Post haste, date o' clock

In exactly an hour and a half I will be leaving this joint to go and eat cheese.  And I will eat cheese to my little hearts content. It is both my favourite thing in the entire world and also my arch nemesis. For today friends I am giving the finger to my healthy eating and gym bunniness. Tomorrow morning however, at approximately 8am, I will let the gorgeous gym instructress have her way with me and get my ever expanding arse into gear.

Enough about cheese, time for the wonderful world of dating. Sometimes singledom gets you down, so you grab the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns, and say ‘hey ho, throw me on that bandwagon’ and here is what happened. It was a sad, sad day when my housemate dragged me speed dating and being weakened by single status I woefully agreed. Off we trod to trendy Shoreditch for an evening of table football, 3 minute conversations, strangers, even stranger hosts and possibly a cocktail or 4. Sceptical was not the word. Cynical was. However my thoughts of trendy sorts in ankle-swinging trousers and 40s war time comb-overs were laid to rest. I met a grand total of 19 men, 16 of which I didn’t hate and 6 of which I thought held potential and I gave the tick of approval. I left feeling strangely positive about the weird old world of dating, little did I know the anxiety and embarrassment that would haunt me in the days to come.

Not 24 hours later and there sat I, at work, in a casual meeting in the downstairs lobby, of what I think would be fair to call, our extensive offices. Who should walk past? None other than Thor.  Not the Thunder God, but someone who had the night before masqueraded under this very pseudonym at speed dating. Oh the shame, admitting to colleagues that the reason you are now chuckling strangely and near silently to yourself is that Thor has just entered the building…

A few nights later housemate and I sat with our laptops, well, in our laps (obviously). I watched as not one, but two, TWO, emails arrived in his inbox, ‘congratulations you have a match!’ the emails proclaimed. I then watched in agonised silence as the event organiser went offline. I sat and stared for a few moments longer at my empty inbox, remembering the immortal words of Peter Kay: “You have no messages. Not even from your mum.” Days passed with only one further email from those bastards, inviting me to sign up for a televised dating show. Inviting me to endure this humiliation in a more public, but I expect, somewhat less speedy domain. No fucking thank you.

 I have since tried real dating. Without speed. Simple, boy meets girl kind of stuff. Well French boy meets girl. Let’s just say it’s a minefield. It’s a brutal and dangerous, anxiety filled minefield, and it’s a long story, which I will tell you another day. I will say this though – cheese will never let you down. Never.

 

 

Rock n’ roll Birkenstocks

This weekend I mosied on home for my dad’s big day and all the proverbial knot tying a girl could hope for. Little did I know it would be a ‘jam’ packed musical mystery tour of the south east as well a much deserved opportunity to see the older members of my family strut their stuff on the dance floor.

I’ve been to a few gigs this year, through no fault of my own. I love a good gig, and a good pre-gig curry, as my boss pointed out, but given that you need to buy tickets years in advance I tend to rely on the organisational skills of my friends. Still, I digress. Why have I called you here today? Well, for the musical mystery tour of course. On Friday night we ended up in a venue I have not set foot in for the best part of 8 years, The Forum, in Tunbridge Wells. Formerly some kind of Victorian public restroom and now the preserve of death metal enthusiasts of Kent. I was there because my brother’s friends had made it to the final of a local battle of the bands. I was assured that we would miss the metal portion of the evening and that the band would be worth seeing. You know what? He wasn’t wrong.

Ladies and gents, girls and boys, teens and toddlers, I give you Clockworks. Lead singer Josh looked a little skeletal in comparison to the ball of death and sweat that rolled off stage before him, but didn’t seem too bothered by it all. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a front man with such genuine swagger and natural stage presence. His voice slightly reminiscent of Brian Molko, of Placebo fame, is unaffected and sincere. In fact unaffected and sincere may be exactly what they’re going for… when was the last time you saw a bassist on stage in white sport socks? The songs were catchy without being annoying or tedious, on further listening the lyrics are (in my mostly humble opinion) pretty damn brilliant and the band appear to be enjoying themselves. Slightly novel, given that one of the rock last gigs I went to, I wished the lead singer would just help himself to a handful prozac.

Maybe I’m just high on the joy of seeing originality and talent untouched by executives, hairdressers and personal trainers. Maybe it’s the achingly high notes on now favourite track ‘Always’. Maybe it’s the infectious joy of the groupies apparent. Three gorgeous 20-something Abercrombie boys that stalk the band from gig to gig, know all the words and make drummer Simon’s attempted seriousness impossible as he beams from behind his high hat. I joined the groupie boys (really friends of the band) and spent Sunday in the grounds of Arundel castle as Clockworks filled a last minute spot at the Arundel festival. Bassist Luke is still in his socks, Josh is sporting Birkenstocks and Simon is fighting a whole new battle with a snare drum and despite the less competitive atmosphere (and shock heatwave), they’re still outstanding.

I don’t want to say it...but I’m going to…god it’s too cheesy, but its true. They may have lost the battle, but the war is theirs. Theirs I tell you! They’re just a kilt and pot of blue facepaint away from going straight to the top.

Oh and for a bit more Clockworks magic and musical mayhem, check out http://www.myspace.com/clockworksonline

cold as gasoline

I don’t drink Guinness. It’s a meal in a pint glass. I. do not. drink. Guinness. Although 2 bottles of red wine can make a pint of Guinness seem rather appealing. So why not, I’ll have a pint of Guinness. Thanks.

Moving to London is a disaster, it really is. My brain is a manipulative little bastard. Last night I had planned one of my favourite anally retentive activities. Clean sheets night. You see, it’s not just clean sheets. It’s clean, crisp, ironed sheets. It’s machine washed, fabric softened pillow-cases and duvet covers. Once those are neatly on the bed, it’s time for clean Danni, fresh from her bubble bath and in her clean pyjamas. All day I dreamt about this. Thoughts of sliding under cool sheets, sinking into pillows and a still dreamless sleep. But, oh no, this is not what happened, not at all.

One farewell drink for a colleague turned into a lot of farewell drinks for my common sense. Like teenagers with a wad of fake IDs we cleaned out the booze isle of the supermarket and bid goodbye to our lovely colleague the only way we knew how. Getting drunk on the patch of grass they dare to call a park outside work. One drink, that’s what I’d told the brain, then it started to reason with me, in the process erasing the thought of clean sheet night, and my then unmade bed…

Wine wine wine and Guinness later, I navigated the mammoth four stop tube journey home. Memory returning slowly, biting me sharply on the ass, the unmade bed dawned on me. Clean sheet night was ruined and so was I. I made the bed, I made it, after I made toast, with mustard and ham and shortly before not taking off my makeup.  So much for my anally retentive order of events. No sliding into anything, no neat and tidiness, no bubble bath, just a harsh beam of light breaking through the blinds at 6am demanding a handful of nurofen and a cold shower. Goodbye lovely colleague, we will miss you. 

nutter.

It’s a simple fact of life that some of us have a weirdo homing device. What this essentially means is that people, like myself, who are in fact perfectly normal, are carriers of a mutant ‘weirdo gene’. Like the call of a wild pheasant, it sends out a signal to the more barmy members of the human race and says “talk to me”. It overrides your screaming internal monologue and says, “Yes, I, Danielle, am happy and willing to give you a spare second of my time and am, much to my own annoyance, so polite that I wont run away screaming”. 

In an office of hmm, lets see, nearly 30 people, why is it that a slightly odd man, roaming the corridors of our sizeable building, found me? More to the point, who let him in? He then tried to recruit ten minutes of my time to test out a new digital reading invention, which no doubt has robbed him of thousands of daylight hours, his bank balance and a sense of humour. He hovered around my desk, talking painfully slowly in a way that suggested I might not understand the higher level he normally communicates at. In the politest way I knew how, I managed not to be welcomed onto Starship Enterprise and suggested that my colleagues were more than likely too busy to participate.

Did they thank me? Did they sigh with relief, run over and throw their arms round me out of gratitude? No, of course not. Mutiny broke out in the school yard and the bullying began.

“Oooh, Danni, is that your new boooyfriend?”

It should be noted that I am fairly accustomed to this behaviour. Indeed, it is not the first time I have been a victim of their mockery, for they too know about my mutant gene. The previous story goes a little like this:

Colleague: “Danni, a really rather attractive man came to see you while you were away, about the office move”

Danni: “Really?”

Colleague: “Yes, he’s coming back later, he looks a bit like Jesus. In a good way.”

Well the Jesus part was true. Since the move took some time to coordinate, Jesus was to pop into our office from time to time and as such he became my boyfriend. Not really! pfft! Don’t get carried away. They called him my boyfriend.

I threaten them with mock emails to HR, swear that I will never unlock my alcohol cupboard (yes, we have one), but none of it matters. I am the youngest, doomed to be mocked!

Listed

What is it with making lists lately? I’m unstoppable! To do lists, what-I’ve left-at-home-prior-to-my-move lists, whats-missing-in-my-new-room list and most importantly the top 5 list.

Let’s start with the news. After one Bruce Spingsteen massacre too many, I decided it was time for me to leave my dad and his guitar collection behind and become a fully-fledged grown up person. As it happened an old friend from university had a spare room in his flat, and voila, he is now my prodigal roommate and I, a prodigal Londoner.

All’s well in the new abode, my evenings suddenly stretch before me with possibly, well, with viewing possibilities. The television is my new best friend. Last night with the prodigal roommate out of the house I indulged in some light hearted documentary fun. I started with BBC 3s “Baby Beauty Queens”, which predictably looked at pushy parentals and teeny tiny pageant princesses. Actually, that’s a bit of a generalisation, one of the mothers wasn’t pushy at all. Her economic situation provided a stark and bleak contrast to the thousands of pounds the other mothers were forking out on miniature Marc Jacobs.  One of the other mothers proudly announced that by age 7 her little darling had already had plastic surgery. Huh? Then we are dragged kicking and screaming into a beauty parlor where one little girl is spray tanned from top to toe! God it was compelling, I even cried, which in my book is the mark of a good program.

Then, I was only minutes into a Sheryl Crow documentary on the biography channel, when the roommate returned. Apparently, embarrassment should have ensued. What's wrong with a Sheryl Crow documentary? Said I. Nothing. Said he. In a way that suggested I had not only lost the moral fibre of my being, but should have the remote control surgically removed from my hand. Nevertheless, it was very informative. Although I suddenly feel that the Friends character I am now mostly likely to be, is Ross.

I was about to be done with this story, when I remembered what else happened on roommies return. We made a list. Yes, the top 5 list. The top 5 people in this world that regardless of the status of your relationship at that specific point in time, if you meet them, all previous agreements are null and void.  It was terrific, and the most taxing activity my brain has had to do all week. They’re now complete and up on the fridge, although we have agreed, you may update them from time to time, but are still only allowed a grand total of five. Oh and I bet you want to know who made the cut:

My list: Javier Bardem, Billy Crudup (in Almost Famous), Dan Carter (of New Zealand Rugby fame), Ryan Gosling and John Cusack (in High Fidelity, nah, in everything actually)

Roomie’s list: Kaley Cuoco, Kate Beckinsale, Elisha Cuthbert, Louise Redknap (of football WAG fame) and..hmm, I’ll have to look on the fridge when I get home, can’t quite recall numero 5!

The big three oh!

So the best friend and I got talking, as we do. In a moment of conversationary lapse, we decided to make a list of things we need to do before hitting the big three oh! As the list started to take a shaky shape, I questioned the ‘bigger’ things on her list, and as she rightly pointed out, she still has 7 years. Wow, said I, that is quite a lot of time. She then also rightly pointed out that I only have 5 years left. FIVE. No, not seven, five. That’s not long, and I can assure you, there is lots to be achieved.

Like what? Well we didn’t get much further than me screeching “FIVE” at her, with my knuckles turning white,  car swerving violently around a bend in the placid English countryside. So here’s where I get to thinking, if I make a list, it had better be achievable, however it can’t be too achievable, otherwise the overriding naffness will inevitably mean I don’t do it.

Regardless, here goes something. Here is the magical list, what does this woman want?

A vintage car for one thing. I have always wanted  a gas guzzling, red car like the one at the top of this post.(I would also like to solve my technical retardation that prevents me from posting the picture here and not at the top of the post!!) Although in the event that I could afford such a lovely vintage set of wheels I will gladly have it in any colour, except orange. It does nothing for my complexion.

It would also be nice to learn French. Why French? I year you yelp. Because because because, it eludes me still. Spanish seems almost (if not entirely) within my grasp, but oh! French! No matter how I try, those garlic infused chaps across the channel can make neither head nor tail of me trying to order so much as a cup of coffee.

Then the other thing is I want to live and work in New York for at least a year. Now this little plan is thwarted by everything, unstable job markets, the acquisition of a work visa (I’m sure this is not as difficult in actuality as it is in my head) and my complete inability to save anything, least of all money. Hmm, perhaps someone with lots of money could sponsor my existence.

I guess then, I would also like, before my thirtieth birthday to meet someone with lots of money to sponsor my existence. 

If possible, I would like to make a start on my novel. Now this makes it sound like there is actually a concrete idea for this novel. But, ho! There is not. Nope, I just want to write something of significance…not asking to be Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Otis Redding.

Number 4, Film Director – except German or Silent.

Wait, that’s not me…

 

sunshine bitch

They’ve been hibernating all winter, I know it, because I can tell you, I’ve not seen them until now. Not to talk about the weather, but it’s a fairly pivotal part of this bitter anecdote. Safe to say, summer has arrived, actually, in England it never arrives, it stops over. I digress. This week summer has stopped over and in London it has tempted out a different breed of female. I suspect that somewhere on the outskirts of the city there is to be found a hibernation camp, kitted out with spray tanning , hair salons and celery. Preparing hordes of  women, who never set foot on the street in winter for their grand debut.

They’re thin. Not just skinny types, but these perfectly slim mythical beasts who haunt my nightmares. I am by no means gargantuan, but this heat has made any form of public transport near deathly, the head and humidity swarming around you, while you resent the fact that other people on the underground need to breathe. Then Little Miss Immaculate hops on, all Carrie Bradshaw breezy in heeled shoes that your mother would have warned you, ‘could take someone’s eye out!’ She has clothes to die for, flitty summer dresses dance around her and you could be forgiven for thinking she has a personal assistant following her with an air conditioner. You of course are simply sporting the short-sleeved versions of your almost entirely black (heat attracting) work wardrobe, oh and a pair flip-flops.  

On a positive note, the lovely weather inevitably finds me and my entourage (of 1) in the beer gardens of our tiny town. These, unlike London attract an entirely different calibre of lady beast, with hair pulled tightly back for a face-lift effect and more than just a pair of legs on display. They don’t make an altogether pleasant change from the flawless exhibitions of the city, but at least I don’t feel like the one of the lesser cuts of creation.

Perhaps it’s time to reintroduce my stomach to the age old art of starvation and the masterful ways of the sit up? My legs could probably use a stretch, but they argue vehemently that they’re by far thinner than the rest of me and would like very much to be left alone. I’ve just read the small print, it turns out bitterness and cynicism were a package deal that came without a money back guarantee. The only way to suppress them is with a nice large glass of cabernet. Well if I must.