“When ideas fail, words come in very handy” …

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, one of the most rewarding things I’ve gotten from this whole blogging malarkey is the friendship.

I worked for a while in the Housing Department of the Local Authority, it was by far the most challenging and traumatic job I’ve ever had. It was renowned for being the section of the Council nobody wanted to work in. It was overworked, understaffed, battered by internal and external politics and just plain manic; although the area is predominantly a retirement haven and full of second-home Londoners it naturally has its poorer patches. Council estates sullenly squat between the holiday homes and listed buildings and with issues such as teenage pregnancy and the number of immigrant workers already on the increase there was simply more demand than supply. Poverty and poor housing have always made excellent, if somewhat miserable, bedfellows and as a consequence there were a lot of frustrated, unhappy people to try and help and unfortunately you literally received abuse on an hourly basis, eight hours a day, five days a week. My colleagues and I were sworn at, screamed at, spat at and, on occasion, even physically assaulted. I hated it and I knew I wouldn’t stay. I had started to dislike humans as a race and I wasn’t comfortable with that, because that’s not who I am. I’m a people-watcher by nature, I always have been. People genuinely interest me, I like to think I’m fairly compassionate and find real pleasure in the smallest of quirks or peccadilloes in others. But by the time I left the Council my opinion of people in general had sunk to an all-time low.

Rediscovering a fondness for my fellow man after some of the things I witnessed and was exposed to during that time was no quick or easy task. Even today, some years later, I am still reluctant to answer a phone if I don’t know who’s calling and I will cross the street to avoid large, angry-looking women in leggings and flip flops. But to be fair, so would most people.

I don’t tend to make new friends easily, I can be rather shy and find talking to strangers a bit of a challenge, plus, if I’m honest, I’ve always had my faithful band of cronies who I’ve known for years and am comfortable with and therefore never really seen a need to make new ones.

So it has come as something of a pleasant surprise to me to have found and made friends online. It has also (almost) fully reaffirmed my faith in mankind. I know I may not have met them in real life, and possibly never will, but I’m starting to realise that friendship can exist on many levels and all levels are valid and valuable. I can get as much pleasure from seeing one of my blogchum’s names pop-up in my inbox as I do from bumping unexpectedly into a friend in town. The emails I get are full of humour, interesting conversation, advice and support and I can enjoy them without even having to worry about whether I’ve brushed my hair that day or whether my socks match.

And I have to say that I’ve truly been touched these last few months by my friend’s concern and kind words of support. I’ve only told a handful of my closest blogchums about the full extent of my health problems, but all them have been superb and encouraged me, each in their own unique way, in my recovery.

They are a wonderfully varied bunch of people from around the world and I can’t help but think that under no other circumstances (unless I was some kind of wealthy nomad with a bad case of wanderlust … or maybe Alan Whicker) would I have been fortunate enough to have found all these different folk. Through blogging I’ve been able to interact with all kinds of people and get glimpses into their lives and their minds. I’ve discussed books, politics, fashion, cats and the potential live showmanship of Stephen Hawking, amongst other things.

Most recently I was asked the following by one of said chums:

“If, hypothetically, you were asked what you think of the following flavors, what would you say?

Hypothetical Chocolate
Hypothetical Ginger
Hypothetical Cranberry
Hypothetical Marshmallow”

Now, the blogger known as wordsx3 has always been a little … out there. But that’s a good thing! It’s just one of the many reasons why I like him so much. He’s funny (although he still seems to be labouring under the delusion that he’s funnier than me, poor man) and intelligent, is always an interesting and entertaining writer (you can find his blog here if you don’t believe me), he makes chipmunks dance, he once found chocolate high heels for me on the internet, plus he sends me links (he refers to himself as Sir-Links-A-Lot) to pictures of the most drool-inducing food that he’s actually made himself! Although I do get the distinct impression that this is more a subtle method of mental torture that he takes sly delight in. Despite that, I admit that I would happily track him down and force him into marriage if there wasn’t a ruddy great ocean between us, because any man that can make you laugh and keep you well fed is a keeper in my book.

Anyway, what with him being a bit of a foodie, I didn’t bat an eye at being asked the above question … plus there had previously been mention of the possibility of a grandiose-sounding care package, and I was unscrupulously hoping to get a wheelbarrow full of chocolatey goodness, or even a chocolate wheelbarrow, I’m not fussy and am very amenable like that.

I needed about 5 seconds in which to answer … chocolate (obviously) AND marshmallow. It’s one of the all-time classic combinations as far as I’m concerned. I pinged off my reply with a happy, expectant grin and waited for my chocolate-mallow wheelbarrow to arrive.

A few days later a box was delivered for me, with enough Sellotape on it to encircle the entire globe at least twice (why do men DO that?). I knew straight away that it wasn’t my dream wheelbarrow but 20 minutes later, when I’d finally managed to remove enough of the tape to allow me to actually open the box, I was in no way disappointed.

First was a rather groovy little card with lots of well wishes and smiley faces to warm the heart cockles …

Then came a CD, made just for me. Once I’d nervously scanned it for Def Leppard tracks and heaved a sigh of relief at not finding any I was pleased as punch …

I really like this kind of thing, it has the personal touch and shows that thought has been put into the gift. It can also tell you a lot about the person giving the gift and it’s always interesting to find out another’s taste in music.

Next came an intriguing little tin, which in itself was a small treat as I love tins and decorated boxes, they’re great for keeping pens, pencils and, er, other small stuff in …

In my opinion every gift should involve tissue paper if at all possible, it invariably adds to the enjoyment of opening it (unless the gift actually IS tissue paper, then it would be too much – and a bit cheap) …

Oooh! What are these? …

Hmmm, now I’m starting to think they might be some kind of double-baked marijuana, happy-flapjack …

No wait!! Is that … chocolate! Marshmallow! Oh, sweet mother of all that is good and crumbly …

Can’t you just feel your arteries hardening in the most glorious way as you look at it? I know I did as I stuffed my fat little face with them as I watched Gilmour Girls that afternoon …

Apparently they’re called “S’mores”, which is very apt, although wordsx3 and I have discussed it and we agree that Crack Tarts™ would be even more apt …

Not wishing my beloved family members to be exposed to the possibility of a long, painful addiction I thought it best to keep them all to myself and to eat them as quickly as possible, thereby effectively removing all possible temptation. I know, a brave, generous act that even Mother Teresa herself would have wept to witness.

But that wasn’t all …

Never let it be said that wordsx3 doesn’t pay attention … or maybe he’s just come to know me rather well. Either way, I loved it, it appealed to me on so many superficial levels that there may even have been a girlish squeak or two and a little excited clapping of the hands for good measure. My mother has often muttered “Little things please little minds” with a sardonic raise of one eyebrow and a glance in my direction, maybe she’s right, but at least it’s a happy little mind.

And the glamour didn’t stop there, aaah …

And finally, came the pièce de résistance, it was swathed in bubble wrap and my sticky little fingers (I was eating the first of the Crack Tarts™ at the time) trembled with excitement as I freed it from it’s plastic, air-filled prison …

Yes indeed. A Hollywood snow-globe.

It’s ok, go ahead and take an awe-filled moment to appreciate it’s magnificence.

Not since Christmas 2003, when as part of the traditional “Old Tat Secret Santa” I found and purchased a large, day-glo comb with in-built calculator (God bless the Japanese!) for my somewhat follicley-challenged boss, have I been so enraptured with something …

Just check out that detail. I love the use of bold colours and the wobbly writing. I’ve never been to Hollywood, but I find it totally feasible that there is humungous Dalek dominating the skyline on Vine Street …

I’m not sure what that is in the brown box on the base, I think it could be body parts …

This is my absolutely favouritest (yes, I know that’s not an actual word, but it suits my purpose for now) part of all. Quite rightly a top director is being portrayed here, the globe says he’s “Hollywood Eddie” … I have no idea who that is, I was just a little disappointed that it wasn’t Roman Polanski, although I guess, what with the big killer Dalek and all the body parts they didn’t want to push the bounds of decency.

But then I looked at it more closely, and I think I know what is perhaps really being shown here … Gene Simmons is branching out as a director of Sci-Fi snuff films! Who knew! He looks very dude-ish in his shades, although I don’t quite understand why he’s only wearing one biker boot? Maybe he’s hoping to start some cool and crazy fashion trend, that would be so Gene! Although I can’t really see it catching on, except for maybe amongst the one-legged biker community.

And what’s with all the skittles lying around? Surely that’s a health hazard and potential billion dollar lawsuit just waiting to happen?

The other thing I really like about it is the realistic way they’ve gone more for a smog effect rather than the traditional snow! It’s little touches like that which make my heart sing with joy!

It was a good day. And wordsx3 is a good friend, and more pertinently a supplier of sugary treats with all the addictive power of a Class A narcotic.

I’ve already wheedled my way onto his “Christmas Cookie List”.

Life is sweet.

A few (lengthy) thoughts of the day …

As we all know, there is now a veritable buffet (I like to pronounce that “boo-fay” in the French style, rather than the more standard “buff-ay” … just because it makes me fondly think of Phoebe Buffay, who often made me laugh with her kooky inanity, and because it sounds more grandiose and you can have more fun saying it that way) of web applications and software which we can use in various ways to shun and avoid real life, human interaction to the best of our ability. I’ve tried a few of them over the past few years (I’m not a big people person), I’m initially intrigued and easily lured by hype and the “keeping up with the Jones’” phenomenon.

 

Luckily for me, and my laptop, I also bore easily, and have the attention span of a mentally deficient magpie. If said piece of software/application doesn’t stay metaphorically sparkly I soon lose interest and use the “Uninstall Program” facility unhesitatingly and without remorse. Or (as long as it’s not using up valuable disk space) I just abandon it to die, like a rabid hedgehog on the interwebs superhighway.

 

I have stuck with Windows Live though. Not because I think it’s particularly good, but because I’ve always used it, it has as much information on there as I want it to have (i.e. my name), it provides for all my pathetically limited online needs, my email is set up on it and because, frankly, I’m too lazy to change to anything else. 

 

I’ve used it for a while but, shockingly, it was only today that I noticed that Windows Live has a rather unpleasant attitude:

 

 

Apparently, the above is what you’re faced with if you try to access my Windows Live network, uninvited. Now, to be fair, it’s a little bit your own fault for even trying, because if I wanted you on my network, I would’ve invited you, wouldn’t I? But then, I never invite anybody (ha!), so don’t feel too bad. And I have to say that the whole snide and slightly aggressive tone of Windows Live is rather harsh and uncalled for, in my opinion,

 

“Kate isn’t in your network” … you just know it’s silently adding “Billy-No-Mates!” onto the end of that, with a sly, poisonous little sneer.

 

“Add Kate” … as it gives a malignant snicker, thinking “Like she’s going to add YOU! Loser!”, I imagine it sounds like Beavis or Butthead or possibly Perez Hilton

 

“This person’s network is empty (or maybe they’re keeping it private)” … it doesn’t get much crueller than this, why not just go ahead and say “Yeah, right! Keeping it private? She has soooo blocked you! You are TOTALLY uncool, she just thinks you’re a creepy stalker! Baahahahahaha”

“What’s new with Kate – Kate hasn’t done anything new lately” … so it’s not even just YOU it’s mocking! It’s ME TOO! Whilst you are trespassing in the name of nosiness and therefore warrant a bit of a telling off, I’m the fecking owner here!! And it’s giving me a whole bunch of ‘tude, like all the meanest playground bullies rolled into one nasty, spotty faced, uber-tard, who’s flicking bogies at me and chanting “YOU’VE GOT NO LIII-IFE! YOU’VE GOT NO LIII-IFE”.

 

Well I’ve got news for you Windows Live … I’m reviewing the situation, a la Fagin! A strongly worded email is on its way to poxy Bill Gates, I don’t really care whether he’s personally responsible or NOT, he LOOKS guilty, and he has PLENTY of other crap to answer for. And yes, I’m sending it via Windows Mail, so bite me! I intend to tell him exactly what I think of his e-equivalent of a wedgie, and will take great pleasure in reminding him that the first rule of thumb in any business is THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT (unless you work for the … er … Ministry of Gigantic Fibbers, or <insert political party of choice here> … or something ). I bet Gmail doesn’t pull this $hit!

 

~@~

 

I like to keep an eye on the news and regularly scan two or three websites in order to read about what’s going on in the world. One of my favourites is the Orange site, and I like it for two reasons, and two reasons only: the “Quirkies” news section, and because the way they present their news headlines often means that they leave a tantalising trail of ellipses which prompt me to make up my own endings (which, in my own mind, are infinitely more interesting and slightly more amusing than the real story):

 

 

 

 

And whilst we’re on the subject of news, I have a couple of entertainment (and I use the word ‘entertainment’ in a totally ironic sense) headlines which caught my attention:

 

 

At first I couldn’t stop laughing at the first headline … he has “warned” that he will stop releasing albums? Like we’re going to be anything but jubilant about that! All I have to say is Critics of the World Unite! Make us proud.

 

And then I saw the second headline and thought … bugger! :(

 

 

 

Of course, the news is currently dominated in England by the impending General Election, and it would be remiss of me to not mention it. I did consider providing you with some kind of informative guide to the political parties and their policies, but I’m not sure whether you are labouring under the false impression that I have some small degree of intelligence or not? If you are then I prefer to keep it that way, if you’re not then screw you you already know I’m incapable of anything that intellectual and I needn’t bother.

 

However, I do think it’s a terribly important time for our country and anybody who doesn’t exercise their right to vote is a bit of a “Silly Billy”.

 

But I would like to contribute something, maybe to help those of you who can’t quite make up your mind who to vote for and can’t be bothered to read all that dull stuff about policies, blah, blah, etc, etc.

 

First, I had intended to do a mesmerising piece on “What the party leaders’ ties say about them”, but having since perused numerous photos of the three main men in question, I realised that in fact they seem to be wearing the same three ties (pale blue tie; pale lilac tie; pale colour-that-can-only-be-described-as-anaemic-baby-poo tie … or maybe taupe?) between them and are just rotating who wears what on a daily basis.

 

So then I thought … hairstyles! Yes! Until I looked at those photos again and realised that the only statement made by any of the three ‘Do’s was … “I am a giant knob politician”. Move along. Nothing to see here.

 

So finally, I’ve focused on a common factor which I think is going to prove really pertinent and useful …

 

KISSING

 

Yep! Let us take a look at our leaders in all their puckered glory. Because after all, you can tell a lot from a person’s osculatory habits, and what’s more, politicians and kissing go together like … Sweeney Todd and a big ol’ batch of somewhat dubious tasting pies!

 

 

 

First up, we have David “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Cameron …

 

 

 

About to kiss a … puppy. (Somebody call the RSPCA! Stat!) The puppy doesn’t look that chuffed about it, does he? It’s rather – disturbing unusual to say the least, but on the plus side at least he didn’t go for that tired, old political cliché and kiss a baby! *derisive snort* Hahaha!

 

 

 

Anyway, next we have Nick “Naughty Boy” Clegg …

 

About to kiss a … ah! Ahem! Oh dear.

 

(Side note: clearly it was his turn to wear the light blue tie that day)

 

 

 

Moving swiftly onwards, least and by all means last, we have Gordo “Gissa job kiss” Brown …

 

About to snog the living daylights out of Angela Merkin, Marxist, Milky, a German lady … look at that pucker action! Yeah, baby!

 

Gordo’s really going for it now! It doesn’t look as though the German Chancellor is interested though … maybe she’s just not that into him.

 

 

So there you have it, hopefully I’ve given you food for thought … I’ll leave you now to weigh up the gentlemen’s various merits with regards to technique, originality and victim subject. As our Graham from ‘Blind date’ would say, “The decision is yours!”

 

Of course, you could just do the responsible thing, ignore all of the above nonsense, familiarise yourself with party policy and then make an informed decision about who you want to vote for … and who has the nicest tie.

 

~@~

 

Just quickly, before I go (I know, I know … my posts are way too long, but you’ve been bitching about how I should post more for months … now suck it up and zip it!) …

 

Big thanks to J.J over at The World According to J.J in L.A. for my “Sunshine Blog Award”. Apparently I bring a little ray of sunny goodness to her day, which is a lovely thing to say! … But then she hasn’t been very well, poor love, she may even have been slightly delusional due to pain and meds … so that could explain it. Anyway, glad you’re all better now, J.J! :)  I’m afraid I’m not going to play and pass it on in the time honoured tradition though, because A) I’m too lazy, and B) I’m too much of a procrastinator to decide which five of the many blogs I enjoy, bring me the most pleasure. I simply can’t do it. Just know that if your blog appears in the list to the left (“to the left”) then you are one of my little sun hunnies, and if you would like the award then feel free to take it and shine.

 

Having said that … I’m now going to shamelessly plug another blog. Because I think it’s really good and just because I can.  So if you like witty, English girls who talk about anything and everything in an amusing, self-deprecatory fashion, you should go and check out Lady of the Manor’s blog “Madwoman in the Attic”. She’s only just getting started but I can honestly say I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every one of her posts so far. But don’t take my word for it, click on the link and go see for yourself.

 

And finally, I want to say a mahoosive congratulations to #1 blogchum Trinity and his wife Diana, as they are expecting their first baby in October. I couldn’t be happier for them and I just know that little ‘Peanut’ is going to be one lucky little boy or girl. 

 

That’s all for now … have a lovely day x

In which our heroine enjoys a night of friends, hula-hoops & clichés

I had fun tonight. I wasn’t expecting to, but then isn’t that always the way?

 

As myself and two other friends have all recently turned 30 and because, for various reasons, we have been unable to get together as a group to celebrate these momentous episodes, another friend decided it was time to make the most of the nice weather and have a belated birthday, garden party (any excuse to get squiffy, really). The barbecue was duly liberated, vast quantities of meat and alcohol were purchased, invitations were issued (well, a text message was sent, stating “Party at mine. Sat. 1 May @ 6.30pm. Be there or be called a miserable b@stard”) and the best crockery, and anything else of a valuable and/or fragile nature was carefully hidden away.

 

The weather has been lovely for the last few days … except for last night, when it phissed down … and I’d spent the day watching the sun stream hazily through the window, whilst texting reassuring messages to our prospective hostess who had convinced herself that the mother of all storms was only waiting for 6.30pm before gate crashing her party.

 

Now, I don’t know what it’s like in other countries, but the English will whip off their long-johns, idiot mittens and chunky sweaters at the first glimmer of sunlight, and don their skimpiest summer outfits, consisting of many an off-white vest, Crocs, shorts which reveal a multitude of sins and crop tops which you can’t help but wish were at least 2 feet longer. It’s really quite disturbing. 

 

Anyway, I had that ages old dilemma, unique to the female of the species, i.e deciding what to wear.  

 

Here’s a picture to prove how old this fashion quandary really is: this is poor old Joan of Arc, way back in the 15th century, throwing up her arms in dismay as she wonders why she didn’t go for something more fitted (not to mention less flammable), that didn’t make her hips look the size of a chateau and better hid le bingo wings …

 

 

 

Fortunately, I’d given myself several hours to deal with said dilemma and was eventually only 30 minutes late, which I thought was rather commendable. Sashaying my way out the door in white trousers, checked strappy top, arctic fleece and sandals.

 

Yes. I said arctic fleece. I’m no dumb bunny, and though I may have been mercilessly mocked on my arrival at the party … I was to have the last, smug, WARM laugh later on.

 

But I’m jumping ahead of myself …

 

It was lovely to see everyone. We haven’t all gotten together in months and there was lots of catching up to do. Lots of congratulations on promotions and new jobs, new partners to meet (and critique), old partners to say good riddance to (and admit that we never really liked in the first place), one new car to gently mock (it’s a “Ka” and the driver is male, allegedly, and over 6’) and a boob job to avoid staring at. 

 

A fellow guest nervously pointed out a karaoke machine, that was lurking menacingly in a corner of the conservatory, I just blithely smiled (I still can’t speak very well at the moment and am therefore automatically exempt from all singing-related, group activities) and started to look forward to an evening of unmitigated derision.  I found myself a comfy sun chair with a handy, 270° view, sipped my Pimms and settled in for the ride.

 

Alas, I was not destined to be left in peace for long.

 

It turns out that the host’s sister had been visiting earlier in the day with her midgets children, who had rather unfortunately left, amongst other things, a hula-hoop.  One of the other guests, being male and therefore unconcerned by the need to achieve sartorial perfection, had arrived unfashionably early and made an impressive start on the wobbly pop. He had also discovered the hula-hoop and was busy challenging everybody to a “Hula-Hoop-Off”.

 

I sank down into my arctic fleece and prayed that it also doubled as an invisibility cloak, but the party Gods were apparently too busy doing the conga and spiking people’s drinks to notice, and sure enough, my turn came. 

 

I sat for the longest time, seeing what effect silence and a dignified yet icy stare of contempt would achieve,

 

“You got something in your eye?” was the only response I got, so with a sigh, mumbling about how people who pick on helpless invalids should have their private parts slathered with Tiger Balm, I got to my feet, took the hula-hoop, probably not very graciously, and assumed the position.

 

The time to beat was a not very impressive 2 minutes and 24 seconds.

 

I managed an equally unimpressive, but victorious (and that’s all that counts), 2 minutes and 41 seconds. Yesssssssss!

 

It was how I imagine it must feel to win gold at the Olympics … maybe for synchronised swimming or clay pigeon shooting.

 

I put my outstanding victory down to the fact that I have hips and therefore had something to better balance the hoop on. I bet Joan of Arc would’ve been ace at hula-hooping.

 

By 8.30 most of the gatherers were on their way to happy, drink-fuelled, befuddledness and the meat had reached that perfect barbecue state of being tougher than a Pirelli tyre on the outside whilst somehow managing to retain a pink, gelatinous spawning ground for E. coli in the middle. Thankful that I’d had the good sense to eat before I came out, I sat nibbling on a bagel, a secret little smile on my lips, and tried to guess which guest would get a bad case of the squits first.

 

Night soon fell and so did the temperature. My friends started to shiver in their shorts, as their fingers and toes turned an interesting shade of blue, whilst I snuggled into my sensible arctic fleece, feeling most satisfied with myself. Proud in our hardy Englishness, and since the hostess is a little bit scary had gone to a lot of trouble with fairy lights and candles, nobody dared suggest that we move the party indoors, even though it was rapidly reaching a temperature that would have had Captain Oates walking off, having first politely informed us all that he might be gone some time.  

 

Well, nobody dared that is until the hostess herself shouted the memorable words,

 

“Oh screw this! I’m freezing my tits off here and you’re all just sitting there, you bunch of bloody, amphibious freaks! Can we PLEASE go inside?”

 

And that’s how we ended up in the conservatory,  with the other guests all desperately trying to ignore the dreaded karaoke machine.

 

The poor fools didn’t stand a chance.

 

Why do people fight against singing karaoke, battle and protest with literally every shred of energy in their body, only to finally admit defeat and then elect to sing a power ballad totally beyond the vocal range of anybody, excepting maybe Mariah Carey or a howler monkey?

 

The ladies (and I use that term in the loosest sense of the word) can always be guaranteed to squeal out “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera, “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, “If I Were a Boy” by Beyonce and “Without You” by said howler monkey Mariah Carey.

 

The men prefer singularly un-rousing versions of “Creep” by Radiohead, “With or Without You” by U2, “Starlight” by Muse and … “All Out of Love” by Air Supply (!!!!).

 

It was fabulous. I’ve never come so close to doing myself a mischief of the pee kind since i was eight four. And even though I nearly coughed up a lung and spat a half chewed raspberry over my white trousers (and we all know, as sure as Oompa Loompa’s buy cheap tanning products, that by putting on anything white we are jinxing and condemning ourselves to giddy new heights of staining), it felt really good to laugh.

 

It also made me realise how much I miss being able to sing (from the safety and privacy of my own home, I hasten to add). Earlier there had been dancing, I’d had a go and elegantly jiggled along to a couple of songs, I’d even participated in an impromptu recreation of “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls (they said I could be “Posh” and therefore no singing and very little dancing was required, I just had to stand there pouting, looking sulky and useless), but I soon realised that dancing without singing is a bit like having Alphabetti Spaghetti for dinner and not using the letters to spell out rude words that make your mother give you disapproving looks throughout the rest of the meal, i.e. pointless.

 

Anyway, as we and the evening grew older and brain cells were lost forever to an onslaught of cheap booze, things started to mellow. People slouched contentedly on the squishy sofas and companionable conversation was our only means of entertainment. Things took a disgustingly deep and meaningful turn when it was decided (not by me) that we should take it in turns to reveal what we all thought we’d be doing in 15 years time. Oh God! The wet, fetid tongue of unease and panic started to lick it’s way along the edge of my earlobe as I frantically tried to think of something urbane and witty to say before it got to my turn. Meanwhile, we discovered that people saw children, big houses, glittering careers and oodles of money (seriously … Prime Minister??) in their futures, along with adultery (that did NOT go down well), trips to the jungle and … er … Dolly Parton (!).

 

Eventually, inevitably all eyes, somewhat blearily, turned in my direction, and suddenly I felt like I had somehow slipped into an episode of ‘One Tree Hill’ or ‘The OC’ or one of those other ghastly generic and clichéd US teen shows. It was truly a bizarre moment, and suddenly I wanted to cry (mainly because of the whole ‘One Tree Hill’ thing) because all I could do was shake my head and admit that I didn’t have a clue, that I honestly couldn’t see that far ahead. And because that was a little bit scary. There was an uncomfortable silence, followed by a cackle of laughter and a chorus of fond voices affectionately shouting “Loser!”, which did actually make me feel better and brought me safely back to my own little corner of the universe, where I belong. 

 

I felt comfortable again … until one of the newbie boyfriends brought out a fecking guitar (I still have no idea where he’d had that thing concealed all evening) and proceeded to strum and sing in a rather wistful, beer-soaked voice, which in itself wasn’t too much of an ordeal, but he seemed to be playing every song on my “V Sad :(“ iPod playlist, which freaked me out. By the time he started on “Nobody Knows” by Pink he was seriously messing with my mellow and I knew it was time to go. I’d had a fun night, one I’ll probably remember until Monday for a long time and I wanted nothing to spoil it.

 

I cast one last, loving look around the room at my friends: there was Claire, born to be the hostess and truly one of the most frightening women I know, but who is a human fun machine, and the only person ever to have made me laugh so hard that I squirted Cherry Coke out of my nose. Andrew and Nita, made for each other but who say they will NEVER get married because Andrew only ever wears shorts, even in deepest Winter and Nita, though a very elegant drunk, would never make it past the first congratulatory glass of champagne at the reception without sliding into the nearest corner. There was Sophie, quirky, creative, hopelessly romantic, who can’t decide whether she wants to own an old fashioned sweet shop and ride around on a bike with a basket on the handlebars, or just get married, have loads of kids, live in a big, draughty, old house and wear long skirts and a bustle. There’s Damon, who looks like he should be in Oasis and is shockingly rubbish with hula-hoops, but who always uncomplainingly fixes the stuff we break and who has had a massive crush on Sophie for as long as I can remember and makes a really poor job of hiding his despair now that she’s got a boyfriend again. There’s Samuel, sleepy-eyed, way too obsessed with football and an Arsenal supporter (aka: tosser) to boot, but who sometimes catches my eye and gives me a reassuring half-smile which makes me feel as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as clearly as though I were holding my thoughts aloft on cue cards, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ style. And finally, there’s Lorraine, who is most definitely better in small doses, who can be stroppy and obnoxious and could probably incite full-on riots in paradise, but who would also do absolutely anything for her friends if they needed her.

 

Standing there, watching these people, I was suddenly reminded of that saying “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves” and for the first time, really felt the truth of it.

 

As we’d already established, I have no idea where I’m headed, but I think I might know who’ll be keeping me company along the way.

 

I had a fun night. And I was STILL home and in bed by 11:30pm!