My corruption is in progress

I went to see Russell Brand at the Roundhouse last night. I don’t think I am a prude. I really don’t. Inexperienced and with simple tastes, but prudish, no I don’t think so. He’s a funny man. A dinky, skin-tight all black clad, messy haired man with rootin tootin boots. The population of the world who has heard of Russell Brand, I assume has also heard about his sex addiction. A large part of his act is about that - very graphically so. I don’t mean a visual of his bits, no indeed not, but an energetic display of how he goes about his sexual business. With many, many details that perhaps my mind was unable to process fast enough to laugh. When it comes to pornography (I really didn’t intend that pun) I am almost virginal. Of course I’ve seen some, but not very much and most of it pretty standard.

Apart from his own sexual tales – apparently he will shag anything that his human, female and still breathing – he did enlighten us about other acts of deviancy. One such act is called “seagulling”. Now, I know I am not the only one to have not heard of this, because I asked around! Allow me. It’s when a boy, usually in a school environment but not limited to this, ejaculates into his hand and flings it into the face of an unsuspecting passerby. Grim.

As happens when you are alerted to something, you begin to notice it around you. And so today, when I was running mindlessly on the treadmill, music blaring at me to keep going because one day it will be worth the effort, I looked out of the window at the activity on the street below. My eyes wandered over the Christmas market marquee set up in the very sad excuse for a square, over the working people out on their lunch breaks, the mothers with their infuriating lack of pram-driving skills and/or consideration, into the shop window of ______. Therein, a school boy was looking out, his friends milling around the shop behind him. I was about to move my eyes along, trying to soak up as much of the outside world as I could, when I noticed that his movements were a bit, well, odd. I went back to the window and looked a bit more closely, only to see that he was in fact rubbing himself, rather frenetically. ‘Himself’ being a euphemism for ‘his penis’. See how bold I am becoming? With my new found knowledge I allowed myself to speculate, with a certain worldly-wisenessness, that perhaps the shop assistant was to be the unsuspecting recipient of something very unwelcome.

Everything in my world was so pretty before this. Russell bloody Brand.

Things to rant about...in 3 minutes.

Scottish Housemate and I, and others along the way, have been debating the concepts of speed dating, internet dating and other types of arranged dating activities - as well as the would you/wouldn't you conversation.

The most frequently repeated comment from men and women alike is that they have done it or would do it "for a laugh". My retort is always, "That's not fair!" Someone is genuinely looking for a possible partner and is most likely placing a great deal of faith and hope [and some serious angst] in the process. In my eyes, it's just plain mean to enter into this dating fray if your intentions are not honorable. I imagine how hurt I would feel [and possibly humiliated if I actually quite liked him] if I shared my time allotted self only to find out that he was there for a laugh. I object!

Observation tells me that internet dating to the majority is nothing more than a grown up version of 'Hot or Not'. Let's not pretend that the hopeful lads consider qualities, interests and hobbies. In my office internet dating and subsequent dates are discussed openly. Those women who never make it to the actual date stage are displayed on the monitor for all to see because they dared to express some level of interest and are mocked mercilessly for it. With comments such as "what a minger" the boys rule them out one by one based on looks: and looks alone. Let me point out that these "boys" are aged 28 and upwards, and as the idiom goes, are no oil paintings themselves. God help us.

Now there is another kind of arranged dating activity, one which was the original purpose of this post. Scottish Housemate tells me, courtesy of the London Lite, that there is a new phenomenon sweeping the bars of London town. That was for dramatic effect...one bar somewhere in South Ken is hosting something called Down With Dating. An anti-speed dating if you will. People can go and legitimately take the piss. On the dreaded wall of faces, photos are replaced by your own hand-drawn-with-crayons self-portrait...and your 3 minutes of me me me is an opportunity for you both to talk about things that really piss you off. This I could do. I shall start making a list right now: things high up on shelves in shops; American English; people who walk really slowly in front of you; the fact that Quality Streets come in giant tins; phone contracts; customer services "your call is important to us" on hold mesasges; South African accents....This is too easy. Suddenly "for a laugh" sounds very appealing to me.

Stars in my eyes

A while back I expressed something hopeful about horoscopes and such. I was promised a good year that year and I thanked the stars for that. Since it proved to be completely the opposite, 2006 being an almost complete pile of poo, I turned my back on the wish-wash.

Enter Facebook.

Horoscope and Tarot applications telling me my fortune every day. I am supposed to have found love many times over by now. Why is it then that of late, the only man to have shown any sort interest at all is the manager at Pizza Go Go? At 2 o'clock in the morning. Flirting with me whilst waiting for my fries to become golden and delicious. To go with my large pizza. OK, nevermind, I just answered that. I need new hangouts, clearly.

I think I am going to remove them from my page. Or simply stop reading them. Reading into them.

But hark! Tomorrow my Money and Love are BOTH sunshiny...

Interpol @ Alexandra Palace

Arcade Fire at Alexandra Palace, Wood Green

I do not want a bench

From time to time I think about how I want to be remembered when I die. I don’t much like talking about me dying because I plan to live a very long and healthy life. Apart from how people will think of you, or speak about you, things happen in the very important few days after that I think we should all have a say in.

I do not want a bench. Those ones that you see in parks. “How softly the river flows…” “In memory of…” “You will be missed” and so on. The river walk from Surbiton to Kingston, as I discovered this weekend, is a very pleasant one…but there was a certain distraction that I could not acclimatise to. Bench after bench after bench of the aforementioned variety. I thought to myself, most definitively, I do not want a bench.

Upper lip hair

I was determined to write something tonight, but was distracted by this blog, the link to which appears below. It pleased me greatly to find it, and have instead spent my writing time giggling. It's impossible not to get caught up in the unashamed appreciation of the mustache.

"Ah, the pleasing symmetry of a delicate gullwing swoop in hair, mustache, and tie."

Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century

Have you found Jesus?

Those of you who know me will know why I am posting this and yes, I am probably going to hell in a handbasket.

(non-essential) [explantory]

The difference between brackets and parentheses has never really concerned me until recently. It was upon receipt of some communications where the square bracket was in use which caused me to ponder whether or not its use was technically correct.

I am particularly fond of the parentheses as I have a neverending supply of thoughts, offhand remarks and justifications which cannot be left unstated so I chuck them into a round bracket and keep going.

This is what I found out: use the parentheses () to provide non-essential information, to mark off a part of your sentence that is not part of the main thought; and the bracket [] to insert a clarifying word or phrase.

You'd never believe I used to work as a copy editor and proofreader, would you?

Bookshop Blues

I love browsing bookshops. Rarely do I have an intention to buy something...Amazon is cheaper after all. But when I am thinking about buying a book, I can't skip the part of looking for it, finding it, picking it up and paging through it. There is something so base about smelling the smell of paper printed and bound. Even though the book I will eventually buy will arrive in the post, at least I've had a good look at it first, albeit somewhere else.

Yesterday, because it's impossible to walk past a bookshop without going in or at least looking in the window, I spent some time browsing in one of the more commercial bookshops. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, sometimes I wait for something to catch my eye before lifting it from the shelf for a flick through. This time I happened upon a book on the 3 for 2 table. It wasn't the title or the cover that grabbed me, it was the tag line: "You're nobody until somebody dumps you." Ouch. It made me smile in acknowledgement.

I skipped to the 'It's not you, it's me' bit. Turns out it's probably true. Not comforting, but true.

I did not need to know that

Maybe it's the interested look on my face. Maybe it's the bored look on my face. Whatever it is that encourages people to come into my office, ensconce themselves in a chair and proceed to tell me the most intimate details about their medical issues, I obviously exude it. Note: I am not a doctor. Such visits are thrust upon me, I am the unwillingly party. These people always, always take me by surprise: even when I see them coming. Inevitably they leave my office, their burden unloaded, their problem shared, completely oblivious to the fact that I am left feeling bilious.

James (name not changed). Infection of the urethra. "My ass hurts. It burns when I pee! I don't know how you women do it!" Do what James? "Sit on your bits all day, it's so uncomfortable, it hurts! I had to go for, like a test where they blah blah blah blah...so in case you were, like, wondering why I look so down, this is why. Blah blah." James, I wasn't, like, wondering.

Seriously. Do not. Want. To know.

What does THAT mean?

If only I could invent a software application for mobile phones. More specifically, for text messages. I would call it "Read Between The Lines". Every time you receive a text message from a boy, it automatically rewrites it in a language you can understand. All those innocuous comments and miscellaneous x's can be translated into plain English. "I like you." "I like you but I don't really want to be tied down right now." "I am not really that interested but I'll keep this going just in case." "Please, go away."

Just say it like it is. x

Good Friday

Yes, yes indeed it was.

Just thought you'd like to know!

Just thought I'd like to know? Just thought I'd like to know that I have been eating, all this time, a product which COULD have been made with 80% less saturated fat, but hasn't been until now. Why? What makes you think I'd like to know that you have knowingly and deliberately been making crisps soaked with lard when it is possible to make crisps not soaked with lard? Now, I believe in personal responsibility and I am not about to blame W*lkers for my inability to control my intake of saturated fat, because yes, it was I who made the choice to eat them, and watch with apathy as the scales increased year after year: however, if we rented a vehicle from Time Travellers R Us, and we went back to say 1999 (my first taste of Quavers, not just a random year) and from that day forth we made them with 80% less saturated fat, I think it is possible that you'll find that it would not only be the crisps that are less lardy: I would be too.

The Shins at The Forum, Kentish Town

Virtually Free Bar

I am not accustomed to having drinks bought for me. This is something new. Why it has come about, I am not entirely certain. I have a number of surmises:

1. It has to do with going out with Scottish Housemate, who, let's face it, is a good looking girl.
2. My recently acquired Single status.
3. My recently achieved GI Jane status. (In case you haven't, check my footer).
4. My irresistible charm. No? OK, I'll pick #1 as the most likely candidate.

Last night saw another tres fun evening in Camden, which although lasted from 3pm to 4am, didn't bankrupt me, despite a continuous flow of alcohol, entry into a night club and a cab ride home. Should I be having this much fun at my age?

Of course Sunday was a virtual write off, particularly when I discovered that the time had changed and I lost yet another hour lying in bed willing my water bottle to miraculously fill itself and empty its delicious contents into my sandpaper and cotton wool mouth so that I could stop speaking in Khoisan Bushman dialect. Sadly, eventually, and with a little help from Amy Winehouse, I extricated myself from duvet-entanglement and did it myself. One thing led to another which led to having to clothe myself and trundle down the road for a 4pm breakfast fry-up with the guilty party (see #1). I love lazy Sundays.

s'kceB

The backup friend

St. Patrick's Day. Not a good idea at the best of times. Yet, Scottish Housemate and I decided to brave it, and ventured forth. Both of us have an explicable fondness for Camden after dark. We tried the Barfly, but upon encountering "Police Line Do Not Cross" starting from the Lock Tavern and extending for most of the rest of the block, we about-turned and meandered in a different direction. The World's End seemed like a good choice. And it was very enjoyable. Good enough music, reasonable access to the bar, and place to stand without being jostled. Scottish Housemate got some male attention...one of the hopefuls actually, in front of me, referred to me as "the backup friend". Mmm, good luck calling that number she gave you.

Puggy!

OK I know it's rather a strange name for a band; well it's rather a strange name fullstop.

Nevertheless, ever since I was first introduced to Puggy in 2006, I have hearted them. Finally, after some missed opportunities, last night took me to Tommy Flynn's to see them play. My first Puggy gig, and I was not disappointed. They were pretty great. "Sorry" is my favourite at the moment...but they're all awesome.

Oh, and I might have a serious crush on Matthew Irons.

Gobbets

Today was a day off work courtesy of one of my 'use or lose' days. I was messing around with some words, trying to put them to good use. "A poem perhaps?" I had bravely suggested to myself when I sat down at the kitchen table. The glorious rays of sunlight streaming through the patio doors had obviously immediately to set work on melting my brains, because as a result of that seemingly innocuous decision, I spent a hearty chunk of the morning wiping my nose with my sleeve as tears streamed down my face. Needless to say, those particular words have since been packed back into the box as, clearly, I am not yet ready for them.

Welcome distraction came in the form of my Chelsea Dagger ring tone. With a small sniffle I answered my phone hesitantly. It was Scottish Housemate. She suggested the theatre. That cheered me up a great deal and, later, after a light dinner reminiscent of the Frasier theme song (tossed salad and scrambled eggs for those of you not paying attention) we high-heeled it to Leicester Square. Why does no one dress for the theatre these days? That is not to say we did, in fact the heels were our only salute to that concept, but wouldn't it be fun if people still did?

Anyway, we were lucky enough to get tickets to The History Boys. It's brilliant.

Irwin: "For what it’s worth, I sympathise with your feelings about examinations, but they are a fact of life. I’m sure you want them to do well and the gobbets you have taught them might just tip the balance."
Hector: "What did you call them? Gobbets? Is that what you think they are, gobbets? Handy little quotes that can be trotted out to make a point? Gobbets? Codes, spells, runes – call them what you like, but do not call them gobbets."
Irwin: "I just thought it would be useful …. "
Hector: "Oh, it would be useful … every answer a Christmas tree hung with the appropriate gobbets. Except that they’re learned by heart. And that is where they belong and like the other components of the heart not to be defiled by being trotted out to order. "

The Charlotte Church Show

Channel 4, Friday 9th March 2007, 10 p.m. Look for me on The Charlotte Church Show! I just spent four hours queueing, waiting, queueing, clapping (Levels 1, 2 and 3), laughing (clean laugh, short laugh) and ooohing and aaahing. I, yes I, was in the audience during the taping of Friday's show. Call me naive but I really believed that the show was not only live (not) but also that it flowed smoothly from one piece to the next. No. They take and retake; we clap and reclap; we laugh and relaugh. Damn, it's tiring. My cheeks ache from smiling. Still, I saw Hilary Duff two feet away (she is but tiny) and Chris Moyles was quite fun. Jamelia I can take or leave. Sorry hun. Nice dress though. Charlotte herself, what can I say, a legend, I do love her.

How To Become A Writer

There has been much talk in the past from my lips to your ears about me and my attempts to be a Proper Writer. I'm still on about it. More than a year and a half since I decided to work on my novel, I have decided to work on my novel.

I am sure that if I bothered to look on The Internet, I would find a hundred WikiHows to tell me about what Real Writers are made of. I don't know what ingredients I need, but these are the ingredients I have:

• Bunches of angst and flagging self-confidence in my Talent and Ability to Write Properly... countered by inestimable measures of But I Love Writing and I Really Really Want To Be a Proper Writer
• A folder C:\My Computer\My Documents\Writing which is full of bits and pieces waiting patiently for my considered attention
• Lots of Very Good but Useless Reference Books with titles such as Word Power and Weird and Wonderful Words and How Not To Say What You Mean and so on
• A novel which I prepared earlier (Personally, I think this is the most useful ingredient apart from Talent and Ability to Write Properly)
• A nome de plume/pseudonym/pen-name, should this be necessary

So, the cupboard is not exactly bare...surely something can come of this?

Bollywood Tears

There is a particular kind of heartbreak you feel when you see someone cry. It's one thing when it's someone you know, but when it's a stranger it seems strikingly sad, perhaps because there is nothing you can do, really.

Sitting on the train, music blaring in my ears creating that amazing disconnect between the goings-on around you and the bliss in your head, my attention was attracted to someone behaving oddly. On first assessment he looked, dare I say, like a Bollywood star. Everything he wore looked designer, oh so cool shades, a general attempt to look irresistible. (And about those shades: it was night-time). He was muttering to himself, pacing between the two doors and running his fingers enthusiastically through his hair. You could have been forgiven for thinking he was practicing lines for his new musical...but with more intent inspection I saw that he was crying. Sobbing actually.

Let me pause here to say that I too have sobbed on the train once. I couldn't help myself, but I think I tried to be discreet about it, despite the rivulets. He was full-flood waterworks...if I could hear I am sure there would have been noises and everything.

I noticed some other passengers laughing at him. I felt paralysed with sadness: his tears and the attitude of his fellow passengers. Was he a nutter? Maybe. But he could also have simply been unable to contain his misery, and I know exactly how that feels. I wasn't about to get up and pat him on the back and tell him everything would be OK. Eventually. But I like to think he felt my compassion hugging him like those big blue cuddly arms in the soup advert.

How Long ©

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long did it take you
How long to move on

It was clear, so clear
Sorry, you were sorry
I was your regret you said
You don’t belong here

I turned my eyes in, to not see
That you were looking past me
To your next possibility

You made it clear, so clear
Sorry, you felt sorry
I was your regret you said
Why are you here

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long to move on
You’d already gone

It made me smile

On the bus home from a late night at work, I was gazing out of the rain spattered window wondering how it could be that I was on my way home at 9 o'clock on a Friday night. I let out a deep resigned sigh at the thought of what was waiting for me: tea and toast and to bed with my book. Unexpectedly, through a gap between the buildings, I saw the London Eye in the distance, all lit up in pink. I welled with happiness. It was a brief welling, but it was one of those moments I have from time to time where I feel utter contentment.

A definite USP

Cigars...and lighters? Cigars...and matches? Cigars...and tobacco? Nope.

Truly. This shop sells cigars and firetrucks. I'm not kidding. Where? New Jersey, where else but America?

Bakelite and racy prints

Today I went to the Battersea Art Deco Fair, accompanied by Scottish Housemate. I love Art Deco. This print came home with me, as did a fabulous Bakelite lamp. How did plastic become a collectible item?

Clutching her purchases, Scottish Housemate was accosted by the TV people there filming for Channel 4's Grand Designs. She found her few minutes of fame explaining why she too loves Art Deco. "Because it's pre-tt-y!" apparently wasn't what they were wanting to hear so she tried to sound very important. Look out for her!

Ettore Tito, 'Aide toi. Le ciel t'aidera' ('Heaven helps those who help
themselves'), about 1925-30.

Tito's illustration shows a modern emancipated girl of the period: she
wears short skirts, drives her own open-topped car, and is even capable of
fixing it herself when it breaks down. She is presented as independent and
rather 'racy'; the image is clearly meant to be amusing but also
suggestive.

Wordkill

Working with Americans has its unique joys. One such joy is their language. There truly is a language called American. Its filled with heartbreaking word blends. One I hear all too often, and die inside each time, is "irregardless".

According to Dictionary.com this word is "nonstandard". I should bloody hope so!

Making a Mixtape

Recently I was invited to spend the weekend with An American Colleague at her home in Bridgewater, New Jersey, USA. They have a Mall in Bridgewater. With a Macy's. And everything. V. American.

Whilst idly passing time in the kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to ignore the fact that my toes had registered that it was minus 1.2 million on the Cold Enough For You? temperature scale, her husband asked me about music. My favourite question. He had no idea what he was in for. After naming a few bands that he had never heard of and some that he vaguely had, he rushed off to find a 'rock' CD that he was sure I would like. American Colleague looked at me with raised eyebrows and mouthed "WTF?" And then after a thoughtful pause, "It's probably ten years old, I warn you." It was. Whilst not truly awful it was not rock and it was not for me. I was a guest after all so I made some appropriate Interested Listener noises, and as quickly as it was polite to inserted Fiona Apple into the pretty silver Bose. At that moment I promised myself and American Colleague that I would make American Colleague's Husband a mixtape of proper music.

Making mixtapes is something I did as par for the course when I was younger. By younger, I of course mean when cassette tapes were the actual main component of mixtapes. I remember sitting cross-legged on the lounge floor nose to nose with the radio listening to the Top 40, finger poised and hovering over the Record button waiting for the DJ to stop talking and get on with playing the damn songs.

A Dog Called Kevin

This weekend saw the beginning of an official project called the Urban Exploration Project. This concept, proposed by my Most Delicious Friend Regina Silverspoon ®, is nothing more than taking good photographs in urban areas and posting them in one place.

Today's exploration was of Highgate Cemetery. We took a guided tour of this very beautiful, surprisingly uncreepy place. More about the cemetery on my other blog.

We also passed by Holly Village which is a group of eclectic gothic cottages built in 1865 for Baroness Burdett-Coutts' retired servants. We are sure that vampires live there.

Walking back through Waterlow Park we were mowed down by various very-pleased-to-be-out-in-the-freezing-cold-running-around-the-park-chasing-sticks dogs. One dog was a bit older than the other raggamuffins and was much happier sniffing the ground tentatively and was thrilled to shivering bits to receive generous pats on the head. His name was Kevin. What a cool dog-name.

Too Close For Comfort

A bit of a sombre posting tonight. There's a story in the news at the moment about the murder of a woman in her offices. I know the company where she worked. They are a competitor; we talk about them all the time.

It's a truly awful thing that happened. Locking up our offices the other night, I felt a flutter of unease. It's one of those tragedies that I will not forget. Despite the dozens of other murders that take place all across London and in my own neighbourhood, and despite that fact that I did not know her, this one feels a little too close to home.

A story about a date

Last Saturday we had a party. A housewarming party. It was a good party. Some say a great party. 80's theme: the music, the food, the outfits, the works. I played Queen of the Cocktails and got everyone verily drunk.*

My French Friend was there. She lasted until the jug of Shakey Milken Banana with Whiskey** was passed round, and claims to not remember much else after that. That would include not really remembering giving out her phone number.

Sunday dawns, or rather afternoons, and My French Friend receives a voicemail message from someone called Ned***. It's not a common name, Ned. He mentions 'party' 'your number' and 'dinner' and she thinks that she vaguely remembers someone she thinks may indeed have been called Ned and even remembers possibly, maybe giving him her number.

I receive a frantic French accented email: "Who ze hell iz Ned?"

Duly, I gather Housemates around my laptop to view the photos in an impromptu identification parade. Girl Housemate #2 points a finger and declares: "Ned!" She proclaims him to be 'nice', 'sweet', 'funny, if a bit cocky.' Fair enough. Sounds harmless. Attach. Send.

"Aah, oui, I remember zis person. Cool."

A date is susequently arranged. The day arrives and she goes on her way with my voice ringing in her ears: "I expect full details please!"

I expected to hear about the restaurant, the bar, the conversation, the did he go in for a kiss. What I did not expect was a text message an hour later: "Nightmare...it's not who we thought it was! It's the Wrong Ned!"

What are the odds? Two boys, both called Ned, at the same party, talking to the same girl. Poor Ned the Wrong. What's more no one really knows who Ned the Wrong actually is. I didn't invite him, Housemates 1, 2 and 3 didn't invite him. My French Friend's face must have been a picture. She called me on her way home, walking in the rain rather than getting into the same cab, and I laughed until I couldn't breathe. With her, of course, never at her, hahahaha.

*they all made it home safely
** secret recipe available to those who submit something, anything, which makes me laugh out loud
***name changed to protect the flash, boring, posh boy

He's just not into you

"Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." - Charlie Brown

The Shins or Happy Coincidence

I know I said this wasn't a blog about bands, but this is more than that. This is about those rare moments when things seem connected and all's well that ends well.

While I wasn't reading about BitTorrent and while I definitely wasn't installing it, I came across a mention of a band called The Shins. Now, given my already stated impeccable taste in music, in theory I should already be aware of this band. I was not. That said, I filed it away for future reference and thought nought more of it. But Hark! A few minutes later, mine ears are pricked to the radio, for what should be playing but the new single by The Shins! (It's called Phantom Limb and I love it). "Hmm", I mused. I read it about it and then it (aurally) appears. "It must be a sign!", I declare with certainty. I have subsequently acquired all three albums.

Were it not for me absolutely not investigating the pirate underbelly of music downloading, which for the record is Wrong, I would never have come across this brilliant band. It makes me happy when one thing leads to another which leads to Good Things.

Yesteryear

Whilst the year past was a truly rubbish year for me, I will allow myself to look back at My Favourite Things About 2006. Surely I can find 10 of those...

1. My favourite entire album, the one that makes me feel happy
The Killers, Sam's Town. I didn't have to think about that for very long.

2. My favourite "Have you ever heard..?" "No, I haven't." band
This is a toughie because there are two neck and neck, both introduced to me by my Most Delicious Friend, Regina Silverspoon ®. In order that I not have to make a decision I will have both.
Sub-favourite 1: Interpol
Sub-favourite 2: Diamond Nights

3. My favourite place to be
My new house. End of.

4. My favourite event of the year
My French Christmas.

5. My favourite new word wot I learned
Putain!

6. My favourite item of clothing which I wore the most all year
My River Island jeans.

7. My favourite place I love to hate
Ikea. I hate that they're so fucking clever. With everything. Like marketing and store layout and delicious cake sit downeries. Fucking smart arses. I hate that I vowed never to go back and now I'm going with My French Friend next weekend and I know I will spend my money no matter how much I mutter about it. Bastards.

8. My favourite purchase
Star-shaped fairy lights. From the place I love to hate. Oh the irony.

9. My favourite past-time
Making and receiving "mix-tape" CDs.

10. My favourite thing to think about. Endlessly.
*Censored*

So long, and thanks for all the fish!