85. New year nuisance

Maybe it was a long year of little sleep, little minded neighbours and little jeans that no longer fit.

Maybe it was returning home for the break to spend the wrong side of midnight in a bed made for two drinking double gin and tonics and eyeballing the very boxes I'd packed when I had to move out of the ex boys. Like some modern day Miss Haversham falling asleep surrounded by books and candles and trinket boxes that had lined our shelves and cluttered our surfaces.

Maybe it was the thought of counting down to midnight surrounded by beautiful married friends with their beautiful babies while guys are presented like little ted baker wrapped gifts "look Laura, he's male and might fancy you." My wild moggy used to bring me dead field mice in very much the same fashion and like those nibbled bodies they are quite cute to look at but you most definitely don't want one running about your living room.

Regardless, it came as no real surprise to the rest of my conscience being when I woke up to find that a large part of me had decided that, actually, I don't want to celebrate this year. Even less so if it involves spending £50 for entry privilege.

2012 has to be my year, Christ please can it be my year? I'll take the charming attractive boys, the gin benders, the seemingly endless wefts of other peoples hair strapped to my own of the year just gone but please god can I leave the heart ache, the split ends and the super sized thighs at precisely ten to midnight?

There have been highs, obviously, I finally got the job I'd wanted since leaving uni, I graduated a mark away from a first, I taught mum to use the app store, I run my own flat in London and I learned to handle a drink. Sort of anyway.

But I can't celebrate a year where I've ruined more than 2 sets of pillow cases with mascara stained tears, where red bull suddenly became a reasonable meal replacement, where everyone seemed to hook up and settle down while we bickered and split. My teeth are worn and my jaw is sore from the constant gritting, smiling at other peoples wonderful fortune while I'm the one with a bipolar boiler and someone's armpit spread across my face in the morning commute.

I can't celebrate a year where I've spent the last week of it with the top button of my jeans undone - to shovel more food in or to make room for the food I've already shovelled? I can't decide.

I can't celebrate a year but I can prepare for a new one. Endless plans, I'm going to join a yoga class, get my hair highlighted, I'm going to start accepting dates, recycle my bottles once a week rather than once a year, I want to really get stuck in to my career, I'm going to blog 3 times a week, cleanse tone moisturise, I'm going to lose so much weight, I'm not going to sweat the little things anymore, I'll set my alarm half an hour earlier than I do now, I'll learn to cope with the pain of a good wax, I'm going to take better care of myself, learn to cook, pick up a language, stop being so bloody moody, start writing that book I've always thought about, read a book a week, stop buying lunch every single day.

I can't celebrate this year but you sure as hell watch this space next year ...

84. Merry Christmas

After months of planning, 2 weeks of content written in an afternoon, 3 hours on a coach, 6 1/2 rolls of gift wrap, one almighty sibling row, 8 roast potatoes, 3 ipads and enough gin and tonics to bring on mild liver failure Christmas has finished. I was spoiled ridiculous amounts by the rentals ( hello shiny new ipad 2 )but have to say its the lure of roast turkey and some decent time with the family that really appeals at this time of year. Two days left before I have to be back in the office - boo- I may even be counting down to next Christmas already... Hope you all had a fab one x

83. Midweek Musings

1. Tomorrow is my last working day before I break up for Christmas, amazing, I'll be home at 10 tomorrow evening and I actually cannot wait

2. Coach travel with a weeks worth of luggage and presents, however, is going to be a nightmare. I have so many bags I'm going to look like a shit grumpy real life game of buckeroo

3. As of December 21st my total mince pie count is still zero

4. And I still haven't had a festive pash

5. I'm more gutted about the mince pie I think

6. I woke up at 7.56 this morning and still left the house before 8. That's less than 4 minutes, people take longer on the loo for gods sake. I had to do my makeup at my desk and halfway into work I suddenly panicked that maybe I hadn't put a skirt on after all (I had don't worry) but I'm quite impressed with my epic morning dash

7. The office foyer smells like christmas trees and it's quite possibly my favourite scent in the world. In case you couldn't guess I am finally feeling incredibly festive and excitable and irritating. Like a thinner Louis Walsh on x factor final night, Christmas you put it DOWN

8. I have a LOT of love for the bloggers I've been working with this year, both on my blog here and through work, I keep having to stop myself replying to emails saying I LOVE YOU BE MY FRIEND BE MY FRIEND IN REAL LIFE. I haven't done it

9. Yet.

10. It's not even 9.30 and I'm in bed, these wild 20s are a killer.

82. It's a date

Dating disasters, such a cliché right? 

It was banter with the fabulous Jai'me (read his epic fashion Blog and drool in envy here) that suddenly sparked inspiration I mean, no one can really have that many horrific dinner a deux, no one really spends an entire evening texting every contact in their phone book begging , pleading, offering real cash amounts for someone to ring with a sudden emergency excusing you from the one on one you’ve found yourself in. Seriously, no one really refuses to date for nearly an entire year for fear of this happening all over again....Right? 

My name’s Laura and I don’t like dating. I like the idea of dating sure, he turns up looking handsome with a bunch of roses, pays for dinner, showers you with compliments and makes sure you get home safely. In real life I’ve been lucky if he still remembers my name by the end of the evening – no really Lauren has cropped up twice. TWICE. 

Standard date etiquette – and I’m knocking feminism back several hundred years – is that the gent generally pays, right? Now ladies he may be expecting a kiss for his efforts, that’s fine but by no means is it acceptable for him to pause mid-order and ask in not so many words if it will be worth his while before cancelling cocktails when you reply, actually that no. No it will not.

I once went on a date where he ordered drinks for me and a full food platter for himself (I would share but you know, I don’t like having lots of people touching my food) I sat in silence while he ate (Look I am sorry I just don’t like talking while I’m eating) awkward. 

There’s the date where someone brings up a sensitive subject, generally at the beginning of a car journey where you have to sit in awkward angry silence for around 20 minutes. Fox hunting, losing weight, how much you earn. You don’t even pretend you’re not fuming and consider running him over “by accident” the minute he steps out the car.

Then there’s the date you don’t realise is a date until it’s far too late in the evening to back out. My favourite. You know the kind, one minute you’re on your way for a friendly bite and before you know it you’re at a candle lit meal for two and god is he really gazing into my eyes what am I supposed to do when it’s time to go home I wish I hadn’t worn this fucking low cut top how did I not see this was a date?!?   

What about the “nearly is a date”. That awkward moment when a (much) older (very, very much so) co-worker asks you out. You should have seen this ambush coming, why is everyone  just watching your pain from the other side of the bar?? Those awkward “dates” where you can’t say no because, well, that would be rude and he works on the next desk to yours after all. Fobbing him off with your work email – mobile telephone? Nope not got one of those sorry – and then avoiding in the lift is a must or you’ll find yourself actually full filling a night of pain. Trust me, it will be the most painful night of your life and everyone in the office will know about it before you’ve even switched your lappy on the next morning. 

The guy who seems to tick all boxes, he invited you over for a chilled night in and he’s going to cook. You wrap up snugly buggly and head over to find that by half 9 he’s got his eyes on Crazy Larrys and you’re forced into a club in UGG boots surrounded by beautiful glamazons you’re not even wearing mascara and feeling like the ugliest duckling in the room. He buys a girl at the next table a drink and you have to pretend you haven’t noticed.   

There was the time a guy sang “fat bottomed girls” at me, yes I have a bigger bum THANKS. The guy who was in a “family situation” aka he was married, the guy who spent the entire evening trying to take my photo (while I wasn’t looking!) and the guy who said I was nice. Nice in an average kind of way. 

Is it any wonder I refuse flat out to dip my toes in the dating pool?

And that’s where you find me now, holding off before I’m hooking up? TBC

81. For tonight

Source

80. Midweek musings

1. Despite planning for Christmas for all my clients since august, despite nearly a year of promising to do it all in September, despite several free weekends I still have only managed Christmas shopping in the form of one half bag from hmv. This weekend is going to be manic. Fab.

2. I haven't eaten a single mince pie ....

3. ... And I haven't been ravaged under some mistletoe

4. It's rubbish. Sort it out Santa

5. Tomorrows my TOWIE themed work party, yes really. Tanning kicks off at 5.35 sharp and I think I finally have a dress to wear. Dear thighs please tone up over night because I'm going to look le poo enough as it is next to my coworkers without you two making an appearance. Deal? Yes?? YES???

6. Typical that the first time in months I have something all over my chest and it's not a handsome man it's a cold. I really am lush right now, if snotty chic is your thing.

7. Am I the only one who didn't enjoy my big fat gypsy Christmas wedding? Have I been cured of my awful choice in reality tv, do I finally have a conscience in regards to this poor attempt at a social snapshot, can I finally see through channel 4, it's not educational it's mocking and cruel? In short no, once you've seen one big frock you've seen them all right?

8. What would Patsy do is now my life mantra and if it'd not sparkling or snortable I just won't bother with it.... Oh if only, in short I am just thrilled at the new AbFab coming back to tv

9. Caroline Flack, we'd all do the same. Harry definitely gets it. (sorry mum)

10. I don't kick men when they're down i prefer to do it as they're getting off the tube. That's right, push into me and feel my wrath. Merry Christmas here's a bruise.

79. Travel Trauma

In case you hadn’t heard, the tube and the trauma that is public transport is not for me. I will sit, ok stand, I mean squash my way on the Victoria line twice a day for the most treacherous 12 minutes of my day but don’t think I’m happy about it. Don’t believe me? Read here. 

Ok so I can accept nightmare tubes are a given, however give me a time of arrival and a train ticket to anywhere more than 4.6 miles outside of London and you’ve opened a whole new can of worms altogether. Let me set the scene, an afternoon off work to catch a train home. You’ve left plenty of time to get to Paddington, pick up a Tatler, a coffee and a bag of crispe de potato and get yourself seated, right?

Leave work, the hideous arthritis is playing up because of the bitter cold and you’re wearing your dad’s socks underneath your new heeled boots but you’re tottering on. Steps? You’ll take those slower but you’re at the platform already. 

The tube arrives fairly swiftly, one stop, two stops, four whole stops later you realise you’ve left your overnight bag in the office. Return to start but do not pass go and do not collect £200. Collect said bag but only after you’ve realised your feet really do quite hurt afterall and had to haul yourself across Euston road through busy lunchtime traffic, one step after the other Laura you can do this. The wind has picked up, extensions are flying, your skirt is somewhere up round your waist, no one’s looking Laura, it’s fiiine. 

7 floors up, yes the lift is going to stop at every single floor, smile, breathe, smile, collect bag. Totter out. By this point you’re not even sure you can feel your toes afterall, you catch sight of your face in the lift mirror. Shit. Flushed is fine, flushed is good, you look healthy. You walk briskly run to the tube which this time isn’t arriving so swiftly afterall.

Finally you’re at Paddington, time to collect tickets which involves entering, re-entering twice and finally asking for assistance in finding the bloody confirmation number. You have less than 4 minutes left, WH Smiths has a geriatric working the tills and you’re not even slightly embarrassed when people give you a “be more patient woman” look as you slam your Tatler (oh alright and Best and Reveal) back on the shelf and start running to platform 10. 

Magazines and snacks boycotted you stumble onto the train at last. Sinking into your seat you realise, quite frankly, that you’re a mess. A hot, sweating, looks like she’s just escaped from Holloway mess. A top up of foundation and a spritz of perfume should help. No? Spray some more. You use half a bottle of perfume before you’re feeling fresher again. Ipod on you have exactly 42% battery life left and nearly 3 hours of travelling to fill but you’ve made it.

At 7am the next day you begin the return journey, you’ve left plenty of time...