations. The DJs are brilliant for the most part. I'm actually on a mission to marry Shaun Keaveny from the breakfast show.

What other station wakes you up with a vintage Buzzcocks archived live session followed by the latest cutting edge new band? I actually look forward to waking up on a Saturday morning to listen to Adam & Joe's inane in-joke ramblings and listening to Jon Richardson on a Sunday morning in bed with a brew is actually one of life's great pleasures. What am I going to do now?

So it's all about budget cuts and the fact that "Only 20% of adults questioned knew about 6Music." This is the point! It's that 20% of discerning adults who really, really care about quality music. It's not about the populist 80% who will happily listen to Radio 1 and not give a shit that they will hear the latest auto-tuned Black Eyed Peas track five times within two hours. The BBC have said that they will listen to the public: so make your voice heard, email the BBC on srconsultation@bbc.co.uk and let them know what you think. There's Facebook groups, Twitter hashtags and online petitions. So get involved.

Right, I am going to go and concentrate on Jon Richardson's final 6Music show with another brew. Have you emailed the Big British Castle yet?

Bloody Marys in Leith

We start the day off with the now-traditional Globe cafe breakfast goodies, and lots of tea. The Blonde, The Geordie and myself had decided that we'd spend the day exploring in Leith. Despite the fact that I live in London and they live in Edinburgh; I'd been to Leith and they hadn't. The Blonde and I were going to hold day two of Edinburgh Camera Club, but since it was raining, I left my camera back at the flat and admitted that we'd probably just spend the day in the fine drinking establishments of Leith. It happened to be Valentine's Day and I received a card from The Blonde's small Beanie Baby hippo Hannibal, with a message saying "I love you, come back soon" and a photo of the small grey creature covered in cut-out paper hearts. Bit creepy, no?

The Blonde has criteria for pubs. She won't happily go into any rough local. When someone suggests a place to go that she's not been before, she asks if it's 'Blonde-friendly'. She stated categorically that she "wouldn't be going in any interesting-looking pubs" today.

After waiting for the bus forever in the rain, (the Edinburgh buses delight me with their tartan seat upholstery - tartan!) we went down to The Shore and found a swanky-looking bar, Bond No 9. We sat ourselves in the conservatory area, ordered Bloody Marys (brilliantly spicy) and made quite a lot of noise that was clearly disturbing the Valentine's couples who were trying to have a nice romantic moment, drinking tea and sharing a chocolate tart. Grumpy Scot came to join us, and we popped outside for a cigarette. Somehow, we began to talk about the fact that The Geordie has an addiction to sugar-free Polo mints, escalating to him being in possession of more than one pack at a time over the weekend. We suggested that merely eating them would not be enough of a minty hit, and soon enough he'd be grinding them up and 'chasing the minty dragon.'

Back in the conservatory, with The Blonde elegantly chasing her paracetamol with Bloody Mary, we discussed anti-Valentine's day tunes in light of the shockingly bad funk-love-disco the bar insisted on playing. I think The Geordie won, with his suggestion of,

"Smack My Bitch Up?"

We had to leave the poncy bar at this point because none of us could take the music any longer. We went off by Leith Water to find a 'proper pub'. And that we did. The King's Wark is a lovely old building with a cosy atmosphere, nice staff and really good crisps. We settled into a nice corner table by the fire and proceeded to chat about crap. At one point, the boys had gone off somewhere and The Blonde and I are discussing something groundbreaking like how much she 'loves clouds', when she tells me to look out of the window.

As I do, I see the nice lady who'd dropped the bracelet at the Hot Chip gig walk past the window. How bizarre. I think we have some unfinished business.

Later on, the conversation turned to Kanye West, Taylor Swift and Jay-Z. The Geordie declares he has a particular issue with Jay-Z,

"I still get alarmed by the size of his face."

What do you say to that?

We round off the weekend with a classy Chinese buffet at Jimmy Chung's, a place that The Blonde and The Geordie hold dear in their hearts; and had visited just a couple of days before. I had that thing where you're really hungry but then get full really quickly. We did however assault the desserts. I'd previously had a text from The Blonde last time they were there, saying,

"In Chinese buffet - The Geordie goes 'the puddings are pre-portioned but that's ok. I can get round that, I'll just get lots of portions.' "

Despite my declarations of being full and not wanting to eat anymore, I promptly managed to work my way through three bowls of cheap ice cream. It's rude not to at a buffet.

I passed Jimmy Chung's again the next morning as I went to the station to depart for London and felt mildly nauseous...

Camera Club & Hot Chip

I awake to find The Geordie watching his favourite programme in the lounge (America's Best Dance Crew) and muttering comments to himself,

"Oh that is so East Coast....I wonder how Diversity would fare?"

The Blonde and I sent The Geordie to the cafe on the corner for much-needed English breakfast items, this weekend we discovered how amazing it is to stick a couple of hash browns on the sandwiches too. We ate breakfast and drank tea, I had the audacity to flick through the TV channels and left it on Saturday Kitchen. The Geordie took a swig of tea from his Zac Efron High School Musical Mug and stated,

"We're not watching this. Too gay." He promptly switched it back to America's Best Dance Crew and asked,

"Want to split a can of Red Stripe?"

We said no, of course not. This became the catch-phrase of the weekend as he'd previously told me straight-faced how both him and the also funemployed Blonde had "split a can of Tennent's" before they went to run errands at the Post Office. It's definitely a good thing that he's headed back to work as of Monday.

The Blonde and I decided to take full advantage of the sunny Edinburgh day and got ready to head out of the door with our cameras.

The Geordie: "Camera Club is too gay for me. Bye, gaylord gang."

We stroll up the hill from Stockbridge to Edinburgh castle, along the way I bitch a bit as I am starting to perspire the cocktails from the night before, and we encounter unbelievable masses of tourists. The Blonde restrains herself from assaulting one of them. We take some lovely shots of the city along the way, despite The Blonde's almost-fell-over moments which totalled around six. We're both stood under a building at one point, taking a shot of a golden eagle sculpture on the side of the wall and as she's playing with her focus and angle, I announce,

"I LOVE camera club." The Blonde almost falls over again.

We mill around at the top of the hill by the castle entrance, and stop to get a drink. I get overexcited about the Jelly Belly jellybean stand and promptly spend four hangover-induced pounds on sweets. I have a weakness for the cinnamon ones. However, learn from my mistakes. One, jalapeno flavoured ones are not pleasant. Two, they're even worse if you happen to eat one as you're drinking Diet Coke.

After a nice stroll back down the Royal Mile to Holyrood and the stunning Scottish Parliament building, we fit in a Mexican snack at a cute diner then head back to the flat to get ready for Hot Chip.

HMV Picture House is a good little venue, just like the Forum in Kentish Town. After a drink in a seriously dodgy pub beforehand, we go and bag ourselves a table at the bar before Casio Kids come on. This is where The Geordie goes to the bar and The Blonde laments the fact she has to watch Alphabeat there with him next month. I asked her to keep her voice down.

I knew of some of Casio Kids stuff and really liked it, so I was expecting them to be ok but not as good as they actually were. Lovely Scandi electro beats with ethereal choruses and harmonies and interchangeable musicians and singing. Lovely.

The Blonde had gone to the loo at one point and The Geordie was holding both their pints. Suddenly he looks down at the floor as it felt like something had hit his leg. I bent down to pick it up and it became clear that this was not some arsey Scot who'd chucked their keys at Steve because of the amount of spraywax in his hair, but in fact a beautiful chunky Prada bracelet that had clearly fallen off someone.

We looked about and saw a very coolly dressed couple, I asked the girl if it was hers. The delight and relief on her face was so worth giving it back. She gushed her thanks and we of course said no worries, glad to give it back to you. Nice to get involved in some good gig karma.

Five minutes later, she came over to us with drinks for us all and smiled again. How kind! She did disappear at one point backstage and we all hoped that she was some sort of A&R bigshot and we'd get invited backstage to meet the bands. We didn't.

Despite the good gig karma, there was a distinctly weird vibe at the concert. For a start, lots of horrible teenagers with no concept of personal gig space. It was telling that none of them had beers in their hands. We drank ours smugly behind them and stopped The Blonde kicking off with them. At one point I made my way to the ladies', only to encounter in there a large gaggle of really pissed up Glaswegian girls. One said something to me that I didn't understand, then shouted "Only jokin'!!" and flung herself at me, planting a big smacker on my cheek. The smell of cheap, vanilla lipgloss that you use when you're fifteen filled my nostrils and I smiled politely and left her presence as quick as possible. Eurgh. When I asked The Blonde to help me wipe the goo off my cheek, she visibly hesitated.

So, Hot Chip. Sheer brilliance. I've seen them once before and you can't help but be moved by the deep, layered electro beats and gorgeous vocals. The crowd was absolutely loving them. Highlights for me were One Pure Thought and Over and Over. Makes you want to rave while also being a singalong. Genius.

During the set, I took myself off to smoke outside and do a bar run. I weaved my way through the packed crowd, carrying the empty stacked plastic pint pots from my previous drinks. The top cup had about half a pint left. Suddenly, some idiothole bloke who thought he was hilarious shouted "Ah thanks very much!" and slammed his empty plastic cup into my drink. I just looked at him, shocked, then from nowhere, found myself shouting,

"I was still drinking THAT!!"

As I uttered it, I flung the stack of plastic cups and the remaining beer at him. It was his turn to look shocked. In slow-motion it dawned on me that I was at a gig in Edinburgh. There was a high possibility that the man was Glaswegian. So I ran.

Luckily I didn't encounter him again during the gig, and made it out in one piece. We went home via the rough-stagdo-men-shouting "weeeeuuurrrrrrgh" Grassmarket for post-gig food, and made our way home so that The Blonde and The Geordie could bicker about what we watched on the TV.

The Bramble Beavers

Another weekend in The Burgh with Grumpy Scot, The Blonde and The Geordie. This time for long-awaited Hot Chip gig that we booked ages ago. I wasn't sure my wallet or liver could take it after last time, but since I'm always up for a challenge, I dutifully boarded the train (with a well-packed suitcase this time, instead of my usual shambolic tipsy packing) and settled down for scenic four hour ride up England.

I'm not sure if I emit some sort of oddball-beacon only recognised by those with social/learning/general mental difficulties; or whether I inadvertantly book travel tickets through a system that contains a secret filter with a hidden 'tick this box if you want to be unnerved by a freak for your journey', but I generally get sat next to mentals.

I'm sat on my seat at the table, browsing Facebook on my laptop, when we stop at Peterborough. Passengers shuffled on and off the train, I am pretty much ignoring everyone and blasting out the new Yeasayers album in my earphones. Suddenly, a woman in her late forties announces The Blonde's full name very loudly. I take out my earphones and not understanding what she means or knowing why she has just said my friend's name loudly, I ask, "....WHAT?"

She stands next to the table, packing up her cagoul and putting her rambler's rucksack in the luggage rack above our heads while her husband gets himself into the window seat opposite me at the table, and nods at my Facebook page.

"The Blonde. [She said her full real name, obviously] I'm one too, same surname."

I am baffled: "Oh. Right. Do you know The Blonde then, are you related?"

Mad Woman: "No."

Me: "....Right."

A couple of things here I need to say. Firstly, yes I might well be looking at my Facebook on public transport, but don't have a good gawp at my newsfeed page then bloody comment on it. Secondly, if you are going to comment on it, have something constructive to say. Not something bonkers and conversationally a cul-de-sac.

I knew this funny couple were going to be entertaining. During the journey I watched them have a conversation involving lots of miming because they both had their iPod earphones in. Take your earphones out. They then unpacked their little packed lunches and ate in unison. I was particularly disturbed when the starey-eyed Mad Woman maintained eye contact for longer than socially acceptable unless you're about to seduce/murder someone. I got a bit itchy and slightly concerned when her and the husband then watched each other eat Wotsits in slow synchronicity. I mentally clocked where the guard was likely to be, and weighed up again the possibilities of using a Dell laptop as a defensive weapon.

Just to up the crazy rating a little more, a middle-aged lady came and sat with us at York. She was thin and dour and part of me took a little pleasure in knowing that she was able to see my Facebook and Twitter pages, both rather sweary. She settled down, popped on her reading glasses and began to copy out passages from the Bible. Part of me toyed with the idea of starting a Dawkins-style evolutionary debate with her, or making a call on my mobile to the Grumpy Scot and telling him 'I believe in Science.' I refrained though. She then proceeded to eat from two tupperware containers, one containing plain brown rice and one containing boiled celery. I wanted to start a party for her there and then.

Finally, I reached Edinburgh without having been preached to or chopped up into little bits by the mad people. After dropping my stuff off at the flat, The Blonde and The Geordie and I went out for lunch. We discussed The Geordie's new job and how the interview went.

"Aye, it was a short interview. They basically didn't give me chance to fuck it up."

We wandered about in the city and saw that since it was Valentine's weekend, poetry was going to be projected onto the castle during the evening, and there was some sort of poem treasure hunt in a square. The Blonde and I casually said that this was rather nice and maybe we should go along. The Geordie gave his usual cultural critique.

"Sounds gay."

We ventured out for the evening a bit later on, 'just for a quiet one' since the main night was going to be busting some moves to Hot Chip on the Saturday night. We had pleasant drinks in Hectors and went on to eat at a simple, chic Italian restaurant which does great food, Amore Dogs. (Though prior to the first time we visited, I'd asked The Blonde where we were going for tea. When she'd said 'Dogs' I thought we were going to eat a pie while watching a greyhound chase a dummy rabbit.) I was naughty and had dessert, and promptly fell in love with both the sexy waiter and the white chocolate and orange semifreddo. Yum.

The Blonde was trying to persuade me to go to an 80s night, but I was tired and said no, let's just go for one more quiet drink somewhere. Quite by chance, we chose Bramble 'for a quick cocktail'. It was a cool underground bar with a nice mix of people in, and not too hot and packed as cellar bars can sometimes be. They had a DJ who was playing some brilliant old-school hiphop, Bowie, dub, Beastie Boys and electro. We decided to 'just stay for one more'. This turned into inviting Grumpy Scot and some of his friends to come and meet us and enjoy such cocktails as The Saint and some concoction involving 15 year vintage malt that The Blonde had.

The Geordie: "You look happy. Is it because you had a fifteen year old in your mouth?"

By this time we'd bagged ourselves a little vaulted room with benches and cushions and were all getting on down to such treats as Amerie's One Thing and Stay Just a Little Bit Longer from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Not to mention the photographic evidence of The Blonde and I totally busting it to MC Hammer. Yes, we're cool. And we know it.

We'd happily hit our cocktail/vodka drinking stride, maybe too happily. Drinks were going down very quickly.

Me: "I don't know where my drink is going."

The Geordie: "I know, mine too. It's those bloody Bramble Beavers, they keep stealing our cocktails!"

Me: "Little shits!"

The Geordie: "What is weird is that they're also helping themselves to the same cash equivalent from my wallet.... Toothy twats!"

It was about this point that The Blonde slipped backwards down a small step, recovered and tried to look nonchalant like it never happened. The best part was that we all saw it. And laughed.

Our 'one drink' had turned into the bar no longer serving as it was gone 2am so we trundled back down the hill to Stockbridge for a little nightcap while watching the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics. I found it dull but The Geordie stayed up until 5am. I left the room for bed, humming the Blame Canada song from Southpark: The Movie.

The Weekend to End All Weekends Part II: "Point on the doll to where she touched you."

***Another blog you might not want to read if you're easily offended with jokes about anything PC...


I wake up with the sunshine blinking through the blinds, wondering where I am for a second. Then I realise the carnage (and the vodka) from the night before. My pain receptors wake up and smash me in the eyesockets while I try to work out if I actually did lick a sponge during the night, or whether it just felt like that. I groan a bit and stumble out of bed in search of tea.

I find everyone in the lounge. I am greeted by the sight of The Geordie, a six-foot-something bloke, wrapped up in The Blonde's baby pink slanket. He'd kindly let me share his marital bed with The Blonde while he passed out on the sofa. At first I felt this was a very kind gesture, within ten minutes I'd be thinking otherwise. I take the piss heartily out of The Geordie before The Blonde merrily announces,

"Morning love, sorry but I felt you up in the night. I thought you were The Geordie and had a little grope."

I am too hungover to process this information but I vaguely feel it's not the way to break to a person that they were accidentally molested in the night by their best friend. I open my mouth to protest, or ask what the fuck she's talking about, when she continues.

"You see, Geordie has a nice full bum and it's got a lovely curve and I always give it a rub [she demonstrates the action in case I don't fully grasp the ins and outs of my sexual assault] when I want a cuddle. But then I realised something didn't feel right and I lifted the covers and it was you."

The Geordie interjects, "Ah, was it hairy?"

Not only have I been a bit violated, but I'm also being mocked while I found out about it. I feel like I am in an episode of Jeremy Kyle. But with slankets.

The Blonde: "...I either rub his bottom or I put my hand up around his chest, so you're lucky I didn't grab a hand full of your tits."

Me: "Lucky you didn't try give him a bloody reacharound," I mumble while hunting for tea to wash away the shame and confusion.

Back in the lounge, everyone's monged out and Mr Lincoln for some reason has a towel on his lap. The Blonde is on surprisingly good form considering the night before and mocks him about having an erection. He gets grumpy and fires back,

"I've got a receding hairline too, you want to have a pop at that too?"

We piss ourselves.

None of us are capable of much except goading The Geordie to go and get us sausage baps from the cafe, but first we flick through some tv. The Hollyoaks omnibus comes on with the dude in the corner signing for the deaf audience.

The Blonde quickly yells, "Turn it over, The Geordie can't handle it! Turn it over!"

I ask what's going on and the Geordie explains that he feels physically sick when they have a signer and bizarrely can't cope with it. We then discover that Mr Lincoln can't handle the TV volume on odd numbers. The Geordie affirms that this is normal and admits he has to have it in multiples of five. I am searching around for signs that I accidentally went to sleep in a Special Hospice and woke up in the Day Room where the residents wear slankets and have comforting towels on their laps in case of accidents.

When I'm feeling delicate, I can't cope with randomness. Or stairs. Or noise. The Blonde, sitting by the window comes out with a classic Blonde line as a man jogs past.

"There's a man running! Oh, he's stopped now."

After some restorative tea and sausage bap, I drag myself to the shower to cleanse my pores of the alcohol from the evening before. As I'm getting ready in the spare room, attempting to mask the hangover with expensive makeup, I overhear The Geordie,

"I don't like contemporary individual dance but I do like a dance troupe."

Add this to the previous evidence that he's the World's Most Rubbish Gay Man. And the fact he made me a brew in a Zac Efron mug earlier.

As I try and bury the guilt of the sexual misdemeanour during the night, it seems The Blonde is hellbent on telling everyone we encounter throughout the day. This prompts The Geordie, in a cab, to say loudly,

"Point on the doll to where she touched you" and they all piss themselves again.

The Edinburgh lot are a hardcore group of Northerners, so I get dragged to the pub again 'for lunch'. What they failed to mention was the two pints of Tennants for starters. We go to the Bank bar which is where I have sat with Crayons and Slats before, crying our eyes out, after being thoroughly terrified and distressed after embarking on the Auld Reekie tour of Niddry Street vaults. I felt like I was going to faint and be sick, and there was definitely something touching the back of my legs. (That time, it wasn't The Blonde.)

We sat in a little back ante-room before the Bank Hotel reception. The dark wood panelling was pleasing to my sensitive eyes and I was still very much in my hungover state. Fittingly, Stone Roses were playing as we all have a Manchester connection and we smile at each other. Then, a guy comes out quite forcefully of the wood-pannelled door behind Mr Lincoln and catches his chair, we guffaw as he shoots the guy a look like he's actually going to kill him.

The Geordie is happily tucking into the beer again as I nurse my lager shandy, he's had about a third of his pint,

"I'm almost ready for my next pint!" he exclaims then berates me for not having the 'Red Stripe loosener' him and The Blonde had at the flat. I feel queasy.

We wander along the Royal Mile and I gulp in bracing Scottish air and take some shots in the gorgeous winter sunlight. The Geordie perpetuates his own legend by exclaiming that he once got lost in the bridal section of Jenners department store.

Just to fuck with my addled brain a bit more, the lunch venue is Deacon Brodie's tavern; a traditional Scottish restaurant with tartan carpet and steep stairs into a dark, crowded restaurant room. I almost wobble over with stimulation.

Over lunch, Grumpy Scot and I discuss how The Blonde is a sex molester and The Geordie (due to him fancying very young girl bands) is one of those people who loves kids in the wrong way. In a conversational flourish we couldn't have made up, Grumpy Scot follows on our conclusion that they're a sex crime gang with the opening gambit of,

"I'll tell you a paedophile joke."

I, unthinkingly in the middle of eating my roast and getting a bit giggly, exclaim, "Let me swallow first."

Needless to say I practically spit my beer out all over the table.

We get dragged to a Sports Bar to watch the United game, with joy of joys, really fucking twisty and steep spiral stairs. It takes all my concentration to not fall down them or vomit. As we sit down and discuss what drinks to order, Grumpy Scot tries to be clever and order some pitchers of beer. The Geordie then establishes that he's ordered four two pint pitchers between eight of us. So we may have well all ordered our own drinks.

The Geordie, "Two pint pitchers? That's just a big glass."

The bar is rammed with football revellers and we're sat by a huge screen and massive speakers. I've still not got all my faculties back and am feeling a little under par, and I keep mishearing what people are saying.

Grumpy Scot, who's from a little fishing town outside Edinburgh, mutters something and I say, "what?"

He says it again. "WHAT?"

Ironically he's trying to tell me a joke about a bus full of deaf people but I mishear.

By this time I am utterly confused, close to childish tears and feel really deaf so I simper,

"You're trying to tell me a joke about Musselburgh deaf people...?!"

The Blonde cracks up and I don't even think it's because it was that funny but all three of us were suddenly in hysterics and hooting really loudly. I cried off my eyeliner and couldn't breathe for a good ten minutes.

It develops into 'Musselburgh Deaf Society' and we decide this will be the name of our first album or the company we all run when we're older. At that point, it literally was the funniest thing we'd all ever heard and we periodically creased up, wetting ourselves all afternoon. The rest of the table didn't think it was that funny.

The giddy mood continued as we piled back to The Geordie and The Blonde's flat to get our trackies on and lounge around. The Geordie made us wonderful Orange Grey Goose & tonics and we ordered pizza. I'd already been told in no uncertain terms by him earlier that,

"Seeing as you're stopping with us, you'll do what we do tonight. Dominos and Dancing on Ice."

Fine by me, being a secret ice skating geek and lifelong Torvill & Dean fan. The Blonde and I establish that Christopher Dean, for some unfathomable reason, you would.

We comment on how Sharon Davies is so uber tall, it might have been more entertaining for the viewers if she'd been partnered with a really short male partner.

I pipe up, "Dancing with Dwarves!"

The Geordie outdoes me flawlessly, "Dwarfing on Ice."

There's a lot of discussion as to why they insist on putting Davies in what's essentially a sparkly swimming costume each week. In a quiet moment, everyone is digesting pizza and The Geordie casually says about one of the male skaters,

"He's got the hair of a rapist...."