Life is a harsh mistress

The other night – I embarrassed myself. I blame Rum, and my parents for giving me genes that are crap at holding alcohol, and peer pressure, and the government, and the fact that shot glasses hold more that one measure of alcohol. And celebrity culture for telling me that binge drinking is cool, and the Alistair Darling for causing a recession and raising the price of food so that I didn’t eat anything before drinking.

I blame English working culture, and the many more hours that we work than other European countries, meaning that I was over tired. It was really the fault of magazines for telling me how many calories there are in alcohol, and making me feel too guilty to eat as well.

I blame the game of ‘Challenge’ and international drink rules. I blame the makers of Captain Morgan’s spiced for making it taste too good and those of Pepsi for providing the mixer. Secretly it is very much the fault of make-up companies who make lip gloss, which encourages girls to drink through a straw and therefore quicker than merely sipping out of a glass. I blame the last person who annoyed me and made me turn to alcohol as a means to drown out the pain, and those who made me laugh meaning that I forgot to pace myself.

I blame the war on terror, and the conflict in the middle east. I blame the fact that I couldn’t get tickets to the new Matthew Borne ballet that I really wanted to go and see, and that I missed seeing Wall-E at the cinemas and feel left behind in contemporary culture. I blame the fact that it was raining when I wanted it fine, and that my hair went all frizzy.

So you see boys and girls – I cannot be held accountable. Or made to clean up the next day…

I WANT ONE...

I have the mind of a three year old. If someone suggests to me that I want something – my levels of resistance are about as strong as a salt wall when it’s raining... Pouring... In the middle of hurricane Ike.

I will automatically want what the other person has ordered in a restaurant. If I have my heart set on sunshine, and someone spoke to me for 2 minutes on snow – I would be climbing into the freezer. The ice-cream I picked will just not be as good as the one the other person chose – and the less said about my choice of men the better…

But today what I really want – is a flying possum. I may have begged my boyfriend to buy me an albino hedgehog last month – but now they are as dead to me. I want the cute little bundle of fur with big eyes that can fly around your house, likes to cling onto your head and neck, and – get this – is so cute that if you leave it on its own too long is gets depressed and dies of loneliness.

I WANT ONE. I don’t care if it violates my tenancy agreement and that my housemates would hate it and then probably sit on it. I am positive that my boss would let me bring it into work during the day, so it didn’t get lonely. It could make the tea at lunch.

It's my Prom and I'll sit if I want to

Last night, feeling very cultural, patriotic and ever so slightly smug that I ‘appreciated classical music’ – I did that Bloody British thing and went to the Proms.

The excitement mounted, and I wished that I had a small flag to wave and shout hurrah – and was promptly told that I couldn’t have one as it was the wrong night and apparently waving a flag is prohibited by law on every other night of the year. I was also banned from humming Pomp and Circumstance – the meaness I hear you cry.

Then the band struck up (yes I know that it’s called an orchestra but you try to come up with something as catchy using the word orchestra – it has no timbre). They launch into the first movement and I stand and listen attentively. At first I am planted squarely on two feet – a no nonsense pose that indicates that I am doing some serious listening. Then after about 5 minutes I move onto one hip…then the other. Then I do that thing where you sort of stick one leg out, cross your arms and try and lean on one of your hip bones. As every other time I have tried to do this – it does not work and I look like I am in pain.

It is at this point that I become acutely aware I was wearing heels.

Next I pretend to lean lovingly on The Boy, while really using him as a prop to try and ensure that the least amount of pressure is spread around my feet. I try and concentrate on the music – and while the Berlin Phil may be the best orchestra in the world, the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the throbbing in my feet. The leaning on the human prop has not worked as he thought I was being affectionate and started to hold my hand, which meant that I had to stand semi-upright again. Foiled.

I look desperately around, trying to see who else is sitting down and if they are either respectable enough looking or in sufficient numbers for me to do likewise. I cannot be the one to cave in and admit that I would be much comfier sitting on the floor. Someone accidently knocks my foot with their heel – so precarious is my balance that I wobble a bit.

I admit defeat – I sit on the floor. It feels great.