Unexpected Item In The Bagging Area

So, boyfriend. Which is why I've been quiet for a few weeks. Partly cos I didn't want to say anything to jinx it, and partly cos... well, the number of opportunities for truly disastrous temporary cupboard husbands decreases rapidly when you're dating the same man.

Don't worry, though. Given my track record I'll find some truly appalling way to torpedo it by Tuesday. I bloody hope not, however.

Worrying fact: The cat likes him. This means they're probably conspiring together already.

Anyway, back tomorrow with more silly stories.

Things continue

Overall "Rather Marvellous Really". There's a couple of things I could do without at the moment (mind you have discovered that filleting your gmail may not solve a problem, but does hide it like an unopened bank statement). That's more than balanced by there being a lot of lovely things going on. Which sounds both cryptic and inane. 's'mylife.

Last night featured Unexpected Clubbing. Really we just ended up in the Black Cap. Apparently, it is becoming the new Joiner's Arms. This is probably a great surprise to everyone, not least the Black Cap. It's like a gay bar stuck in the 90s, which is probably the appeal for the Hoxmosexuals, but really.... it's like they're re-running the same club nights over and over again. Even the acts are the same, note for note, from when I last saw them in 2002. It's a bit sad, really. I remember the Black Cap as being a brilliantly unpretentious giggle. Now it's a slightly shabby mess. Will the arrival of a lot of men with interesting glasses and expensive gingham revitalise it? Really?

The security staff are still brilliant. One sidled up to the world's most obvious dealer last night. "Do you really want to stand there, mate? It's just you're in full view of the CCTV. Why not nip to the loo, eh?".

Staggering home through Camden at late o'clock was an obstacle course of swearing, flying bottles, vomit and  girls pulling each other's hair. We picked a mock-fight with each other. As Ben said, "it's like when they try and escape by covering themselves with rotting meat in The Walking Dead..."

Late last night

I dropped round to see the students next door, who appeared to have moved their flat. I needed to talk to them about fireworks and trifle.

"Oh, it's you!" they said. "Come in, come in! We keep meaning to say how much we like your work. No, really we do. Excuse the mess, we're off out clubbing, which is why we're all ironing topless..."

And then I woke up.

Curious

Couple of weeks. Not in a bad way. I'm busy, but in the same way that I tidy the flat, in that I'll find myself in the kitchen thinking "now what was I doing?" and just make myself a cup-a-soup instead.

Things I've discovered about being a freelancer - you can never have enough teaspoons.

In other news, it's a month since I gave up smoking. My friend Joe was my last smoking friend and he gave up in June, which left me feeling like that nice lady at the end of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers (there is a lovely Garrison Keillor story about the last smoker in America called End of the Trail. That). There are good sides to it all. The suddenly needed a lot less sleep is one. The feeling better in the mornings. The looking younger (and, for complicated reasons, I desperately need to look as young as possible at the moment). But...

Oh, it's not fun. According to my nice little card, it's supposed to get better right now. Well, about a week ago. In fact, no, not so much.

I went to see Joe's hypnotist. Which worked really well.  There have been only two problems. One is that if I feel a craving I am supposed to look at the colour red. My worst craving came at 7am one morning jogging round Loch Lomond. This was Loch Lomond. There was no red. Just a variety of lovely greys. It took a mile before I found a post box and hugged it. This is not good behaviour.

Then there was my one lapse. Hypnolady banned me from watching television as that's where I did most of my smoking. Instead, I've spent the last month curled up in bed with cheap wine and a bad book. Oh, and a block of cheese (one of the benefits of being mildly lactose intolerant is that helps me go to sleep. Or pass out. Or whatever. Who cares so long as I get through another day without smoking?).

There was of course, one exception. One night when I thought "fuck it, let's watch telly". Ten cigarettes later I went to bed miserable, and the next day had one of Those Hangovers. You remember those teenage hangovers about which you say "and to this day I have NEVER drunk Taboo or Mirage again"? One of those hangovers.

So that's it really. Lots of work. Lots of sleep. Lots of cheese.