This is not a diet blog

However, this is quite nifty. I found it on Pinterest. Pre Caveman on the left, post Caveman on the right.

As for the gym, that's not quite going to plan. I had forgotten until the Direct Debit came off my aching bank account yesterday. Oooops.

A final note: Paleo breakfasts are hard work.

Caveman me up

The last time I penned, I had joined the gym. That did not last long. However, this new year begins with these words: I joined the gym! My quest for fairness extends to diet as well, it seems. One year I eat well and exercise regularly, and the next year I do not. Except for the last 5 years when I just have not. So much for fairness. But this time I mean it! I present to you proof of my ability to adjust my lifestyle at will: GI Jane. I lost 3 and 1/2 stone eating this way (that's about 22kgs for us Metrics) - and I managed to not stuff Chinese take-away (et al) into my face for 3 years.

Then I met My Loved One. After that I skipped down the high-in-bad-fat man-sized portions of lovingly cooked meals and lovingly purchased take-aways and lots and lots of wine path and am now back to that which I vowed would never happen again: my clothes simply do not fit me. 

Enter Paleo, otherwise known as the caveman diet. I'm going to give it a go, that's all I'm prepared to say for now. Watch my ticker and we'll see if I'm a big mouth.

I join the gym

This is not a first. There was a time when I could run 5km in 20 minutes. That's on a treadmill and I am 5 foot 1 and 3/4. That's quite fast. Anyway, 2 years, an engagement ring, and 3 and a half stone later, I have finally done it.... I've let myself go.

I have 282 days before I put on my Honeypie-esque dress and 'fatty bride' is not an option.

Enter Virgin Active. 'We don't do deals. We charge you extraordinary amounts of cash because we can, and because you will pay it.' The hook was the assurance by a tracksuited blonde (ha) that becoming a member would certainly help to increase my confidence. You what? You will be disappointed to hear that I let that one pass.

Today's schedule went like this:

- Powerplate warm-up (5 mins). Fuck me, that works.
- Punching bag (10 mins). Got knocked off my feet by My Loved One. Well into that he was.
- Rowing (10 mins).
- Cross-trainer (20 mins). "Come on honey, make it 25."   "No."
- Swimming (15mins). Maybe 8 laps....but mostly frolicking.

My back hurts and I'm hungry.

I don't want to

Let it be known that I do not want winter this year. I am not ready for it and it is not welcome. It will mean the purchasing of a winter coat. It will mean venturing out to be beaten up by rain and wind. It means darkness at the time of day when we should all be partaking in Afternoon Tea. It's also the 155 night bus home at freezing cold o'clock.

No to winter this year, you may keep it.

Priority # 1

Ordinarily, as ordinary days go, I feel a sense of pride about being a Londoner. A naturalised one, but one nonetheless. We rush around, cramming ourselves onto the tubes making our way to our very busy jobs whilst getting on with our very busy lives. Yet, in amongst that busyness we allow customers off the train first and we offer our seat to the old ones, the less able ones and the preggers ones (except the losers with 'Baby on Board' badges, I think twice about those.)

So because people I know behave this way, I allow myself to assume (and actually believe, as it turns out) that people in general behave this way. You will know by now that this isn't so, as I have led you along so nicely. Apparently the girl with the bad hair (black roots and platinum strands), checking out her nails whilst shrieking "NO WAY! SHE SAID WHAT?" into her phone, did not read the notes on seat etiquette.

Would you, seated on the 155, in a priority seat (the ones that they put big blue signs next to saying PRIORITY SEAT), continue to chat on your phone, whilst an elderly lady is standing in front of you, hanging on to the rail while the driver does what bus drivers do (speed, brake, speed, break, hang on!), and not get up? Not get up when you see her wince because she has had a knee replacement operation and has been in physiotherapy for a year? Would you, seated in a non-priority seat, watch the bad-hair girl not get up, tut-tut her, but not get up and offer your seat, presumably because it doesn't have a blue sign, so you're alright? Would you, a young man with a back-pack, elbow the elderly lady in order to get off the bus, when she too, quite clearly is also getting off the bus (she just can't move as fast as you can)?

Perhaps I only noticed all this because it was my mother-in-law to be swinging on that rail asking how many more stops? So what if it was.

Shame on you Londoners!

I hate recruitment agencies

I may have mentioned this before. I have dealt with recruitment agencies from both sides of the table, so to speak. I've had to use their services to employ staff, and I've had to use their services to find work.

In the former, they phone incessantly, send muffins and chocolates (useful) and random mouse mats and calendars (not so useful since it's hard to move a mouse around on a pile of mats), and worst of all, they always ask me how my weekend was. Why? You don't know me, you don't care about my weekend. You don't care that I downed 6 tequilas then passed out, nor do you care that I stayed in and read a book (Readers, which one was it, eh?). Furthermore, why do you think I will tell you, and do you think that asking is going to make vacancies suddenly appear when you were told last week that we weren't hiring until the new year (and it's June)?

Regarding the latter, sometimes you don't have a choice since all the good jobs seem to be through agencies. So, I duly send my CV in. They call me: "great CV!", and then I never hear from them again. What happened? Was I not suitable? Say so. If I am not suitable why did you say I was? One particular agency advertised 3 roles on different occasions. The same person (whom I met: "we'd love to meet you to determine if you are in fact normal") said that he put me forward for all 3 roles and that I was to be called - all 3 times - about an interview. Readers, this didn't happen. You know who you are, Craig James.

I vowed never to use agencies ever again. (Except Richard O, because I like him and he does what he says he is going to do.) However, now I need a bit of pocket money to make Christmas more rosy, so to my horror, I've found myself registering with the temp agencies because how else will I get temp work? I devised a very special email and have spent some time this morning sending it out to all the usual suspects.

Readers: mortification. I had addressed the email as follows: People could you let me know the registration process... People? I meant had meant to say Please.

Obviously ingratiation sticks in my throat.

Woe is me

I can't help thinking that there must be another posting on this blog with the same title. It is my wont from time to time, as My Loved One frequently points out, to feel self-pity. I mean really feel it. I have a look - usually staring out of the window, a little sigh, and a pathetically small voice that goes with everything. A cup of tea?, I am asked. Deep breath, sigh, "yes please". Cue looking out of the window some more. Today is such a day, because I am unwell. I am illin', as my My Most Delicious Friend Regina Silverspoon® would say. I deplore being ill. Being ill is fine when you get time off school - although I didn't want to in case I missed something (in the playground that is) - and it's fine when you don't have that much to do at work and a couple of days off to watch Murder She Wrote followed by Diagnosis Murder followed by Midsomer Murders followed by a marathon of the King of Queens (Kevin James is someone I am contemplating adding to People I Find Strangely Attractive) is exactly what the doctor ordered. Lying about in bed is: for sex; it's for watching movies on a Sunday afternoon; it's for reading a good book; and of course for beauty-sleeping. It's not for groaning, sniffling and coughing and crying "why is this happening to me?". I want to go out tonight and I shall, if it kills me. This bloody cold.

I fought with Windows Vista and won

So, it's like this. If ever you get an error message "Windows Explorer is not working" and if that message appears on a loop FOR ETERNITY - not working, closing, restarting, not working - and if you cannot DO ANYTHING about it because you cannot access a single thing on your own computer BECAUSE OF IT, just gimme me a call: I'm your IT bitch.

You're welcome.

Where have all the good blogs gone?

It was a Saturday night in, and I was looking for something to read. Usually I scroll through Blogger which has been known to yield some interesting reads, and occassionally a giggle or guffaw. This time however, I was at a loss. What I found, click after click, was a community of poets and wannabe writers, as if the recent successes of blogs-gone-a-published incited a frenzy of hope that they too will be discovered.

For you, some treats I found "on my journey":

'Have no fear, kids. These novels are gonna rock it.' - Rock it? Down with the kids much?

This insightful gem, from a poem called "quarrel": 'no words, no words pass between us today. no words, no words she said.' - Otherwise known as the silent treatment, genius.

'Courtney Kazembe's Blog: Inspiration, Motivation and Transformation' - No, no and no.

There are dozens where that came from, but I got bored writing them down. I will let you explore for yourselves, fuelled by this final inspiration:

'My Weekend: I spent the weekend here at home.' - Hold me back!

Can someone please point me in the right direction?

Things I like: Colcannon

Mmm, good. Preferably with baked potato mash and red cabbage.

Things that make me go "Arrrghggh"

Now that we are at home every day trying to grow a business from zero to successful in as short a time as the wolves at the door will allow, I have a little more time to surf the Internet, and a lot more time to complain. My delicate state [that is: being poor, having bills to pay, stagnation of the brain from having daytime TV on-hand, and atrophying of the muscles caused by not wanting to leave house since it would require me to wear more than my pants] lowers my rage threshold to the point of ridiculousness and makes me act like the grand mistress of the grumpiest of the grumpy old women.

Who cares that the local 6th form students leave lunch debris all over the Common every day. I DO!! Why? I don't know why, just because I do! My Loved One told me that it's my war. And he is right, but at this time I am choosing to let rage wash over me.

What else makes me go mental that didn't make me go mental before? Cold calls. Do you know that people really do phone up and try to sell you double-glazing. I honestly thought this was a quaint English joke: it's not, they called not 10 minutes ago. I live in a managed block, the tiniest bit of research would have told them that. No one in this building owns their flat. Don't phone us, phone the managing agent. But instead of saying that, I bark something like "I.SAID.NO.NOT.INTERESTED." What's happening to me? Someone please give me some business please, it's in society's best interests.

And then there's the recruitment consultants (and their associated agencies). My wrath cannot be contained in this posting. I am, in my head, compiling a special posting for you horned devils which I will unleash in due course. (Except Richard O, I like him.)

Disturbed much?

Does anyone else, anyone at all, find this sexy lady bunny disturbing? I said 'sexy' and 'bunny' in the same sentence. Tell me I am not alone here: disturbing.

I found these and liked them

1. Fuck you, Penguin. Laughed out loud. Poverty-induced hysteria? Maybe. Don't let this confuse you: I am in no way a fan of cute animals/cute animal blogs. This is just funny, simples....

.....which leads me nicely to the next one:


2. I have always appreciated the Meerkat and this made me smile indulgently. (Thanks to Peter the Great, because I nicked it from his blog.)

Why does it have to be so difficult?

Foraying into the field of service provision, I now have a well-formed view of "what it should be like" to give good customer service. It's not hard, it really isn't. Why then have I spent the past two days "dealing" with an Internet service provider? Tiscali, let's make it clear.

Having blown off BT for abominable customer service, I gave Tiscali a chance. (If I am to be entirely honest, I wanted to give Virgin Media a chance but they don't "service" our area). Nevertheless, lessons learned from BT made me wiser and more assertive about my extraordinarily reasonable service provision expectations. On the phone to the Tiscali Sales - a promptly answered call - I felt that I had all bases covered.

"Can I please put My Boyfriend, whom I live with and who uses the service, as a named person so that should there be any faults or queries, he is also able to phone you directly."
"Absolutely!" came the reply. "Why don't I just go ahead and take his information down for our records?"

Wonderful.

You can see it coming, can't you? The day dawns, a Tuesday, when My Boyfriend has to make that call. He got as far as: "We'll need to send an engineer out to your house." Excellent, he says, please do. "Erm, well, actually, I can't take that instruction from you." You what? "Erm, data protection (voice becomes muffled) so you are erm, not authorised."

I won't bore you with the rest, although I feel I should: as a warning. It's taken two of us, two days talking to four different people, to send someone between 11 and 1 p.m. They have yet to arrive. Time of posting: 2.15 p.m.

Do you recommend Sky? Are they good?

Overheard

On the tube. Girl, probably 23 or 24 years old, says to boy, probably 19 or 20 years old:

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend."

Boy nods sadly, "She died on her birthday."

"That's a bit shit. But, hey, at least her parents will only have one day of the year to feel sad."

Verbatim.

Things I like: Flings

Not of the 'brief casual relationship kind' but of the 'baked not fried' kind.

They're from South Africa, made from maize (corn) and taste wonderous.

My Loved One says they taste like Wotsits.

They do not.

Rodchenko and Popova at the Tate

This is what the blurb says:

"This exhibition explores work by two of Russia's most influential avant-garde artists, Alexandr Rodchenko and Liubov Popova. Charting their evolution from abstract painting to graphic designs, the show includes cinema and theatre poster designs, books and costumes as well as paintings and sculpture. "



This is what I said (standing in front of a Liubov Popova fabric design):

"I like this one."

My Loved One rolled his eyes and walked away. Such an expression of personal taste without any explanation is apparently uninteresting, I later learned.


Rodchenko & Popova: Defining Constructivism

Unexpected item in the bagging area

A little more than a year ago, I wrote with some fervour about a style of speed-dating that encouraged a 3-minute rant, as opposed to the style which involves pouting and syrupy tones. You can read it here. I have something to add. Not about speed-dating, rather about things to rant about.

Have you ever used the self-service scanners at Tesco? Great idea! A few items to buy and no queue, or not a very long one if there is. Some may say that it's robbing a British worker of a British job...but is it? I ask, because about 9 times out of 10, I have a forced interaction with a Tesco-uniformed individual whilst using the "self-service" scanners. At any point, from arrival at the scanner - before any button pressing or bag rustling begins - through to removing my paid for lentil and bacon soup and triangle seed roll, bagged or not, I am affronted by that voice, that voice! "Unexpected item in the bagging area." No there is not, no there bloody is not. I haven't even started, and if I have, and I've finished and paid: no there bloody is not! I did not surreptitiously add a packet of nuts or bottle of Lightly Sparkling mineral water to my stash. I just didn't. But apparently that disembodied lady has a different view. Did your coat brush against the bagging area? "Unexpected item". Did you open that difficult-to-open bag a little too vigorously? "Unexpected item". So I wait for the Tesco-appointed, Tesco-uniformed investigator to come over and ensure that there isn't a cheeky chocolate bar smuggled into the bag; that there isn't a packet of condoms nestled between my Strawberry Muller Light yogurt and Royal Gala apple. I wait for them to identify themselves to the accuser by scanning their tags to say Hey, it's OK, I'm from Tesco, and EVERYTHING IS OK. There is no thievery going on over here. Here, let me enter my special code so that our valued customer can be on there way with their PAID FOR items.

Come on Tesco, is there something else you could be too sensitive about? Perhaps the chickens?

Songs with the word "dance"

Or any variation of "dance". This is what happens when you can't sleep and the person next to you has an equally competitive spirit coupled with a reasonably populated mental song-database.

The rules:

• name the song, and the artist and SING the referenced line
• no long pauses
• no obscure songs "that you have downloaded from MySpace" (unless it's a shared reference)
• Praising one's opponent is appropriate for most excellent quotes

Dancing in the Dark (Bruce Springsteen): "You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark, this gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark."
Le Freak (Chic): "Have you heard about the new dance craze, listen to us, I'm sure you'll be amazed."
Dancing on the Ceiling (Lionel Richie): "Oh, what a feeling! When were dancing on the ceiling!"
Private Dancer (Tina Turner):"I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money, I'll do what you want me to do, I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money, any old music will do."
Tiny Dancer (Elton John): "Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the highway."
I Don't Feel Like Dancing (Scissor Sisters): "Don't feel like dancin', dancin', even if I find nothin' better to do, don't feel like dancin', dancin', why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?"
Flashdance - What a Feeling (Irene Cara): "Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life."
Careless Whisper (George Michael): "Never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rythym..."
Dancing in the Street (Rolling Stones): "Summer's here and the time is right, for dancing in the streets."
Dancing in Heaven (Q-Feel): "Dancing in heaven, I never thought I could get my feet this far..."
You Should Be Dancing (Bee Gees): "What you doing on your back, aah? You should be dancing, yeah, dancing, yeah."
I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Whitney Houston): "Oh I wanna dance with somebody, I wanna feel the heat with somebody, yeah I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me."
Cheek to Cheek (Frank Sinatra): "And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak, and I seem to find the happiness I seek when were out together dancing cheek to cheek."
Let's Dance (David Bowie): "Let's dance put on your red shoes, and dance the blues."
I Can't Dance (Genesis): "I can't dance, I can't talk, only thing about me is the way I walk. I can't dance, I can't sing, I'm just standing here selling everything."
Square Dance (Eminem):"Y'all c'mon now, let's all get on down, lets do-si-do now, we gon' have a good ol' time. Don't be scared, cus there ain't nuttin' to worry 'bout, let your hair down, and square dance with me!"
I Don't Wanna Dance (Eddie Grant): "I don't wanna dance, dance with you baby no more, I'll never do something to hurt you, though oh but the feeling is bad, the feeling is bad."

The winner? An obscure song downloaded from MySpace.
Dance Like Ordinary People (Hella Cholla):"You just don't dance like ordinary people, but neither do I."

http://www.myspace.com/hellacholla

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.