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It's still absolutely dysfunctional, you know, but I function pretty well, all things considering. I sit around wise-assing in bars until 7am every day. Every time I manage to hit a really good witticism, they ring the tip bell and high-five. Then I eat strawberries and cream, and lick the bowl. Then I drink tequila, and lick the salt off the waitress.

Then I go home and make quiche, and jam tarts with the leftover pastry, and then I eat it all, and then I play the piano, and then I go back to work. Sometimes I take a nap.

And then my day off arrives. Like yesterday. And then I go to sleep at 8pm and pass out until 11am. Like today.

I am getting massaged today! And then going to the funfair! Because, you know, that's how we roll around here. You get your neck put straight, and then you go and give yourself some whiplash. I should probably have done it the other way round, but didn't think of it.

And then I am lining up Girl Dates. This is complicated for me, because I'm always forgetting and accidentally taking girls to cafés where I've slept with the waitress, and then they get angry when I lipkiss the waiter hello. I can't help it. Monogamy just isn't really my cuppa. But it's still rude to pretend to be listening intently to someone's life story and be groping the waitress's ass at the same time. I can't help it either. I only sleep with girls who have pretty asses.

It's all just toooooooo confuuuuusing. Maybe I should pregame my massage. Probably not.
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I think my life is disordered. Here is how it's going.

12am - 4.30am: Running around at work, drinking lots of Midori sour shots and Smirnoff Ices. Started off shift by going across the road and drinking a shot of iced-up Grey Goose. Which I call Oie Grise. Because I am stupid.
4.30am - 5.45am: Sitting in café drinking diet Coke, smoking lots of Marlboro reds.
5.45am - 6.15am: Metro home.
6.15am - 8.00am: Lie in bed turning around and around. Drink a Manzana-Soho lychee-cranberry juice cocktail thing, invented from things I found in my kitchen.
8.00am - 11.00am: Sleep!
11.00am: Wake up, filled with joy and happiness and sunshine. Make giant giant pizza from scratch, including dough and sauce. Cover with at least eight different kinds of vegetables and two balls of mozzarella. Am impressed by size.
Noon: Finish eating all of pizza. Smoke more.
12.15pm - 3.30pm: Piano.

Now I'm looking at these chocolate chip cookies and thinking how nice they would be if I, you know, crumbled them up, poured Baileys on them, covered it in whipped cream and ate it all.

Is it too early to start drinking, actually?

Baileys doesn't count as drinking, does it?

I just found a mini bottle of Midori that was in the bottom of my handbag. Remembered that the Midori publicity man gave it to me after I made him magical vodka-triple sec-mango liqueur-mojito syrup-ginger alcohol-gin shots. I think they need a catchier name.

I also found my thigh flask, filled up with Southern Comfort. What the hell? Why Southern Comfort? I don't even drink that. Which is possibly why it's full.

What am I dooooing to my body?

Delilah had better give me back my gym card pretty soon. This can't be good for me. Oh, but it feels so niiiiiice.
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Mmm, breakfast. I made an omelette with cheese and mushrooms and onions and a little dash of salsa and crème fraîche. Om nom nom nom nom.

Yes, I said breakfast. Yes, it's almost 11pm. I just got up. You got a problem with that?

Blame my shifting work hours. On Saturday I'm working at 8am. 8am, you guys! Normally that's my bedtime! How am I supposed to completely reverse my sleeping patterns otherwise?

Now I am going to go and make cake. Mmmm, cake. Ginger cake. It's all dark and full of spices and you cut it up like sliced bread, and then you can spread cream cheese on it and top it off with strawberries. I would be a fucking AMAZING wife.
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At the moment, I am scarily sociable. So sociable, in fact, that sometimes I end up running away from the party and find myself dancing alone en pointe in dodgy cafés with four old men sitting at the counter, at 3am, with just the barman and the waitress for human company. I suppose I make human company for them too. They sometimes dance with me.

I also make food for the entire neighbourhood. It started off small. Now people are putting in orders. I don't really know why or how this started, but it's okay.

I talked to a grumpy old man in the grim café last night, while I was stretching to be able to hit the split in my arabesque. He was talking about how much he hates Paris at night, how it's still good in the daytime, but nighttime is just depressing. But I love Paris at night. I love it in the morning, at noon, in the undern and the evening as well. The thing about Paris is that it's so easy to just disappear. I love that.

Me being sociable and wearing pearls:


That was probably about half an hour before I ran away again to disappear and feed coconut biscuits to the barman and dance with the waitress.

I think my life is strangely charmed.
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I have the lurgies. It's something where I cough a lot and wake up every morning with my eyes glued shut. Hay fever? I don't know. Anyway, it doesn't really matter, except that today I couldn't go to my friend's birthday picnic in the sunshine because I was too busy coughing.

There is no butter in my house. This is a major impediment to my cookery plans. I used up all the butter on Tuesday, making pans and pans of chocolate brownies to feed my staff and the staff of the bar across the road and the staff of the bar next to that one. I feel as though they should be fed, sometimes. But now I have no butter and no eggs, and how am I going to even feed myself?


Tomorrow, if I can walk more without coughing, I will go and buy butter and then feed them all again. I don't know why. It seems the right thing to do.

Yesterday I wore a ballgown and kissed about eight hundred people on the cheeks, mingling around at an opening party. I got so tired of kissing everyone after a while. Then girls started kissing me on the mouth instead, and then after a while there were girls kissing me in every corner of the bar and every time I escaped one, another one found me. I lost my black-lace-and-pearls hair flower in the confusion. I am a bad mingler. I snuck away and took the metro home, all decorated with pearls and satin and black lace and other people's lipstick.

It's funny, this life, how it wheels itself out and unfolds and everything keeps on coming. I don't think I could ever die, just in case I missed something.
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So many questions at the moment. Life is a strange and mysterious thing. But that doesn't help me to understand it better. I'm lost. Lost and confused.


It's true! Aside from my daily chocolate dose, I can only eat fruit! Whatever else I see looks horrible to me. So I eat fruit and I drink gin and probably inside me there is some sort of wonderful cocktail being grown. What a waste.

Oh, fruit.

I'm eating cherry tomatoes at the moment. They are a fruit.

The word 'fruit' no longer makes any sense when I look at it. Silly word.

This definitely needed its own post.
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Tonight I have four dates. They are all cancelled. I can't keep up with myself at the moment. I run from one end of Paris to the other scratching off appointments and getting drunk, and I don't know if it's the springtime or whatever, but I seem to be giving off some sort of "kiss me" hormone.

Last night there was this redhead. Oh Lord. If it wasn't for certain monthly bleeding patterns she would still in be in my bed now, but because of that I had to content myself with kissing her in the corner of the bar for a few hours and then getting her number. Six days and I'll call her. (Then on the way out of the bar I saw the cute waitress in the café across the street. So I ran into the café, caught her, made out with her, and ran away again. Without saying a word. She was completely unfazed, which is why I love her.)

All that to say that my whoredom continues unabashed, and strikes fear into the hearts of innocent bystanders.

I think it might be a good idea to get my gym card back from Delilah so that I can, you know, work off some of this energy. Or maybe just hang out trying to pick up girls at the drinking fountain.

I should also probably cut down on my Jagermeister intake. It's just ridiculous at the moment.

Ah, I'm living the 18-year-old's dream.
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I have jetlag! I've been up since six this morning, which is normally the time I would be closing up at work. So my hours are completely reversed. Sadly, I am working tonight. I think it'll be okay, though. At least, it's going to have to be, I don't have any choice.

I am bored and doing a meme. Here it is. )

I am sitting around listening to Frances Faye and Molly Johnson and stuff. I think I should go to more concerts. Just because most of the people I like are dead is no excuse. There are plenty of alive people that I like as well. Remind me about this when I get my paycheck. I went handbag-shopping in Hong Kong and I think I'm poor at the moment. Still, at least that means I get nice handbags to take to the concerts.

I was thinking about, you know, relationships. Everyone I know, every single person, wants to find someone to truly love and get committed to, as long as it's the right person. They might not want to get married, but they want to have that soulmate thing, and be in a couple. I've asked around. Everyone else seems to want that. I don't. I really don't. I like being in love, but it only lasts about six months. After those six months, there is domesticity and contentment, which is boring to me.

I want to never belong to someone, but have fascinating lovers. Even when I'm old. Maybe the lovers will get more platonic, if I ever get to that beyond-sex twilight zone, but I don't ever want to be roped to someone's side, no matter how great that person is. I can't be the only one, can I?

I see a lot of debating, especially with gay people, about what happens when they get old. If they don't have kids, when they die all their stuff goes to distant relatives and gets sold off. I don't see the problem with that. You're dead. What difference does it make to you at that point?

I just want cats. And friends. And lovers. And, most of all, maids. And the rest is up to me. Is that so wrong?
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I'm in Hong Kong! One of the first things I did on the first day I spent wandering around was breathe in the delicious smell of Chinese food and get really hungry. Now I have changed my mind about that smell. It's everywhere. It's stuck in my hair, on my clothes, it gets into everything. But that's okay.

Here it's misty and grey. My parents have a flat overlooking damp green mountains and the sea. The sea is grey and the sky is grey, but different kinds of grey. The Chinese people seem dubious about me, but then I would be too. I try to talk Chinese to them but they either politely ignore me or else get the giggles and run away.

So far I have seen markets, grey beaches, mountains, Buddhas, temples, fluorescent shopping malls, monks with burning incense sticks, crowds and crowds of people, pigs' heads dripping into plastic buckets, tiny bumpy buses, bags of live tropical fish, dingy high-rise buildings with washing hanging from the windows, square churches, the sea, tiny green islands, people killing eels, fake D&G handbag sellers, neon signs in Cantonese, dogs wearing clothes, adverts everywhere, TVs everywhere, and a grumpy angry cat.

My parents' building not only has its own gym and pool, it has its own bowling alley and grand piano room (which I am totally going to bogart one of these days). It also has something called a Karaoke Room, which scares me. Apparently a lot of buildings in Hong Kong are like this.

There is no crime here and everyone is very well-behaved, with no jostling in the underground and everyone waiting politely in line. They are obsessed with not having germs on their hands, and wearing masks, but they're okay with trundling pigs' intestines along in the road and then eating them.

I haven't really gone to the skyscraper part yet (except going through it in the Random Tram of Mari's Exploring - the Chinese word for tram is "ding ding" by the way). I will see it soon though.

Hong Kong!!
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I have gastric flu, so I called in sick for the first time ever. On Sunday I actually worked with the gastric flu without realising what it was, and thought that I was just randomly throwing up all over with a strange sweaty temperature. Actually I thought I was hungover, and I was surprised because I hadn't been drinking the night before. After that I blamed it on my period. But now I understand.

So I had an evening in, sitting around on the internet looking at my secret stash of porn. My porn happens to be the Laura Ashley home furnishings website. I get really turned on by imaginarily shopping for curtain tie-backs and pretty milk jugs. My taste is getting worse and worse, actually. When I first moved here I was all cool and clean-lined. Now the burlesquey girly part of me is busting out all over and there are diamonds and feathers and flowers everywhere. And don't even get me started on the kitchen. In a fit of gay joy I painted the window frames candy pink, like Barbie on a sugar high. (Actually, that is a fairly apt description of the way I do most things.) There are polka dots and strawberries all over the place. I don't know what happened to me.

Well, it makes me weirdly happy, and it's not like anyone ever comes here anyway, seeing how stingy I am about inviting people over. So I might as well just keep it up. The moment I am able to walk more than a few metres without my brain and legs turning into cotton-wool, I am going to the one remaining Parisian Laura Ashley shop and hitting up the sales. Yep. And then I am going to buy new sheets.

See, when some girls are freshly out of a long relationship, they get a hair cut. I decorate. At the moment I am busy boxing up all of my ex's belongings. She keeps coming round to get them and then just leaving without taking anything. Well, it's up to her, but if she doesn't take them I will just make a sweet and generous donation to charity. I do not run a storage space here. It's nice to put things in boxes though. It's like an exorcism. And I see all of my things coming out from behind her piles of mess. (Heaping things in a corner is not tidying them away. Sorry, but it's not. And it's been like that ever since she moved in, two and a half years ago. Every corner is gunked up with another huge pile of her crap.)

Someone is lending me a circular saw. Yes, someone is that stupid. I have decided to finally make the plunge and cover up the orange carpet of doom with some parquet. (Don't worry too much about the circular saw, I have put down one or two floors already and sliced it all up with one of those babies, and nobody has ever died yet.) I am not quite sure how I'm going to do it, seeing as I will have to move the piano and the sofa and I don't have anywhere to move them to, like. But it will be done.

I will probably ask Delilah to help me. Poor girl. She's always helping me do heavy lifting. It's not my fault she's so freakishly strong.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. It's about five in the morning, which means my body is about to start to wake up and want to do things. Interestingly enough, the cat shares this trait. So she is going to start randomly attacking fluff, and I am going to attack the washing up. Our neighbours just love us.
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Good evening, ladies! (And I think there are some gentlemen, but not very many. What's with that? Don't you boys like to blog?)

First off, thankyou for your help on my cousin situation. The overwhelming consensus was to friend him with a filter (which, by the way, was totally not one of the options). After that the answer was "do not friend him". So I thought about it a lot, and considered, but in the end curiosity won out and I friended him. We shall see if it sets off some sort of World War. I can't help it. I suppose I'm just a provoker person or something. Can't not scratch itches and all. Sorry.

Anyway, aside from that, nothing is happening. I am all single and hanging out with the cat, and it is nice. I was going to go to see The Barber of Seville but there were no good seats left. So I hung out with the cat some more. I'll just have to wait until next time to be able to sing along with DELLA CITTAAAAAAAAAAA, damnit.

Well, that's all, I suppose. What a life, eh.
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So, dilemma. My cousin just tried to add me as a friend on Facebook. How nice! The only thing is that I haven't seen my cousin since I was fourteen, and since then my life has gone through many changes, about which he is blissfully unaware. Eg, being a lesbian bartender ho who likes whipping people. This would normally be okay - everyone has surprises, right? Except that my cousins are Iranian, and very very very strict Muslims. When I was a kid, my aunt once asked my mother for the names and addresses of all her Jewish friends so that she could "write them letters and possibly do harm to them".

So! Do I ignore my cousin's friendly approach and snub him? Or do I accept his offer of Facebookly friendship and allow him to look at all the pictures of me making out with chicks while lying on a bar, thus possibly sparking off a Family War? Bear in mind this particular cousin was a very nice little kid, and has moved away from Iran now and is possibly less evangelical than his mother. But I don't know. Like I said, I haven't seen him since I was fourteen.

Vote pls. I will do whichever wins.
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I made it through almost a whole hour of work today before falling in a soggy heap. Yay. I don't know what's up with me and the fainting, but I think I may just have very bad karma. Oh well, the hijinks will have to wait.

Meanwhile, I am reading [ profile] mytornadohell and my eyes are filling with tears at this brave woman's suffering. How do people like that get printed? Or like this? (Although in her defense, that second lady does seem to be slightly mentally ill.)

I think I will turn my blog into something like that.

With a contented sigh, I cast my eyes over my beautiful home, the cookie crumbs scattered in intricate myriad patterns over the pile of unopened bank statements, the vivid scarlet of the Coca Cola can brought to life by the rack of drying washing standing behind it. The deep red sofa highlights to perfection each and every vibrant hair left by the cat. My jarful of biros casts a Manhattan skyline of shadow on the table.

The telephone rings. It is someone very important who wishes to hear my opinion on everything. I laugh softly into the telephone as I tell him indulgently that these days are over. Gone are the days when I would work to earn a living. I am a real woman now.

Yes, a real woman, safe in my femininity, content to sit and gaze at my belongings, and occasionally prepare myself healthy salads from organic ingredients (which the cleaning lady will tidy up for me later). I read an article in a magazine about a brave soul who dared to eat food bought from Poundland and spiders of horror crawl up my spine. I salute her courage, but shudder at her recklessness.

No, okay, I can't do it any more. Freelance female journalists, would you please knock it off? Yes, I know it's not all of you. But for the ones who are churning out this cooing, insipid, pretentious, self-indulgent, completelylackinginallselfawareness bullshit: JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH WOULD YOU STOP IT NOW. Women, come on. We have spent the last few centuries trying to get ourselves taken seriously. You are shooting us in the foot. This is like when Germaine Greer decided that female circumcision was okay because it was part of cultural identity. (Although, maybe if we got some of these damn middle-class label-wearing "writers" female-circumcised they'd actually have something to write about.)

Jesus, on my LJ list I have all of these funny, articulate, interesting women, and then when you pay to read a newspaper you have to read this kind of shit? Come on girls, couldn't you start publishing yourselves if you haven't already? DO IT FOR THE FEMALES.

(Boys: I'll yell at you next time.)
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When I was modelling, there was a very good reason for it. It wasn't because I liked the work or thought it was a riot getting my photo taken. It was because I got to spend all day surrounded by really, really attractive girls. And actually, quite a lot of the other models I met seemed to be doing it for the same reason.

So now I am going to celebrate LESBIAN MODELS!!! Yay!! Starting with the Lesbian Model Original Icon, Gia herself.


Come and look at more hot girls! Some of them have no clothes on! yay!  )

Anyway, I do realise that the models I fancy all look very much alike, but I can't do anything about it. And at least they all look alike in a big cloud of HOTNESS.

I know that you're supposed to judge women on their brains and personalities and all, but honestly, what are you supposed to do if you only have a photo?
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My blog blogs on and on about nothing. This is its problem. Maybe I should turn it into a Food Blog. (After all, I made spaghetti the other day.) Or an Intimate Sex Blog. (Hey, I have sex! And am obviously a wonderful source of knowledge on all things contraceptive.) Or a Political Blog. (Let's not even go there.)

Or I could combine them all, and write about how I started talking about the bombing in Karachi while licking homemade chocolate body paint off my lady friend's ample breasts.

But talking about food is a bit weird, honestly, and my political views are not sufficiently clear-cut to deserve an airing, and when it comes to sex, I'm probably a prude. By which I mean, I don't think it would be fair to parade my naked lady friend in front of the internet, and I don't particularly want to parade myself.

Anyway, out of nowhere: A girl I know describes herself as a "soft butch dyke" and for some reason this makes me think of bacon. I think it's kind of disgusting actually. It's soft, combined with butch, equalling bacon. I cannot explain this. All these lesbian labels are really funny. Words like "femme-ininity" and "lesbro" and "tomboi" and "genderqueer".

But never mind, because I just found a photo of Frances McDormand and Tilda Swinton where it looks like they're going to make out, and I think they should definitely make a film about that because it would be the best acting EVER.

Now I am going to go and watch movies. Oh, and dry my washing. I have such a full and interesting life.
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A few years ago I was writing a story. It was about a woman who had a normal life but who wanted to leave her mark on the world, and who read that in parts of the Gobi desert you can write something in the sand and it will remain there for hundreds of years, because nobody goes by there and it is protected from wind and rain by the mountains. Anyway she decides that this is how she's going to make her mark, and then spends the rest of the story trying to make up her mind about exactly what wonderful, all-encompassing mark she is going to leave in the desert, while her life goes on and on and eventually ends.

So there you are, I wrote that story to amuse me, and then didn't really think about it for a while, and then this weekend I saw Synecdoche, New York. It's basically the same story. Then I read stuff and got bounced around from website to article to book, and somehow ended up in an essay that Gore Vidal wrote on the subject of Italo Calvino, and apparently Calvino wrote something called A Sign in Space which is the same story over again, but set in space instead of in an infinite city in a warehouse or in the Gobi desert.

I think I should probably read A Sign in Space, but now I am quite sad that the story that was so fun for me to write had already been written (although I beat Synecdoche to it by a couple of years).

Also this week, I read Ayaan Hirsi Ali's latest memoir and am re-examining the reasons behind the burqa ban.

AND I made foods and did decorating and DIY and went to work and stuff. So it's all been fairly active really.
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She seems to be settling in okay.


But takes up the whole bed.
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Yesterday my father and I drove down from York to Folkestone, took the train to Calais and then drove from Calais to Paris. It took about twelve hours (including getting lost around Paris, because of a torrential rain-and-lightning storm). Why did we do this instead of just taking the plane the way I normally do?


Yes, not only did we do all that, but we did it all with Maya, the world's worst travelling cat. She shouted a lot and peed on me, but was luckily quite heavily drugged so wasn't as bad as usual. By the way, cats on Valium are really funny. At least, Maya is. She couldn't walk properly, so fell over and then lay there purring for joy.

She is already refusing to share the sofa with me, so I think she has settled in rather well.

Aside from that, my mother has a broken arm and we climbed all the way to the top of York Minster and looked at all the sights of York that I may never see again, and we went shopping as well. Oh, shoes. Paris shoes just aren't as good. They're too expensive and low-heeled and boring. I also got a book called Haunted York, which is great. Some of the ghosts are very amusing. If anyone wants ghost stories, I can post the pictures I took of things and tell you exactly how they're haunted (because I don't think it's possible to take a picture of anywhere in York that is ghost-free). In that spirit, I got a mug in the shape of a skull for my lady friend. You drink its brains. I think it will be right up her alley (or snickleway, I suppose).

But most of all, I have Maya. Maya and I met when I was fourteen and she was six weeks old. I wanted a cat and had dragged my parents around four different animal sanctuaries without finding the right cat. I found Maya in the last one. She was sitting there looking smugly at me, and I fell in love (with slow-motion and violins and everything). Now she is twelve years old and obese, and still sits there looking smugly at me and I love her more than ever. MAYA.
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You know that thing it says on the top of Livejournal? "A global community of friends who share your unique passions and interests"? Isn't that a bit of an oxymoron? (Also I just looked at my profile for the first time in a while and noticed that my last post was number 1000. I have waffled along to myself in public 1001 times now, since I was eighteen. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. And I still have the same icon that I have always had.)

I am done with Virginia. The end of her journal is kind of an anti-climax, but probably most things are. Now that's over, I'm going to read my "italiano vivo" book and see if I can talk Italian by the end of it. Or maybe I will read "Colloquial Greek". Or maybe I will read the notebook where I wrote down the chicken sandwich thing in all the languages. I don't know yet.

I have a craving to go to London. I haven't been in London since I went to visit [ profile] totalximmortal in about 2002, unless you count changing trains or coming out of the airport and things like that. And my parents are moving to Hong Kong (did I mention that? It's very strange to me, that they're going to do that). After they move I won't be able to go to England at all, because they're going to rent out their house. And then what am I going to do when I order things from Amazon UK that won't ship overseas, and I need them to store my polka-dot lampshades and giant-cupcake-cake-moulds and things until I can come and pick them up? And what if I need them? What if I get mono again and have to stay in the country lying around and being irritating? Who else has a country house and wants to look after me? NOBODY, that's who. I think it's really selfish of them, going off to Hong Kong like that.

But that wasn't my point. I was talking about London. I have been in London probably three times in my life. My little sister, however, lives there, and makes burgers in the Tube station (as is my understanding). I have invented an idea for myself of Putney, Soho, Bloomsbury and Camden in the meantime. My idea is based partly on Virginia Woolf's diaries, partly on a photo I saw of a happy girl walking in the street in London wearing a pretty dress, and partly on a book I read when I was little, called "The Other Way Round". (It's the sequel to "When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit" and it's about a little German girl called Anna during WWII who has to leave Germany, and in the sequel she is a teenager in London.) My idea is approximative and vague, but involves sunshine, spires, occasional misty mornings, rivers and walks in the park. Anyway, I am dying to go and visit this invented London, but will try not to get my hopes up, and I daresay would not even be able to find Putney/Soho/Bloomsbury/Camden, even the real versions.

(Did you see the casual use of "I daresay" there? Not bad, eh?)

Anyway enough of this.
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Reading Virginia Woolf's diary. I'm almost done with the fourth (1931-1935). I think I love her. When she started her diary in the beginning (after writing a tiny weird staccato thing about "Went for walk. Saw green caterpillar with spots. Home again rainy cold" for while), Leonard was supposed to write a page in it too. So she wrote and wrote and wrote on the first day, and then Leonard added his page. Leonard's page said "Went Regent St. &c wV to buy hat &c." After that he gave up. Which I like too.

Thinking about diaries led me to thinking about blogging. Isn't it a strange thing to do? Never in the field of human communication has so much been said by so many to so few, as I think someone paraphrased Winston C. I am a failure as a blogger due to a self-inflicted (inflicted?) barrier preventing me from talking about anything, you know, intimate. But that's okay. I wasn't planning on becoming a career blogger and having a movie made out of my life or anything.

Words to start incorporating into everyday conversation:

"I daresay" (to replace "I guess" or "I spose" or "it's probably" or, worst of all, "Most likely")
"Cuts no ice" (makes me sound important)
"oh spite oh hell" like Helena

Words to stop using:


Many more to come but I can't think of them off the tip of my brain.

Client: Two beers and a Smirnoff Ice.
Me: Would you like pints or halves?
Client: The beers in glasses, and the Smirnoff Ice in a bottle.
Me: ...Yes, but would you like the beer glasses to be big pint glasses, or small half glasses?
Client: Halves.
Me: (comes back with drinks)
Client: No!! Half LITRE glasses!
Me: So... pints?
Client: Yes!
Me: (changes halves to pints)
Client: (pays and goes away)
Client: (coming back five minutes later) Hey. My Smirnoff Ice doesn't have enough alcohol in it. You didn't make it strong enough.
Me: I promise you that when I took the lid off the bottle, I left the alcohol content the way it was.
Client: (glaring) No, you've done something to it. It's not as strong as usual.

I don't know how he managed to find the way out of his house. He's probably convinced that churning away under the bar we have a secret factory, producing a drink that looks and tastes exactly like Smirnoff Ice but ever so slightly weaker than the real thing. Not forgetting the special bottle-recreating sector. All to save us money. I hope nobody ever shows him Conspiracy Theory. Come to think of it, he may have already seen it.

Clients, though. Aren't they something? Like a barrelful of drunken monkeys, confused and sometimes angry, deathly serious about the ratio of vodka to lemonade, and then off they skip to dance on a table, vomit on someone and start to undress. Bless them. (Luckily, these strange cases make up a small but amusing percentage of the otherwise normal bar visitors.)

I seem to have three hundred euros going spare. Vivien of Holloway and Stop Staring are beckoning seductively to me. Oh but I need more dresses, don't I? It doesn't matter if I only have one pair of trousers to my name (and believe me, it's not the proudest part of the "to my name" list) - oh but dresses are the thing.

That's the problem with the internet. While I was debating, another part of me was controlling the typing hands part, and I was still debating when I noticed that I had just bought another dress. YAY A NEW DRESS!!!!!!!!


And more space to put them in. You can buy new closets on the internet, can't you?
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