Oh, My Beautiful Calluses – Gone All Gone

So, several of you will recall that Preston took up learning the guitar several months back. Out she went, hippy braids intact, Birkenstock firmly on feet, out into the wide world of music. She bought a guitar. She signed up for lessons. She went to several lessons. And then the new job kicked in. Complete stress, lack of coping capacity and a healthy amount of afterwork drinking meant that the guitar started gathering dust. The lessons ceased. Preston was doomed to be one of those people that buys a guitar and it sits firmly in the corner – a constant reminder of what could of been.

But Preston has picked up her game! As of the other day, she started strumming again. And now I have to start from scratch at building up the calluses on my fingers. Oh the pain!

I will probably have to apologise to both Thomas and Young now, for the constant buggered up chords that weakly resemble Tracey Chapmans’ ‘Revolution’.

Sorry guys.

Clever Kitty

I was catching up with my brother David the other day. He got talking about his relatively new family member - Charlie the cat. A 7 month old moggie, who is quite a character.

David already has a dog Max. Max is a Staffordshire Bull Terrier who looks like he could tear a man limb from limb. He is the most even tempered dog I have come across. Nothing phases him. He has never bitten a person or fought back when another dog has attacked him.

He idolises my brother. David used to take Max down to the beach to walk him. Max was afraid of the sea. He wasn't fond of swimming. David surfs, so sometimes he would take Max down and leave him on the beach whilst he went surfing. Max would watch him from the beach, running, barking and almost getting wet, but constantly driven back by the waves lapping at his paws. One day, as David was paddling out on his board, he heard something. He turned around to see Max, swimming behind him, coughing up sea water he'd taken 'on board' and generally looking a bit distressed. Max couldn't stand not being with David. He now loves the water.

Anyway, back to Charlie the cat. Introducing Charlie to Max was always a no-brainer. Max wouldn't lay a paw on Charlie. At the beginning, as David explains, there was much hissing and back-arching, but they fast became firm friends.

Charlie will wait behind a curtain until Max walks past, then launch himself spiderman-style from above to take Max by surprise. They play bite each other in front of the fireplace and then curl up together to sleep.

So David told me a most amazing story. A couple of weeks ago, David asked his daughter to put the kitty litter tray inside the house before she left for school. David returned home from work to find the kitty litter tray outside the house.

Charlie had been inside the house all day alone.

Charlie had been prone to bouts of diahhorea.

Uh-oh.

With trepidation, David entered the house and put his nose into action to find any offending material (my brother has a prize hooter so this should be a walk in the park). After scanning the house and not finding anything, he turned his attention to the master bedroom. As soon as he got near it, his heart sank. An offensive odour had infiltrated his nostrils and beckoned him inside. As he scanned the room, there was no obvious sign. He looked high and low, but nothing. He then turned his attentions to the ensuite bathroom. A quick scan produced nothing until he ventured towards the toilet. And there he saw it. Charlie had done a crap IN THE TOILET!

Now that's what I call a smart kitty.

Growing Old Disgracefully

I may have blogged about this already, but every once in a while I have to vent my anger at the beauty industry. A billion dollar industry which takes aim at the desperate and gullible, and scores hit after hit.

OK. I'm not saying that I'm not above such expert marketing techniques. There have been days where I have woken up, taken a look in the mirror, and thought 'shit, where did that line come from?.....better get me a cream that will patch that little horror up'. But seriously, deep down I know that it's not gonna work.

So what sparked off this tirade I hear you ask? Why, the ad on TV this morning which was heralding the scrub that actively seeks out black heads and sweeps them away within 3 days! Yes folks, we now have intelligent creams which ask the 'hard questions', which do all the work for you. The ad was of course aimed at teenagers. Picture the girl, pretty as a button, prancing around, her world complete as she walks away blemish-free because of her blackhead scrub. Never mind that she has a lifetime ahead of her full of grief and taxes.

Takes me back to the ad, flogging a Ponds cream of some sort. It was based at 'The Ponds Institute', and had lots of beautiful women walking around in white labs coats with clipboards. Apparently, they had a cream which tackled the 'seven signs of aging'. Wow!!!! We have a cream that actively shuts my mouth as I start whinging like my father? I'll buy that! Wow!! A cream that replaces the worn joints in my body, stopping them from 'clicking' every time I wake in the morning. Here's my money - please take it and give me that goddam cream!!!!! A cream that has a serious chat with my digestive system, convincing it to allow my to eat copious amounts of garlic without the adverse reactions??? I'm there!!!!! How much? A million dollars a pot? Do you accept cheques?

Oh come on people! We all know the only way to avoid looking old is either:

Die young

or

Lead a life devoid of late nights, sun, alcohol, cigarettes, hard drugs, children....basically a life where we avoid fun (except for the children - they cant be fun).

That last sentence was a checklist for the last 20 years of my life (except for the hard drugs and children - though if I have children I will turn to hard drugs).

A couple of months ago saw Preston walk into The Body Shop, and ask for advice. I decided I wanted a foundation cream (for the unititiated - that's a flesh coloured base that is supposed to match your skin colour). The girl was nice. She was helpful. Here I was, sat down in a chair as she tested different bases to see which one matched my skin colour. I hadn't worn base for years. I can be quite lazy with make up. I'm very lazy with stuff like cleansing and toning my skin. I never remove makeup when I get home from a night out, often waking up resembling a racoon. After about 15 minutes and several different colour attempts, the girl suggested I was probably a blend.
Preston: 2What's a blend mean."
Girl: "You will need to blend two different colours to match your skin."
Preston: "Can you really see me doing that?"
Girl: "Hmmmmm"

We tried a few more and took the one that was best fit.

Yet that horrid blackhead advertisement guilted me into grabbing The Body Shop scrub that I bought the same time as the foundation (and have only used twice), and giving my face some treatment. It's safe to say that the scrub will return to its hiding place for another 6 months until I am subjected to some lowbrow advertisement which will prompt my inner-voice to berate me for my beauty routine apathy.

Just Desserts

On many occasions, I have been woken by the downstairs neighbours talking very loudly. About some inane stuff. I mean really inane stuff. The accoustics of our flats means that there are some fairly sound repelling walls that bounce that little conversation right into my bedroom.

They are a couple. They fight....or talk...sometimes I am unsure of the difference. She has one of those voices that sounds 'put on'. It's nasally and reaches unfathomable heights in pitch, volume and intonation. You keep waiting for her to revert back to her speaking voice, but, amazingly, it IS her speaking voice.

Anyways, one of the mornings, when they were 'talking' in what seemed like a volume-level reserved for nightclubs, I overheard the following conversation:

Him: "Hun, put on some music."
Her: "Ok" (off she skips, to the stereo I assume)
Her: "What do you feel like listening to?"
Him: "I don't mind"

About 30 seconds elapses; then.....

Him: "But not fucking Jack Johnson. I fucking hate Jack Johnson".

A broad smile breaks on the face of Preston as she hears this.

Preston has 3 of Jack Johnson cds.

Preston loves Jack Johnson.

Preston has discovered the neighbours' achilles heel.

MWA-HA-HA-HA

And off Preston skips to play some 'Jack' at a level that can be reasonable enough to....oh let's say.....filter into the downstairs flat?............

Tra-la-la-la-la.

Ground Control To Major Wrong!

Apparently, the most dangerous time when flying is on take off and landing.

If I could use that analogy in terms of my love life, then I would have to agree with this.

The amount of carnage at the end of my relationship runway is amazing. And folks, you all know I'm talking about take off.

The last guy? Didn't clear check-in.....at 39, he lived with his parents still....

Guy before that? Had so much excess baggage (a shrink, 3 cats and an estranged wife), the plane couldn't take off...

Guy before that was like sitting next to the hairy, fat sweaty talker guy - as soon as we landed my seat belt was off and there was an imprint of my silhouette (running) carved through the fuselage.

A couple had to make emergency landings due to running outta fuel.

At least 5 were subject to cancellation due to poor weather conditions.

And now, with all the extra security surrounding check in, I can only expect more troubled times ahead.

Wow, I know I've been harping on about guys lately but it's a hot topic when your not 'getting any'.

Thought for the day: Retrospect is just one's inner voice saying 'I told u so.'

Thomas

I thought I should report this morning whilst the sight of Thomas is still in my mind.

The first contact with Thomas this morning was at 6:45am, when she passed me in the hallway, draped in a towel, heading for the bathroom. She grunted (my interpretation of that grunt was, "god help me...I wanna die"....)

My next contact with Thomas was about 20 minutes later. She entered the TV room, draped in a towel. She grunted. (I interpreted this grunt to say, '...morning').

I knew that it wasn't a code red, as with each grunt, Thomas had a hint of a smile.

Thomas got home this morning at 2:43am.

It's safe to say, Thomas was celebrating last night.

Thomas later told me, that she got home so late because she fell asleep on the night bus and travelled all the way to Morden. Immediately, my mind leapt to the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, where at roll call, a student is asleep at his desk, dribbling.

Disclaimer: In no way has Preston ever implied, or wll ever imply that Thomas is a dribbler. Any inference to this is made entirely by the reader.

Preston - The Serial Fare Evader

Well, Brighton trip over, and I can look back on certain aspects with...........malice.

So here we are. Me with luggage, and my companion ( an elderly service user with a learning disability) with a large case as well, boarding at Clapham Junction station. We get on and sit down in a couple of free seats. We get into East Croydon. After taking off from the platform, we are confronted with ticket inspectors. I show our tickets. It seems like we are sitting in the first class section.

Wha-wha-wha-WHAT????????

You must be kidding if that is first class. It's not too different to the regular seats, but there is a sign so I guess I should have seen it.

But the inspector was in a class of his own. A complete arsehole. And no, I don't think all ticket inspectors are arseholes. When I was accosted by an inspector at East Croydon, (a blemish on the butt of a geography map) several months back, and told that my Oyster card, which I'd just topped up that day by £25, didn't cover my traveling on British rail, I realised he was doing his job and it was just the complete arsehole system that was F*****. Of course, I could have pleaded my case and got that £18 fine reimbursed, if my busy schedule had of taken time out to remind me to get my appeal in within the 21 day limit (bugger).

It cost us an extra £26 each, to go one way to Brighton.

Back to the arsehole inspector. I could have used his face as a punchbag. His manner had a supercilious air to it. His matter-of-fact tone was infused with a smug 'ha-ha-I got you' slant. He kept reminding me what made it the 1st class section, emphasising the word madam at the end of every sentence. I ended up losing my cool and saying, "Stop calling me madam. In fact, just stop talking to me and bloodywell give me the fine".
To which he answered "I'm only being polite" (dont believe that for a minute).
To which I answered " Well, I'm obviously not, so just give me the damn ticket".

In my defence, I didn't raise my voice once. But believe you me. Preston was PISSED.

Brighton, Beards, Bellisimo!!!!!

Well, so far Brighton has proved to be quite fun. It's a place that definitely appeals to me. It has a big gay community which always suggests a tolerant open-minded population. It has a hippy culture which I love as well. Dread locks, vegetarian shoe shops (yes....you heard me right), organic cafe's. I'm completely in my element. I could see myself flinging convention aside and setting up shop in an eco-friendly house, growing my own vegetables and wearing tie dye.

And some of the men. What can I say. I've developed a new found love for the beard. I found a cafe in one of the backstreets. Fabulous coffee and an Italian barrista that is just to die for. Cheeky smile, fiery personality......dark looks...dark eyes....hmmmmmmm. If only I lived here. I think I would make it my mission to be THE regular there, establishing lock-in rights and hopefully winning a date or two with Mr Italy.

But I head back to London tomorrow so I have one more chance to look into those eyes and say.."one americano with milk please".......

Brighton

Am sitting in the palatial lounge area of a Brighton hotel, looking over Brighton Pier, and obviously, blogging.

Brighton Pier is shambolic. It needs to be torched, just like its counterpart eastwards. Walking along there yesterday, my mood went from happy to grey to ‘mass murderer’. Simply put, I hate funfairs. They spook me. They give me the creeps. All those (oh shit, Kenny Loggins just started playing……), cheap thrills rides coupled with shitty arcade games and topped off by flashing lights and bad music, just make me wanna run. It’s (oh shit, it’s a duet with Dolly Parton), one thing about summer that is a downer. All the funfairs come out of their winter hibernation and invade the available park space and commons. Except Brighton funfair. That’s a permanent fixture.

Sitting at breakfast, I found myself surrounded by the grey brigade. In a sea of wrinkles I dogpaddled, just keeping my head above the murky middle-aged waterline. As I head for 40, I wonder if I will be seated at a table, amid fellow octogenarians, piling my plate high with bacon and croissants and marveling at the seaside like its some big unknown quantity.

Hardly likely. For one, I will probably take the ocean for granted since I grew up in a place that has beaches aplenty.

But I can’t say that ageing doesn’t somewhat scare me. Not so much the inevitable dried fruit appearance that my features will take on. More so the where will I be? Will I be scabbaging for pennies from my pension, trying to make ends meet? Will I be alone? Will I have kids? Will I be living in England, Australia or somewhere else? Will I be in a council flat or in a country house surrounded by cats, dogs, a horse and a couple of otters? Love otters. Did you know that they’re the only mammals who keep playing once they reach adulthood? I love that. I guess one thing is for sure is that as I reach my older years; I will still have my sense of humour.

Vigilante Pat Down - The New Airport Security

So. This is great. A plane from Malaga to Manchester is held up because there were two Asians on board. But not just two Asians. Two Asians on board who were acting suspiciously. And who deemed their actions suspicious I hear you ask? Why, the other passengers on board the plane. Of course, all these other passengers were experts in the profiling of terrorists. Of course they were. There's no other reason for it. I mean, it's not like a knee jerk reaction to ANYONE of a Middle Eastern appearance being ANYWHERE near a plane, tube or bus.

I just love this. How were they acting suspiciously? They were looking nervous, speaking Arabic and checking their watches all the time. This just cracks me up! HONESTLY! From the land of the impatient, we have a few pots calling the kettle black here. From the land where the everyday tube passenger runs for a train, when one comes every 2 minutes!!!!!!!!!!!! And they (those nasty suspicious looking Pakistani's), are called suspicious? I guess, it's fine to run for a tube..........UNLESS YOU'RE BRAZILIAN.

And don't get me started on the speaking Arabic part. It's sheer stupidity. How about the fact that all but a handful of Asian people are just as worried as the non-Asian community that we are vulnerable to terrorism.

How about, that the biggest terrorist attack in the USA, prior to 9/11, was committed by a white American (Timothy McVeigh).

It's so easy to label a group. To create an us and them mentality. A good and bad. A cowboys and Indians bullshit outlook. The actual picture is, save for a few fanatics, (I refrain from saying religious fanatics as these terrorists are a slight on the true muslim community) we are all in this together.

From what I can tell, because all the other passengers kicked up a stink, the plane was prohibited from taking off and the two men were taken into custody. This, all because of their appearance? This kind of heightened public awareness and subsequent vigilantism is a hindrance to any kind of multicultural harmony. How sad for us all, for I'm afraid that this is only just the beginning.

When Will I Ever learn?

Probably will piss off any male readers, but I really wonder if I need someone to beat some sense into me.

Preston has a formula for meeting men. It goes something like this.

Meet someone......stupidly think he's great.....ridiculously think that he thinks about ANYONE other than himself....convince myself he's half-decent......end up wondering what went wrong.

So....I am convinced that I am predisposed to only meet guys who are:

Emotional cripples

Sexually selfish

Game players

Emotionally unavailable (fine line between that and cripples)

Arrogant shitheads

So I'm hearing the thud of many a male jaw dropping. I'm sure if a few of you lobbied me with supporting statements proving that all men aren't bastards, then I may reconsider.

At the moment, I'm thinking I've just cornered the market in crud.

Actually, I think I'm pissed off I even wasted precious time on these turds.

But have no fear (well men maybe)...Preston is an optimist! Preston is a romantic deep down.Preston thinks there is a chance she may meet someone who isn't on par with excrement. Someone who is nice even. Someone with a sense of humour. Someone who doesn't HAVE ISSUES.

I mean really! C'mon! There's gotta be someone.....anyone....hello...is anyone there...is anyone listening.........humph.................................................

WOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

Sometimes you just have to dance. Sometimes you have a song that just makes your ass move. I have been listening to You Got The Love by Candi Staton. If you don't know it DOWNLOAD IT NOW!! It's an oldy but sometimes they're the best ones (just look at me!).

Sometimes I feel like
Throwing my hands up in the air
I know I can count on you
Sometimes I feel like saying
Lord I just don't care
But you've got the love I need
To see me through

Sometimes it seems that
The going is just too rough
And things go wrong
No matter what I do
Now and then I feel
That life is just too much
But you've got the love
I need to see me through

When food is gone
You are my daily meal
When friends are gone I know
My saviour's love is real
Your love is real

Every once in a while
I say Lord I can't go on
Every once in a while
I get to feeling blue
Every once in a while
it seems like I am all alone
But you got the love
I need to see me through

Occasionally
my thoughts are brave and friends are few
Occasionally
I cry out Lord what must I do
Occasionally
I call up Master make me new
You've got the love
I need to see me through

Sometimes I feel like
Throwing my hands up in the air
I know I can count on you
Sometimes I feel like saying
Lord I just don't care
But you've got the love I need
To see me through

And Preston shakes her arse around the room listening to this on repeat. As I said before.......

WOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Funny thing happened on the way to a blind date........

So, those of you who know me, know that I have met guys through internet sites in the past. For the record it has NEVER worked out. But you never know....I will throw caution to the wind and keep trying.

So here I was, on the way to meet up with a guy. I was waiting on the platform at Kennington, waiting for the Charing Cross branch tube. It was about a 15 minute wait as the tube workers walked up and down the empty train talking into their walkie talkie's and looking serious. Anyway, I look down the platform and notice a woman. A woman dressed in a cowboy hat, long fluro pink wig and HUGE white sunglasses. I smiled to myself and thought 'It takes all sorts'. I kind of like the 'out there' people in London. I don't look and snigger. Don't look and judge. Anyway, I went back to waiting, not thinking about the pink-wigged woman. Then the tube was ready. The doors opened and we all piled on. Without knowing it, I made for the seat directly opposite the pink-wigged woman. I glanced at her and glanced away and went back to listening to Depeche Mode. I then happened to glance at her again but this time she smiled at me - A HUGE SMILE! I smiled back. She then started waving and smiling at me. I smiled back whilst thinking (dear god - don't create a scene lady - I only smiled at you). She then pushed her feet across at me and played footsies with me whilst laughing maniacally. It went something like this - MWA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!!!!

There was nowhere to run - nowhere to hide. Bystanders were looking at me as if to say 'better you than me luv'.

She then whipped off her sunglasses.

I knew her! It was Leah - a chick I know from a regular girls night out I go on. She's a friend of a friend of a friend.

We then both laughed maniacally as my reaction was loud and proud and her reaction was.... well...... a continuation of the previous maniacal laughter. It turns out we were both on the way to blind dates. What a hoot. Apparently she had posted a picture on a dating site of her in the wig and glasses. The guy had responded to her fun photo. Apparently when they were arranging to meet up he had asked her how he would recognise her. Her reply was 'Oh....Don't you worry. You'll recognise me'.
So what's the chances that we would meet each other, both on the way to blind dates.

Oh, and for those wondering. My date went great. I have great respect for a guy who smacks me on the arse in the middle of a restaurent! Especially when it is in response to a great 'pay out' from me. Excellent stuff.

Stay tuned.

Showgirls Lives On

Those of you who know me, know that Showgirls is up there on my most favourite films list. Simply so bad it's good. There are several other contenders to the 'throne', but so far nothing comes close. Bad script, bad direction, bad acting, gratuitous nudity, and LOTS AND LOTS of 'jazz hands'.

So what does an attractive vivacious young lady with ALOT going for her do on a Saturday night? Why host a 'Showgirls' party for herself and fellow female flatmate - Thomas (another lady who has alot going for her but alas is married).

We decided to watch and partake in the Showgirls drinking game. With UNFORGIVING rules which go:

If someone says "dancin'," take a drink.
If someone says "darlin'," take a drink.
If someone makes jazz hands, take a drink.
Whenever Elizabeth Berkley smacks something (whether person or inanimate object), take a drink.
Whenever someone falls down, everyone must do a shot.

I had orchestrated the evening to perfection.
That is, I had bought the movie, hired a mystery shit movie and set the dress code (all attendees must wear sparkles).
I had my outfit set. Thomas had gone and bought coloured glitter glue. We had enough alcohol to render the most hardened alcoholic comatosed.

Then the drinking began.....and didn't stop.....

Thomas ended up talking on the porcelain phone. I ended up passed out in front of the mystery shit movie (which to Thomas's disgust was Glitter with Mariah Carey). Thomas burst a blood vessel in her eye from the intense 'conversation' she had with the toilet.

So I guess once again its a story of Showgirls - 1, lucid non-suspecting law-abiding citizen - 0

Really Bad Movies

There are movies out there that defy reason. Ok You can see the concept pitch would have been almost plausible........

Quirky beautiful woman meets arrogant money-hungry arsehole with an anger problem. She stalks him, (over the course of 48hrs) asking him to move in with her for a month. He does, he changes, they fall in love.....she dies.

Add in the left of centre Scottish cross-dressing gay neighbour and an insightful 8yr old fatherless loner kid and you have a recipe for ............hmmmmmmmmmmm........a c grade movie.

Things I learnt from the movie.

I too can be quirky if I wear oversized jumpers, dresses and workboots.

A man can fall in love with me if I stalk him. I mean, eventually he will see the light. Even if we are diametrically opposed on all levels.

An arrogant shit of a guy can turn all lovey and considerate if he justs throws away the suits and wear jeans and oversized hoodies.

Thomas and I watched this film last night. Ok. It was my call. When I mentioned I wanted to watch it, she groaned. She had every right to groan. During the course of the movie we exchanged many nervous glances.

Sorry Thomas. But I'm thinking. maybe we should start some kind of system for these films. After 20 min, we should pause it....then both write our imagined synopsis of the thing, then at the end, read out each others and see who got closest.

I think Thomas would have won last night. I would have written that, after having suffered from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma for a year and on deaths door, she would have some miracle recovery. Afterall, it was Hollywood.