the dribble

May 27, 2009 at 11:06 pm (Uncategorized)

You’re talking to your boss, you’re enjoying a fancy meal, you’re talking jovially to your esteemed comrades in a hip bijoux bar on the shady side of town, you’re dancing the night away in kitten heels in a glittering ballroom, you’re giving a leture to a hall full of enraptured students, hanging on your every word- you’re doing anything- and that is anything, other than scrabbling around at the bottom of your bag looking for a crumpled bit of toilet roll to soak up “the dribble”.

To gents, this might mean something different but to me, being a lady I am talking about the little dribble from the nostril that seems to strike with pinpoint accurracy, at a time when it is least appropriate (see any of the scenarios above).

I do not have a cold, I am not ill, I do not suffer from hayfever but yet randomly a little nose dribble will make its deathly presence felt in the least appropriate of social engangements. A sudden change of temperature will also anger a nostril demon it seems, so they usually see fit to do their dastardly work then. It will not happen for months (these demons seems to take holidays) and then BANG you have a hot date/important meeting/an appointment when one has to look suitably dashing and hey presto, I want a tissue more than a chilled martini.


I wonder if I suffer alone with this targeted nostril affliction? For if I suffer alone, I will at least suffer in silence no more.

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Small brown thing

May 17, 2009 at 10:09 pm (Uncategorized)

Today I ate a tin of vegetarian ravioli (Branstons). Disgusting, I know, I had crumpets on the side too.

What perturbed me was what kind of vegetable can me made into a brown lump with the consistency of iron filings.

It was nice though- it made me feel dirty….I cradled the bowl like a dying bird and slipped away upstairs so that my housemates wouldn’t see my bastardization of dinner as we know it.

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A modern day whodunnit

May 17, 2009 at 9:55 pm (Uncategorized)

Picture the scene:

You’re on the bus. Not just any bus, but the 176 to Penge, it’s about 5.30. The bus is busy, so busy in fact that you are forced to stand it the aisle near the luggage rack with the arm rail digging into the small of your spine. It’s hot, it’s sweaty, but worst of all, somebody smells of…….wee.

Who is it?

Is it the suited and booted gentlemen either side of me? Surely not, if the’ve managed to get themselves dressed like that this morning, then surely they can aim.

Is it the muslim lady standing in front of me against the luggage rack? No, she’s ruffling her nose up and muttering something (presumably about the stench) to her mother sitting in the priory seat. Her surveyance of the bus passengers lead me to believe that she is not the culprit. She also uses part of her veil to cover her nose (which could indicate that maybe she is used to this sort of thing but more than likely it’s just a handy trick of the burka)

The young hoodie with the headphones on? No, a closer subltle sniff reveals only the faint traces of lynx and clearasil.

Who then? My eyes fall on an old gentleman. He looks very clean and not really the type to douse himself in his own urine but perhaps if your eyes are not what they were then..maybe.

So that leaves nobody, well nobody as the obvious culprit. No tramps, no weeing toddlers, no drunks, it’s not even a nightbus where you sit in a damp patch on the backseat. We are all none the wiser, the bus rumbles on with its noxious smell intact and the culprit in our midst. The muslim woman sniffs into her burka, I try to hold my breath without turning blue, the businessman shuffle uncomfortably and the hooded youth picks his acne.



My stop.

I shuffle past the smell-afflicted passengers.


Excuse me, did you just sniff me?

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Who’s sorry now…..

August 8, 2008 at 3:14 pm (Uncategorized) (, )

Did anybody else rock up to work in flipflops and a vest…or is it just me?

Oh- it looks like it IS just me. The entire office is dressed appropriately, whilst I flip flop around like the a ex-beach volleyball player on a fat day.

if my colleagues were not already blinded by the white mass of be-vested naked skin coming towards them;  then they would almost certainly have heard me.  Now the whole office knows my shame;  the ‘slap slap’ that sounds something like a kinky elephant’s spanking party, is in fact, me. I didn’t realise flip flops and nylon carpet tiles could make so much noise, as I scuttle to the ladies.

The weather has gone sub-zero on my portly behind and I have fallen prey to the soft lull of the morning sun and a belligerent attitude ( it IS summer so I will dress summery). I will smile sweetly as a colleague cranks up the air-con, yelling “it’s really ‘close’ in here- phew” and I will then know the pain of the freezing gusts, from the vent above my desk.


I am a fool and must pay for my crimes.


What an arse...

What an arse...

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French Women Do it in Heels

August 7, 2008 at 11:18 am (Uncategorized) ()

Tu regardes ici; it’s rush hour, you have ten minutes to get to work and it’s an 11 minute walk. So what do you do? Yes, you do what every business suited woman in London seems to do; slap on a grisly pair of trainers and power walk your way to work- swift elbow to the face of any hapless pedestrian that crosses your path. I’m on a mission, move it- or feel my handbag leather chafe your vitals as I swish by. Who cares if my white, cushioned sole, go-faster-striped running shoes blare like beacons against my charcoal grey pinstripes- I’m virtuous, I’m saving the Earth; and I’m walking, dammit.

Now, I wouldn’t deny that this is an effective, practical and effective method of getting to and from work.  I would even go so far as to suggest that one’s green credentials may rise above the usual ‘bad person’ rating to the ‘nearly ok’ in doing so. However, whilst gently thumbing the pages of any execrable womens’ magazine (usually any which one that has an exclamation mark in the title ‘NOW!” “YES!” “TRIPE!” and features Kerry McFadden’s latest ‘diet’ of burgers and McCain’s smiley potato faces), you will see not a single incident of the worldly and the famous, donning training footwear with their tastefully expensive suit; oh no.

This, my fellow women, is a fashion faux pas it seems.

So with this in mind, I ask you to look to our continental cousins. Where if eating pastry for breakfast everyday and still managing to say impossibly slim, is not enough to gain my respect, then consider this:

The Vélib: Paris’ newest craze, a rent-a-bicycle that you pay for by the mile/day and also, as it happens, a very nifty way to get to work. Aha! cackles the English woman- at last, a level playing field where the natural glamour of the French woman shall be eclipsed by the need for practically. Cue a wry smile and joke about armpits avec foliage.

Yes, for once on the glamour stakes, we would be equals, sisters in arms; forced to relinquish our natural style and panache and bow to the greater practically. Hold aloft the sweaty trainer and worship.

I was safe and happy with this thought, until I actually went to Paris and saw the horrible scene for myself:



Riding to work:

IN HEELS: Big heels, dainty heels, 6 inch stilettos, kitten heels…

But that is not all: full warpaint (makeup, to the uninitiated) with long, flowing skirts (not a bicycle clip in sight), hair flowing perfectly backwards as they rode along (and not upwards and hedge-like) and they all looked perfectly unruffled, despite travelling at considerable speed.

I rest my case.

English: Sturdy, dependable, practical

French: cheese-eating, surrender monk… ok ok, glamorous and  know a thing or two about style.

Put it away, youre annoying me

Put it away, you're annoying me

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