Auld Lang Syne...

Happy New Year! (A bit early, I know, but I have plans to sit on my backside all evening eating sushi and watching films.) My plans with friends have fallen through but to be honest I'm not really bothered - today I am taking advantage of my new cookbooks (in particular, the one about how to make your own sushi - really looking forward to rustling up some homemade norimaki rolls) and am generally pottering about doing not much besides watch cack films, and will be singing along badly to the party tunes that are sure to grace the airwaves on every radio station across the land.

I have a feeling my sushi-hating folks may make an appearance later on, and I will be kicking out my Other Half into the street (most likely in his knocking-about-the-house shorts and t-shirt combo) just before midnight to be our first-footer, but that's about it. I quite like not having plans tonight. It doesn't feel as forced. Anyway, whatever you're doing and whoever you're with - hope you have a good one. Here's to 2009; may it bring everything you wish for.

xx

'Twas the night before Christmas...

Hello all, hope everyone had a fantabulous Christmas and Boxing Day and that Santa has been good to you. (I must say he was very good to me and brought me all manner of domestic goddessy things - cookbooks, foodie things, and a matching apron and oven glove set which is 1950s meets 1980s - black with bright multicoloured polka dots - so very me!) We've had a hectic one - visiting his folks' for Christmas lunch, mine for the evening, and all manner of family in between. Today, The Other Half and I finally caught our breath at home and did the dishes...from Christmas Eve. We appalled even ourselves. Every glass vessel in the house (including some bowls and a vase) had been utilised. Still, a good night was had by all.

It's becoming a sort-of tradition (in that this is only the second time it happened) that we play host to our friends for a bring-a-bottle-games-and-nibbles night on Christmas Eve. Last year, the old roulette wheel and casino table had an airing and the nibbles consisted of anything I could knock up from our only- recently-moved-into kitchen cupboards which were a bit bare, to say the least. Anyway, this year we had a bit more preparation time. I finished work on 23rd (until 5th Jan - whoop!) and we both spent Christmas Eve getting the house ready and rustling up some grub for 11 hungry people. (Recipes to the right and down a bit - the dolmades and canapes in particular went down a treat.)

Well, the Christmas tunes were on loop; drink flowed and the food was polished off; The Other Half spilt his thumb open on an exploded can and spent the night with a comedy cartoon-eqsue bandage adorning said digit; but the hysterics really started when game time began. We played giant pictionary in 'Win, Lose or Draw' girls-vs-boys stylee on a flip chart someone (who will remain nameless) pilfered from work, and had to contend drawing such anomalies as 'God' (you try drawing a 'concept'), 'Guam', 'Tipperary', 'Stephen Fry' and 'Vincent Van Gogh'. (Friend C who had to draw Van Gogh was very good actually - his team were just rubbish and didn't guess in time. He'd drawn the Sunflowers on an easel, and a one-eared man with a pair of scissors and everything. His team were baffled and the guesses included 'Spock' and 'Willy Wonka'. I don't have a clue why, either.)

Here's hoping next Christmas Eve is just as fun. Ideas for games on a postcard, please!

A collage completed by everyone at the end of the evening.
I can't quite remember exactly why Rudolph is being rogered
by Santa; but I'm sure there's a logical explanation.

Merry Christmas Everyone...

It's Christmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!

Hope you have a sprout-tastic day filled with mulled wine, turkey and tinsel.

xx

Bree Van De Kamp, look out...

Slap my arse and call me Judy. Actually, no - just call me Nigella, for I am a newly-appointed domestic goddess. Well, almost. (Only with a rounder backside and no suggestive spoon-licking shots for the imaginary camera in my kitchen.) Yes, pardon my self appreciation here, but the truffles for work did not turn out like little poisoned balls of evil; instead, they were rather nice and I was mightily impressed with my confectionery efforts. As were my colleagues when I handed them out. Happy days indeed.

Yum.

OK, my sister helped me with one batch (I needed 2 pairs of hands - one to roll the truffles, one to dip them in chocolate) but I'm still proud. I even survived a slightly panicky 10 minutes when I thought the white chocolate batch I was making had split in the bowl (cue lots of swearing). They hadn't. I just hadn't taken them off the heat. Panic over. So, in-keeping with my 1950s-housewife image, I have (somewhat belatedly) asked Father Christmas to kindly find the time to fill my stocking with some cookbooks so I can experiment further. I wonder what he might bring.

Even more exciting is how many more working days I have left before Christmas - only two to go! Oh yeah. Had my team Christmas lunch (not a turkey in sight - all veggie!) and the drinks after work on Friday - amusing, to say the least. I was slightly merry, and have a vague recollection of telling my friend G that she had fantastic boobs (whilst copping a feel). And I ended up in a little pub where they were playing reggae. But not just any reggae, oh no. Bad reggae versions of Christmas songs. We left in protest via the Chinese takeaway.

Humbug, Scrooge, Grinch...whatever...

Tonight I'm missing my work Christmas party. Yes, yes - I know. While it is considered to be bad form by many not to attend; in my defence, I was double booked. But before you rename me Ebeneezer - it might be the company-wide party I'm missing, but I've still got my team Christmas lunch to look forward to, and the customary drinks-after-work-on-the last-day-of-term affair. I very much doubt I'd have been missed anyway. There'll have been the same gossip as last year which I'll hear all about tomorrow - someone will have made a horrendous fashion faux-pas; someone will have kissed someone they shouldn't have; someone will have said something they definitely shouldn't have; and there'll be beautiful pasty faces, panda eyes and hangovers galore at work in the morning. And besides, I'm on a mission this week. And that mission is truffles.

In a vain attempt to save some dosh this Christmas, I decided to make all my presents for work. Last year when I was the new girl, it was sprung on me at the last minute that my team of eight all buy gifts for each other, so I had to hot-foot it into town on my lunch hour and hastily ended up making my own crackers. (Bought a couple of cracker kits and filled them with sweets and mini games. They went down well. My stress levels did not. Fighting the shopping crowds a few days before Christmas with an hour's window is not my idea of a good time.) So this year, I'm more prepared and fancy testing my culinary skills. I've been out for the ingredients, have jars and decorations a-go-go and am all set to whip up a confectionery storm. However, I have never made any such things before and sweet treats are known not to be my forte in the kitchen, so this could all go hideously wrong. If I end up with inedible chocolate golf balls that look like they were made on the Generation Game, I'll resort to Plan B: olives and herbs in oil.

And it's my last full week at work before Christmas this week - awoohoo! The little iPod is loaded with Yuletide tunes and I'm ready to sing. In my head, of course. I wouldn't subject the hungover office to the horrors of my tuneless voice. Then again...

I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas...

OK, we've had a flurry of snow (not a lot, and it didn't last very long - but enough to render half the office unable to come into work); it's cold and icy outside; our Christmas tree is standing proud and bedecked with twinkly trinkets in the newly-decorated lounge (after an ordeal and a half trying to get the damned thing to fit in its stand - neither of us had the sense to take a tape measure with us when selecting a tree - that'd be too easy); I've started the Christmas shopping (online - I can't face the shops just yet but may have to at some point) and have more festive gatherings to attend than I can shake a stick at. Christmas is here.

What could possibly make me feel even more Christmassy than I already do? Christmas films, of course! After a viewing of Home Alone today I'm all warm and fuzzy inside and hungry for more holiday cheer. So I've dug out these old favourites for more festive film fun this week:

• Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York: Essentially the same plot in each (self-explanatory if you haven't seen them - an obnoxious but cute and resourceful child being left alone by mistake over the holidays), but so so Christmassy. I want to live in Kevin McCallister's house. And fantastic seasonal soundtracks - Chuck Berry's 'Run Rudolph Run', Brenda Lee's 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree', Bobby Helms' 'Jingle Bell Rock'...they're all here.
• It's a Wonderful Life: The quintessential feel-good film, you can watch this at any time of the year to lift your spirits. James Stewart is perfect in the role of his life - suicidal family man George Bailey who is shown what life would be like had he never existed by a trainee angel named Clarence. It sounds bleak and desperate - but you'll have to watch the uplifting ending for yourself.
  
• The Muppet Christmas Carol: Just genius. The retelling of Dickens' A Christmas Carol by Kermit, Gonzo and co. Full to bursting of sing-along songs (look out for the singing vegetables in the opening number - all together now "There goes Mr. humbug, there goes Mr. Grim...if they gave a prize for being mean, the winner would be HIM!") and muppet humour, plus a camp performance of Ebeneezer Scrooge by Michael Caine.
  
• Scrooged: An underrated gem. A very 80s version of A Christmas Carol, with Bill Murray taking sarcasm to a new level as the Scrooge of the story, TV network president Frank Cross. Has a very sugary ending but I don't care - the one-liners and Carol Kane's Ghost of Christmas Present are worth it alone.
  
• The Nightmare Before Christmas: Bizarre and typically Tim Burton - Jack Skellington, the King of Halloweentown, discovers a portal to Christmas Town and takes over - kidnapping Santa and delivering his own scary presents to bewildered children. But he finds the true meaning of Christmas and sets out to make amends. Creepy and Christmassy.
  
• Gremlins: Not really a Christmas film in its theme, but set at Christmas and has a brilliant Phil Spector-Motowny soundtrack featuring Darlene Love et all. Quite gruesome in places (the death-by-kitchen-appliances scene for some of the pesky critters springs to mind) but hilarious and filled with blink-and-you-miss-them moments.
  

I'm off to snuggle up on the sofa with the cat, a blanket and some hot chocolate. Bliss. I may never go out again.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

The festive season is upon us. There's a whisper in the air about the office Christmas party; and while the group of stupid ditzes in my place of work (every office has such a group of empty-headed bints) are already whining about the lack of decent party clothes in the shops and swapping details of their latest idiotic crash diets - I'm happy to report that my diary is filling up nicely with get-togethers and drinks. Both myself and The Other Half are feeling more festive this year. Last year, we hadn't been living in our new pad for very long and were still unpacking when Christmas descended upon us - hence a hastily decorated tree was shoved up in the living room and cards were forgotten about.

In fact, both The Other Half and I have already had our first Yuletide gatherings and we're starting to feel very Christmassy. On Wednesday I had a long-overdue catch up with my two bestest gal buds from my MA - and we gossiped for a long, long time about all sorts and put the world to rights several times over. The Other Half had his official work do (he thinks there may be several Christmas lunches as well over the coming weeks)...and it was fancy dress. Cue some crazy shopping, and my good self and our friend J making a pink frilly tutu for a 6"5 bloke so he could go dressed as Ace Ventura. It worked. J's sewing skills are far superior to mine. Bizarre just doesn't sum up the sight of seeing a grown man dressed in a ballerina/Hawaiian shirt combo.

I have it on good authority that my Other Half danced like this.

Last night we headed out to stay over the new gaff of some pals - and got to meet their new dog, a five-month old Labrador named Charlie. Very cute and boisterous. Ate my shoe. And when we were unpacking and getting ready for bed, he broke into our room and ran off with The Other Half's jeans. Then socks. Then trainers. And proceeded to get his head stuck in our bag when he ran out of things to steal. This morning we all experienced something you'd rather not at this time of year - the holiday hangovers. I fear there may be many more to follow.

Really, you shouldn't have...

Well, since it's December and we're officially into Advent, I'm allowing myself to think about Christmas. Briefly. I've been avoiding all the Christmas advertising like the plague for the last month, but now I'm starting to make a mental list of things I might buy for people. It can be really hard - you want to find something that you know will be appreciated, otherwise your gift recipient will have to put their best Oscar-winning acting skills into gear on Christmas morning and feign delight over some truly terrible present.

I have had to call upon the very same skills myself on several occasions. I was always told that it's the thought that counts; but thinking back to all those heinous gifts I have received throughout the years (usually from 'well-meaning' elderly relatives, whom I have still written thank you notes for, I might add, albeit through graciously gritted teeth), I realise that this was just my parents way of placating me to write out said notes while they could have a good chuckle about it all. So, here's my run-down of all the nasty tat I have experienced that dreaded sinking feeling with as I unwrapped just what I never wanted.

The Truly Awful Christmas Gift Parade:

• Handkerchiefs. These aren't so bad, I suppose. But they always get left in their box and passed to the nearest village tombola.
• Marzipan fruits. I don't like marzipan. Nobody I know likes marzipan. I think these were donated to a neighbour who needed to decorate a cake for a Harvest Festival the following September.
• A plaque with my surname engraved on. Did this person know me at all? No.
• Grandma perfume. You just know that whoever gave you it has wrapped up an unwanted present they received themselves.
• A jar of peanuts. I kid you not. Still, they were eaten by hungry revelers on New Year's Eve.
• Vegetables. Useful, yes. But for Christmas? Really?
• Pot-pourri. Does anyone under 50 even know what its for?!
  
• A box of biscuits. Not so bad, you might think. Well, ordinarily this would have been a perfectly nice gift. Except that they'd been opened, and all the good biscuits were missing.
• Pyjamas that would fit an eight year-old. I was 16 at the time.
• A porcelain clown. I have an irrational fear of clowns (which in hindsight probably started with this awful ornament staring down at my from my bedroom shelf) and attempted several times to kill this menacing creature by throwing balled-up socks at it. I eventually broke its foot and my mother dearest finally removed him from my room.
• A brooch to clip your silk scarf in place. Delightful for your favourite Great Aunt, not so much for a child under ten. Unless said child has a thing for 1950s attire. I did not. It was the 80s.
  
• A lipstick - which had been used! It was promptly binned. Honestly, just don't bother.
  
• A book of erotic poetry. I was 13, and looking back - hope I was given it by mistake.
• Fancy-looking (but not really) soaps which always come wrapped in waxed paper and smell like the contents of a grandma's handbag - i.e. a sickly, stinky mixture of mint imperials, lavender-scented drawer liners and Yardley face rouge.
  

Good gawd. I know I must sound like an ungrateful little bugger, but sometimes it really is better to give than receive.

Sing when you're winning...

Some people should never be allowed to sing in public. This includes the majority of the damned X-Factor gang, but also Yours Truly. I just can't hold a tune - never have been able to. My sister claimed my share of any musical genes I might have had. The witch can turn her hand to almost any instrument. Even at school I was so tone-deaf that playing an instrument was something that was always going to be beyond my reach. A few chords of 'Silent Night' on the keyboard and the baseline of 'Under Pressure' was about all I could manage, sadly. I was always that kid in school ensembles who was given the tambourine or third triangle just so they had something to play. And last night proved to me that I should definitely be gagged.

Thankfully, not a picture of me singing...but equally as cat-strangling I'm sure.

I've had a couple of just-what-I-needed get-togethers with friends recently (the last was a very nice affair at the weekend with my good buds C and J - we had slightly crispy lasagna and melt-in-the-middle chocolate puds and the works) and last night was no exception. But someone should really have stopped me. It started off innocently enough - a load of us piled into my friend V's lounge playing a really good interactive quiz thing on her games console with individual buzzers everything (the excitement at having individual buzzers became too much at one point and everyone was pressing everything) - then the wine was cracked open and the karaoke game was unleashed.

At least I wasn't alone though, my murderous renditions were always as part of a duet. I just don't know why I thought it was a good idea at all, never mind three times! First up was a cat-strangling version of 'Daydream Believer' with J. She can hold a note. I cannot. The came 'California Dreaming', also with J. You'd think both of us would have learnt our lessons. Apparently not. And lastly, a festive performance of Wizzard's 'I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday' with C. Turns out even with the words on screen, I still don't know them. I didn't take the crown for most embarrassing song of the evening though, oh no. that was left to our (straight) male pals J and C, whose convincing interpretation of Sonny and Cher's 'I Got You Babe', complete with adoring gazes at one another was the vocal highlight of the night. I think wine came out of my nose.

Karaoke. An evil word indeed. Wine. And even eviller one.

Oh, that looks like a nice book...

I recently reported about my abhorrent lack of sleep. Well, it's driven me to edge. Not by the way of Class A drugs or anything - but by the way of literature. I'm absolutely devouring books. For the most part it's working - frivolous tales and the odd re-read of a Stephen King or something are helping to take my mind off things and send me off into the Land of Nod gently. Or it was working, until I picked up Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. Christ on a bike. I wasn't expecting that. Talk about devastation.

I won't give the plot away (what I'm about to tell you is in the blurb anyway), but it's about a young girl who was murdered, and she is telling her story from heaven while watching the destructive effects this has on her family as the years go by. I don't think I've ever been so completely captivated by a book. My Other Half actually woke up and came to see what was wrong as I was so inconsolable halfway through reading. I put myself to sleep with a headache from crying, I was so bad. But after discussing this little novel at work, I was glad to discover that I wasn't the only emotional wet sponge to be completely floored by this book.

And apparently, the film is due out next year. Great. I think perhaps I'll wait for the DVD to come out so at least if my face dissolves into my popcorn, it'll be in the privacy of my own front room. My friends will agree with me that none of us want a repeat of what became known as The 'Titanic' Incident. (My 15 year-old self was taken under protest to the flicks to see this crime against cinema by mates who loved Leo. While I'd love to say I wept over the shocking state of the script, I'm ashamed to admit that I sobbed so uncontrollably as the Strauss couple prepared to drown that my mascara streaked onto my t-shirt so I resembled a zebra, and a woman I didn't know came over and asked if I was alright when I started to hyperventilate.)

I've never had any poise when it comes to tears.

I can't get no sleep...

What do you do if you can't sleep? It's the worst thing ever - you're tired and know you need to nod off soon otherwise your head will be hitting your desk leaving keyboard imprints on your cheeks come 10am the next morning - but you just CAN'T. Your body is betraying you out of spite and your mind won't wind down. I've had this problem for the last few nights now. My normal pumpkin hour is between 10 and 11pm. I know that if I'm not trying to get to sleep by 11 on a school night, I'm screwed. And yet there I am, bolt upright in bed at 1,2,3 in the morning onwards with my mind whirring. And I know exactly what's keeping me awake. Work.

Was it Margaret Thatcher who said she only needed 4 hours sleep per night? Nuts to that, missus. I can't function on anything less than seven - and that's just it, I haven't been functioning. It's felt like I'm just sort of, well, existing. Gone are the reckless days of uni when I could easily manage an all-nighter writing an essay or crawl home in the small hours only to face a full day of lectures (except for the time when I'd had one too many nocturnal sessions and fell asleep with my head in my hands during a lecture - only to fall off the bench with a thud when my elbow slipped off the desk). I've tried hot drinks, caffeine-free drinks, exercising at least three hours before bedtime, music, reading, writing...but I just can't shut my eyes because I'm worrying over work.

I don't like talking about work in too much detail here (you never know who is reading and all that), but it's visibly stressing me out. So I'll try to fill you in without the particulars. You see, there's a vacancy coming up in my department which my superiors have made clear they want me to go for. Which is great. But the more I think about it, the more I know that it's not the right job for me. It's at a higher level, but the money isn't much more than what I'm on now. The money's not the main issue though. It's the role itself. I'd be taking on things I'm not ready to take on, and giving up things I fought hard to get and I'm not ready to give up. I don't want my managers to think I'm not ambitious or have desires to move on elsewhere instead, though, because I don't. I do like my job. I'm still learning things everyday. But my head is saying that opportunities in my field don't come along very often, and my heart is saying I have to think about all the peripheral politics, too, (there are several issues I'm not going to go into now) and to trust my instincts. Sigh. You can see my dilemma, I hope.

And the more I think about it, the more I don't know what to do. I hope I know soon, though. Otherwise I can feel an overdose of Ovaltine or something equally vile coming along.

Working 9 to 5...

...What a way to make a living. Dolly Parton got it so right. All taking and no giving. There are always stressful days and weeks at work and general workplace frustrations that are sent to try us. This week, my office gripes bubbled over when they collided with almighty PMS. It has not been pretty. I've been exasperated all week by things I would normally shrug off and laugh about. Things like:

• The photocopier (there was not a jam! It lied! Although I fared better than my poor colleague, who had 90-odd booklets to copy and bind and couldn't get the stupid thermal binding machine to work - 'INPUT JAM' was all it said to her - so we had a chat about what kind of jam the damned thing would like. My money was on blackcurrant.)
• My computer (it was making a funny high-pitched squealing noise - I don't profess to be a technological wizard but I do know that when a machine screams at you, it's not good. I was, however, helpfully told to look out for smoke)
• The new scary franking machine (ate my letters)
• My waste paper bin (how can a bin go missing?? And why?!)
• The man who made me a hot chocolate in the cafe. Not only did he not use enough powder, which made it taste like dishwater, but he didn't stir it properly to get rid of the lumps. Shoddy.
  
• A colleague who is so incompetent I was annoyed simply by thinking about their past acts of sheer uselessness and had to get up and run away as soon as I had an inkling they were going to come and annoy me to my face. Harsh, but true.
  
• Myself, for forgetting to charge my faithful companion - my little blue iPod. All week long I've consequently had to suffer the vocal incompetency of The Most Annoyingly Voiced Coworker Ever Bar None. Her voice makes me want to rip off my arm and ram it down her throat. And I'm not a violent person.
  

And as if that wasn't enough, someone then committed the cardinal office sin. They stole my coffee cup. Stole it! How very dare they. Ooh, I was so incensed by this thievery and desktop robbery that I made a poster and stuck it up in the office kitchen (I say kitchen, it's really a cupboard with a kettle), complete with a Googled picture of my poor cup and a reward. OK - not much of a reward (a leftover Chomp bar I found in my drawer from Halloween), but still. I reckon it's being held to ransom.

I know I sound like a bitter and twisted old crone, but hey. I'm allowed to be narked. Now shut up before I bite you.

I wish you hadn't told me that...

Today would have been a lazy Sunday - time to recover from the previous evening's escapades - had we not impulsively decided to redecorate the living room. More on that later. Anyway, I'm not recovering from last night in the alcohol sense (although there was alcohol involved, but mercifully my tongue was not loosened sufficiently by it to make a spectacle of myself), more recoiling in horror at what was disclosed to me. Things I will not repeat. Ever. Things people had no business telling me and I may well spend a lifetime trying to shake the imagery out of my head. You see, I attended a family party. Now, family parties can be civilised affairs. Admittedly, something will usually happen as most family get-togethers are celebratory situations. The drunken uncle at the wedding who insists you dance to Come on Eileen with him; the old Gran whose teeth fall out after too many sherries at the Christening; or whatever.

Last night's soiree started out civilised. Then the drinks flowed and I had nowhere to hide. It was a housewarming/birthday joint party and the first time many family members had all been in the same room for quite some time. Lots to catch up on. I just didn't expect to catch up in so much detail. I'm quite saddened that I've reached that certain age where the elders are comfortable to tell x-rated tales in front of me. I'd have preferred to remain an innocent. I don't mind hearing about a second cousin once removed who has left his wife, or the misdemeanours of another distant relative. However, the full graphic glory of said cousin's, er, marital relations and the carnal penchants of the another is something I need not know, thank you. And hearing my mother dearest and my aunt using profanities was something I was not at all prepared for. Good grief. They'd have washed my mouth out with soap had I used such language.

So, yes. Somewhat spontaneously, we've decided to decorate. And miracle of miracles, so far have agreed on everything straight up. Job one is re-hauling the lounge - painting the walls, new lamps, sofas - bells and whistles. This room was relatively untouched when we moved in, and it's high time we put our own stamp on things. We've been staring at white walls for over a year. The down side is DIY shops - soul sucking places. You may as well move into one when you're redecorating - you go to all the trouble of using paint charts and swatches and everything, get home and realise you've forgotten the brushes. I'm consequently going to be broke until about July now thanks to this home make-over, but at least my thoughts are occupied with paint colours instead of the disturbing images planted there by my kith and kin.

Gunpowder, treason and plot...

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot...

I've always found this rhyme a bit odd. Nothing happened! It was a non-event! Why do we need to remember an event that didn't happen? Guy Fawkes didn't blow up the Houses of Parliament, the King did not die, and for all we know Guy Fawkes himself might have been an innocent bystander who thought he was doing someone a favour by changing barrels of ale in a pub rather than rolling gunpowder into Parliament's cellars - and he was hung, drawn and quartered for his good will. After all, it was over 400 years ago. How do we REALLY know, eh? So, I find it strange that we celebrate by having bonfires and fireworks and burning effigies of poor Guy when nothing actually happened.

This, however, does not mean that I don't enjoy Bonfire Night, oh no. I do. I like the firework displays. And the bonfire. And sparklers. And I love the food. What I do not like, however, is really rubbish planning. Tonight, The Other Half and I set off to our local (I say local, it was 6 miles away) display in good time, all wrapped up against the cold. We drove around for 25 minutes searching for a parking space only to give up and defeated, we watched the display from an industrial estate a mile down the hill from the bonfire. Then we had the bright idea that by driving home over the hills, we'd be able to have a panoramic view of displays across the city. This would have been true if the fog on the hills wasn't so thick that we couldn't even see the road properly, never mind the horizon.

Anyway, what made it all better when we returned home, deflated, freezing and hungry, was the food. Jacket potatoes stuffed with cheese and leeks, herby sausages, and spicy onion soup. Topped off with a toffee apple and mug of hot chocolate. It doesn't get any better than that.

Trick or treat (or not)...

I'm too grumpy to write today. Not only did I fall asleep on the sofa mid-way into film three of my five-stops odyssey (Carrie. I dozed off just as Chris, Billy and gang broke into the pig pen for phase one of their stunt, and dreamt of that hideous glow-in-the-dark plastic Jesus in Carrie's closet), but not one single little person dressed in scary garb came a-calling, and this morning the awful truth dawned on me as I picked bits of popcorn and wrappers out of my hair that I'd eaten waaaaay too much Halloween chocolate and polished off a tad too much Tia Maria. Meh. I'm going to have to take the remaining sweets into work just so anyone but me can finish them.

And I'm depressed that every retailer in the world has now seemingly upped the advertising ante. Almost every commercial I've seen so far today has in some way or another related to Christmas. Whether its 'perfect gift ideas' (I wouldn't, however, call X-Factor rejects peddling more cover versions and seasonal tunes a perfect gift idea); Christmas scented air fresheners (more like pine trees and mulled wine smells, not the aroma of turkey carcass as I first thought); sofas with guaranteed before-Yule deliveries; every damned advert has had either jingly bells Christmas music or snowflake graphics and grinning idiots in Santa hats. And you just know that ALL the shops are going to be sickeningly bedecked with all their festive tat. The supermarkets have had Halloween and Christmas aisles running parallel for weeks.

It's the first day of November. NOVEMBER! We haven't even had bonfire night yet. I don't want to be made to feel guilty for not having started any Christmas shopping yet. Ooh I'm going to make something with my pumpkin remains before I throw something at the TV. Which may just happen if I hear those unmistakable strains of The Snowman or see that singing muppet, Aled flamin' Jones, presenting something inane. Hopefully whipping up a kitchen storm may remove my loathing.

It also may not.

Something wicked this way comes...

Okay, I have a bowl of mini-chocolaty things so tiny that if they weren't packaged, they'd be invisible; a carved pumpkin which may look like roadkill, but I've named him Eric and hope he's happy with my rubbish orange-scented tea light candles which actually smell more like petrol that anything citrussy; a black cat (who happens to be asleep, but never mind) and a pile of scary DVDs. I think I'm all set for Halloween. But what are these scary flicks, you may ask? (You may not be asking, of course, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) Well, some of them aren't so scary. But I class them as seasonal fun. And it wouldn't be Halloween without them.

• Halloween - well, obviously this one has to make an appearance. It'd be rude not to invite the original and best stalk n slash (in my opinion) along. With its tinkly soundtrack and baddie with a spray-painted mask, it's creepy with a capital C. See if you can spot the director's cigarette smoke in the shot where Michael hides behind the hedge. Always makes me smile.
• Arsenic and Old Lace - an oldie, but a goodie. Newlywed Cary Grant takes his missus to meet his two kindly old spinster aunts, only to discover they are in fact homicidal maniacs and who have been bumping off their gentlemen callers and hiding the bodies around the house. Much screwball hilarity ensues.
• Sleepy Hollow - I *heart* Tim Burton. You can spot one of his movies at 50 paces - they're all so visually stunning and weird. A strange little village is being terrorised by The Headless Horseman, so Johnny Depp is sent to employ order to this nonsense and solve the mystery. Christopher Walken plays the Horseman, complete with delightful filed-into-points teeth. And there's a lovely not-for-the-squeamish autopsy scene.
• Carrie - a bit contrived it may be, but I love the Stephen King book and I love the film. Those girls were so evil to her! Carrie's mother is a truly terrifying religious nutcase and I won't spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen it, but my cousin almost wet herself when we stealthily watched this together as 10 year olds.
• Hocus Pocus - my last, and highly embarrassing entry to this list. The kid from Eerie, Indiana (remember that? It rocked) accidentally brings back three hanged Salem witches from the dead to the modern day, where they try to steal the souls of children on Halloween in order to stay alive. You couldn't get much camper than Bette Midler (complete with a token song and dance routine), pre-SATC Sarah Jessica Parker and Kathy Najimy (the overtly happy nun from Sister Act) as the three witches, but it's lots of Disney fun.

Right, I'm armed with popcorn and off to the sofa. I just hope I get SOME little trick or treaters knocking on my door to take these sweets off my hands. Jeeezus, I sound like the gingerbread house witch in Hansel and Gretel.

Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble...

Well, how disappointing. Not one Halloween party to go to, after I'd planned a costume out and everything (in tribute to my recent hearing-Uma-Thurman-wee incident, I would have taken the guise of Pulp Fiction's Mia Wallace, complete with bloody nose, foaming mouth and foot-long hypodermic sticking out of my chest. I'd worked out how to get the needle to stick and the whole shebang). Oh, well. My razor sharp black bobbed wig and fake blood will just have to wait for an outing next year instead. Sigh. (Actually, I would have had an invite to the spookiest party in the world ever bar none, had the hosts not had the audacity to break up. Honestly, people can be so selfish. Didn't they know about my costume idea?!)

So, I've planned my annual film, pumpkin and chocolate fest for All Hallow's Eve in lieu of going out. I might not have the pumpkin carving down to a t yet (they somehow always end up looking a bit, well, retarded rather than scary) but I've nailed what to do with the leftover pumpkin flesh after I've carved my Jack O'Lantern. Some things I've tried and tested are:

Pumpkin Pie - this has gone down well whenever I've made it, and smells divine when its baking. Can be a bit squishy when first made, so let it cool and store overnight in the fridge before serving if you can, to firm it up. Chopped pecans make a very nice addition, as do mini marshmallows to decorate.

Risotto - looks so impressive and colourful, but is really simple to do. I've made this all year round using butternut squash if I couldn't get hold of a pumpkin (as you tend to see pumpkins for a period of about 3 weeks in October, they they mysteriously vanish). Extra nice if you stir in some chopped chestnuts.

Cheesecake - people often think that cheesecakes are really complicated affairs, but this is delicious and again, not difficult at all to do. You can often buy the bases ready made if you're apprehensive. Even more indulgent served with ice cream, and decorated with toffee sauce and pecan nuts.

Spicy seeds - great if you have tons of seeds leftover and really don't know what to do with them. Mix in some chunky nuts like cashews for some extra crunch, or you can jazz them up with different flavours - I found a chili and lemon spice mix which works well, or go for all-out volcanic heat and use jerk and Tabasco.

Pumpkin Soup - the easiest thing to make ever, and you can bulk it up with all sorts of things like sweet potato, parsnip, even garlic mashed potato or something. Or add a bit of orange juice and coriander for some zing. You can't go wrong. Sprinkle some toasted pumpkin seeds on top to serve, and you're done.

Yum indeed. I might sample some new recipes with my pumpkin scoops this year. Anyway, off to purchase some trick or treat sweets now in case I get some little ghouls knocking on my door tomorrow evening; here's hoping I get some callers and don't end up devouring the stash myself.

Hello, darkness my old friend...

The nights are drawing in and the clocks have gone back, and my office is full of people complaining about getting up in the dark and leaving work in the dark. The car needed de-icing this morning. The winter cometh. It's fantastic! Cosy nights in are the business. But I was thinking, you really don't realise just how much you rely upon electricity for mundane things, especially when it's dark all the time. The other night we had a power cut of epic proportions (well, I say epic - it lasted for all of two hours. But the Law of Sod descended upon us and clicked the power off just as we'd settled down to watch a DVD).

Not just our house or even the street - it felt like the whole village had been knocked out when we stood outside and stared over a dark valley. The total blackness and rolling valley mist were quite creepy and atmospherical, and it would have been eerily quiet had it not been for the house alarms going off on their emergency power and the regulars in the pub down the road making their opinions on the matter known to all most profusely. None of this would have been so much of an issue in the summer - we'd have just gone outside and carried on as normal or lit the barbecue or something. But as it's October, I had to make do with trying to read a book by candlelight, which didn't last long. I got as far as three pages and gave up and went to bed - spilling my Ribena in the process. (Yes, I drink Ribena. No, I am not a five year old. Hey, it tastes nice.)

So, instead of counting sheep, I attempted to recall games you can play in the dark. And here they are (clean ones, people!):

• Murder in the Dark - I can't remember exactly how to play this; but remember it at birthday parties in dark rooms. It involved some sort of murderer, detective and suspect shenanigans, but the rules escape me. I seem to recall testing out several 'death poses' and fake fainting, however.
• Sardines - a version of hide and seek in the dark. One person hides and seekers move around in the dark whispering "sardines" and listening for a whispered response from the hidden person. Fairly boring, but there's the added danger of falling over something.
• Pimped-up hide and seek - use glow sticks, those stupid fibre optic pen things you get at firework displays and torches to play hide and seek indoors or out. Again, could be interesting if your garden is filled with exciting things like ponds. Mine is not.
• Ghost stories - a staple of pre-teen sleepovers, usually resulting in weaker members of the herd crying to go home for fear of the serial killer with a hook. Usually involved sitting in a circle taking turns to pass a torch around and tell a story. Many sweets were consumed.
• Twister in the dark - does what it says on the tin. Things could potentially get a bit risque and you should really be careful where you put your foot. Ooh er.
• Glow-in-the-dark cocktail party - not really a game, but this idea is wearing thin and I'm clutching at straws now. Use glow-in-the-dark martini glasses and provide glow-in-the-dark accessories for guests to wear. This sounds like more fun than games anyway. I'd happily swig a cocktail anytime, day-glo or otherwise.

Oh, I can't remember anything else. The power surge must have shorted out my head as well as my house. Perhaps that's why this working week is so supremely awful.

All the leaves are brown...

Well, they're getting there. They're turning, at least. A couple of weeks ago we ushered in the first official day of Autumn, apparently. I love it. I'm one of those odd people who will go out of their way to step on a crunchy looking leaf (I even joined the Facebook group with other such strange leaf-steppers to let the world know about my addiction) and I've been looking forward to this season all year. I can't quite put my finger on what it is about Autumn that I love - the word 'Autumn' for a start, I suppose. It just sounds leafy and crunchy. I'm also one of those outcasts of society who doesn't give two figs about summer and could quite happily live without it. None of this SAD business. Bring on the elements!

I think it's the seasonal food and smells of Autumn that I love, too. Ginger and cinnamon and berries and other such scrumptious stuff. Ooh, and pumpkins. You can't beat carving a pumpkin (although mine usually end up looking like roadkill) and making a batch of pumpkin soup with the scooped out bits. Some mornings you can almost taste the frostiness even though it's a clear, bright day. A bit like today. Another Autumnal pleasure is walking down a tree-lined avenue when a gust of wind suddenly creates confetti made of foliage. I have to try and catch them. It's a law. I can often be seen outside running after leaves as if they were fluttering £20 notes.

I had been hoping that Central Park was starting to turn all shades of Fall when we were there a couple of weeks ago - but sadly, summer was just ending and the air was still warm. No Fall colours yet. Anyway, we made up for it this weekend with a wander along the Derwent which was just lovely. Although I did manage to slide - standing up - down a slippy hill, and as mud is attracted to me like a magnet, my jeans ended up with polka dot splodges and my boots are now a delightful shade of cacky brown.

Really must invest in some wellies.

There's a pox on my house...

There comes a time in every relationship when the inevitable happens. You’ve had the awkward meet-the-parents episodes and come out relatively unscathed; then came the declarations of love and joined-at-the-hip phase; then somewhere down the road you decided you don’t see each other nearly enough so you progressed to the merging of the things (and removal of the hideous artefacts like framed football tickets that the other brought into your newly shared abode). Life is good. Then comes that fateful day when one of you utters those dreaded words, the ones that strike fear into your heart and turn your blood to ice. ‘Argh - I’m going to be sick! Quick – get out of the bathroom!’

I have heard this sentence before – several times, in fact. Usually after a Christmas night out, the details of which are too gruesome to describe. But this phrase has chilled me for almost a week now. Last Thursday, I came home from a very lovely get together in town with my gal pals; the first time I’d seen them since hearing Uma Thurman wee. We giggled over coffees and discussed all manner of things over seafood pasta and interestingly titled pizza (which tasted even better half price – the wonders of finding offers on Handbag.com); such as mishaps with fabric softener and one friend’s amusing – yet slightly sinister – interview at work to attend a first aid course. All was well in the world. Opening the front door on my return home, however, I was greeted with a grunt from my very green looking Other Half who then hogged the bathroom all the live long night crying huey until the small hours.

This continued until Sunday, when my body decided that apparently this all looks like great fun and didn’t want to miss out on the action. Cue three days of me hugging the porcelain and feeling decidedly green. This alone would have been monstrous enough, but two people sharing a bathroom and having to time their Exorcist-projectile spurts was quite frankly, horrific. And so, the immortal line was uttered on several occasions, but unfortunately on at least one of those occasions it was impossible and the other had to deflower the sink. I won’t say who. But it later came to one of us ridding the poor sink of the products of heaving with bleach whilst donning a rubber glove.

Co-habiting is not for everyone. A note to self for the future - seek a home with two bathrooms.


P.S. I have now wasted a considerable amount of money buying a certain magazine with a dedicated ‘Spotted’ page, scanning carefully for a mention of my superstar pee excitement. How dare they deem the whereabouts of Dean ruddy Gaffney and his dog and long forgotten nobodies from series 4 of Big Brother wearing wellies more important Spotteds than mine. I’ll still have a nosy next week though, most likely. Just in case.

I have to go powder my nose…

How could I forget to mention my celebrity-stalking excitement?! (Let me just clarify: I didn’t really stalk anyone, she just happened to run into me once or twice. I’m not that much of a loon. And hush, before you retort.) This is the story I will be telling everyone until I die, I’m sure. I’ve already bored everyone at work with it and *blush* emailed the Heat Online ‘Spotted’ column. That’ll be me buying Heat magazine for the next couple of weeks to see if I made it in, then.

Anyhoo, after the plane journey from hell (it wasn’t too bad to be honest, but I only caught about an hour’s uncomfortable doze as the spotlight above me was broken. So, in a pitch black cabin, there was me sitting there like an utter mentalist highlighted with what felt like the main beam headlights of someone’s car) I was feeling pretty rough and trundled through departures to the EU line in passport control. Who should be in the US citizens queue to my left? Only Uma blimmin’ Thurman plus her children and nanny! I had to do a triple-take to confirm; but I’m happy to report that even in my bedraggled state and feeling pretty crumpled after the flight – my hair was in better nick than hers.

After standing next to her at baggage claim (coincidentally, I assure you) whilst pulling my moth-eaten little suitcase off the belt as her stacks of Louis Vuitton matching luggage were loaded onto a trolley, I then nipped to the loo in departures – and who should come in with her munchkins (two extremely cute blonde mini Ethan Hawkes)? I was silently giggling to myself in the stall next door as all three of them took turns to relieve themselves of all the free airline orange juice – then composed myself enough to go back out and exclaim to my confused Other Half that I’d ‘just heard Uma Thurman wee!’

A splendid end to a tremendous ten days. I'll never see Pulp Fiction in the same light again. (‘I said god damn! God damn..!’)

The Fairytale of New York...

Afternoon all, I’m back from my travels and suffering! Not only are my poor worn out soles recovering from marathon Manhattan walking sessions, I’ve rediscovered that jet lag is not a pleasant thing (my good self and lack of sleep do not mix well, as The Other Half will testify vehemently). Yesterday was my first day back at work, which ordinarily is a dire thing anyway but after only 4 hours sleep (when my head is still five hours behind laughing at me and my body feels like it’s somewhere over the Atlantic in protest) and contending with what may or may not have been carried out from my handover list, it’s really badly rubbish.

It was all worth it though. New York was fantastic and we managed to get through so much I don’t even know where to begin. Since we’d been before we skipped a lot of the mega-touristy things like the Statue of Liberty and going up the Empire State building – but still indulged our sightseeing sides and donned our visitor hats with gusto admiring the views from the Top of the Rock and tracking down as many movie locations as we could find. I’d forgotten that the whole city is like a giant film set – every corner you turn you see something you recognise. Hence I spent pretty much the entire time saying things like ‘Ooh, that was in Ghostbusters/Home Alone 2/Enchanted/insert your favourite New York-set flick here’ and embarrassed myself by acting out scenes. Acting which, I might add, The Other Half often participated in. He makes a very good Dr. Venkman.

Anyway, I’m finding my eyelids very heavy today and I’m wishing that my chair was made of fleecy blankets and that my desk comprised of soft pillows instead of piles of post-its, manky coffee cups and the remnants of Hershey Kisses wrappers (the standard office fare whenever anyone has been Stateside). More reporting on the Big Apple adventures later – busy counting down the hours until I can go to bed!

Maybe after a repeat viewing of Crocodile Dundee though?

I just have to say...

In just over 36 hours I'll be in Manhattan.

That is all.

Goodnight.

A big apple.

As giddy as a kipper (or a big apple?)...

That's me this evening. Even though I'm exhausted, but it's good exhausted. Well, sort of. The shopping-all-weekend kind of exhausted. Normally I hate clothes shopping and trawling round gawd-awful retail outlets, energy-sucking shopping centres and (horror of horror) facing the chavtastic haunt and messiest shop in the world, Primark (actually I couldn't face it after all - I walked past quickly trying to avoid the throngs of teenagers pushing prams. Yes, yes, I know that's a sweeping generalisation but if you've ever had your ankles rammed by a double-buggie-wielding, tracksuit-clad mother in there, you'll know what I mean) - but this time it was for an excellent purpose. I'm going to New York on Wednesday!

And I've left everything to the last minute. As per usual. Thankfully the two day marathon around every shop in the North East (or so it seemed to my poor feet who have now given up on me completely) has paid off and I'm very pleased with my purchases. Even The Other Half, who is a worse shopper than me, has had fruitful expeditions. Although, I've had a blind panic to find my passport (I left it out; I know I did. I came across it a few days ago and said out loud 'Ooh, I'll leave that there where I can see it.' There was even half a ticket in it from the last time I flew. How it came to be wedged under The Box of Stuff in the study I don't know. Perhaps the cat hid it there in protest) and I still don't have any currency sorted out. That will be resolved tomorrow though. Fingers crossed.

So, I have another one and a half days left at work this week, then I'm gone until 13th. Woohoo! It's been almost 2 years since The Other Half and I have had a proper holiday together (i.e. more than 3 days off work in a row; and abroad) and since then I've endured listening to other folk talk about their global adventures with pangs of longing. I'm sure I've already started to get on people's nerves by randomly exclaiming where I'll be and what I'll be doing when they're having their boring weekly meetings; but to be honest, I don't care. Too excited. And that will only quadruple as the hours go by and I (hopefully) tick things off my to-do list at work. (Does anyone else get a little sense of accomplishment when you untick a red flag in your Outlook emails? No? Oh well.)

Look out New York City, I'll be there by Wednesday afternoon. And this time, I'm old enough to drink you dry.

The Golden Girls do tapas...

For the first time in a long while, I forgot all about work over the weekend and had a bloody good time. On Saturday it was my Other Half's birthday, and although he was going out early sans me (to - eurgh - a football match of all things, but it was his birthday and that's what he wanted to do, so hey ho) we still had presents and breakfast in bed before he headed off until the small hours of Sunday. But this left me to do one of my favouristist things ever - cook! And not just any old cooking - cooking for the girls! That's the best kind. Friday night I went shopping for lovely things. I'd decided to make tapas so the trolley was filled with lots of Mediterranean eats. And the ingredients for sangria. Oh yes, this was gonna be a good 'un.

Saturday daytime was great - a cloud of chorizo smells filling the house; me singing along badly (I can't sing any other way) to the radio; feeling a bit Nigella-ish and looking forward to a good girly gossip. They didn't disappoint. My sides hurt for hours with giggles. Over dinner (which, true to form, there was far too much of. 'Serves 4' my arse. I could have fed a stadium) the wine and the gossip started to flow. I think the tale of the horrendous blind date my friend S had with a monotone Irish dude (reminiscent of The Most Boring Voiced Priest in Father Ted) and his love of chamomile tea was my personal favourite. I tried to re-tell the tale the following day to my bemused Other Half and couldn't because of the giggles.

We'd all decided to bring some school memorabilia around for a laugh, so apres eats retired to the living room to the sounds of PJ and Duncan (an inspired CD choice from friend C) and collapsed into drunken laughter over old photos and letters as the sangria was poured. Flicking through hysterical letters from friend J, my awful photos, drawings from S and poems from C, we realised that we were all in fact evil cows at school and are going to hell because of it. Anyway, it was so worth it. I haven't laughed as much in ages. And - bonus - I hoped the two pints of water (and the ice I was trying to find for about an hour before twigging it was in the freezer) I downed before I went to sleep would dilute the sangria in my bloodstream enough for me not to be hungover on Sunday. And it worked - hurrah! I am invincible. And will be living on tapas for a week. If the Other Half doesn't polish it all off, that is.

Sometimes all you need is a girls' night to make things right. Here's to another 50 years of them at least. And to lazy Sundays watching Police Academy 4 on the sofa. There is no end to my classiness.

Running on empty...

Apologies for the lack of posts over the last week. Things have been hectic to say the least and I feel like I'm only just starting to catch my breath. The last week can be summed up like so: work stress, spent too much money at opticians, work stress, hen do, work stress, London, sandwiches, work stress. More on the hen do another time, and I'm still recovering from the horrendously expensive trip to the optician so it's best left well alone for now.

The office is doing my head in at the minute and my workload is really getting to me. Stuff comes in quicker than I can turn it all around and the in-tray - on what used to be my desk but is now where paper goes to die - is literally four feet high. On Thursday we had a very big logistical nightmare to sort out for some publicity photos. The photo shoot from hell. Hard work. Tons of red tape and health and safety gubbins. To be expected really, since the shoot involved an orchestra on top of the giant curved mirrored roof of our building. It all came off ok in the end thankfully and the photos are beautiful. But I'm still drowning in paper.

As previously reported, my little sister moved to London town and somehow my other half and I volunteered to take a car load of her stuff down for her over the weekend. Cue a total of 16 hours on the road and a diet that consisted completely of service station sandwiches and coffee. Plus the odd Malteaser or two. Mmmm, Malteasers. The roadtrip was like Death Race 2000 in places...killer motorbikes stalking us; obliterated caravans by the side of the road; the delays from hell. And my sister had me sleeping on her flat's floor in what can only be described as some sort of black body bag. I felt like Meryl Streep in the morgue in Death Becomes Her. ('These are the moments that make life worth living' - a fantastic quote from that film!) Being drugged to the eyeballs on Lemsips for a rotten sore throat didn't help, either. But, 'twas fun and a nice time was had by all.

Think I just need to sleep and replenish my creative juices. Ewww, that sounded wrong. Pass me a Tia Maria and coke, someone. And maybe a comfy pillow. Please?

Bye bye baby, baby bye bye...

Do you ever wake up some days and feel really well and truly old? Today is one of those days for me. I feel ancient. Preserved and pickled ancient. Firstly, it's my nephew's birthday. Ordinarily this is often somewhat problematic for me to comprehend, simply because I was an auntie at age 12 and have always felt far to young to have such family members. Not that I would change him though - he's lovely. And I don't see enough of him, but anyway. Today, this little boy turns 13. I have a teenage nephew. I'm sure photos exist of me wearing a Sweater Shop jumper (remember those?! I thought I was the business in mine) and changing his nappy. This is not that long ago in my head.

And if you're good at maths (ok, you don't need to be good at maths; it's pretty obvious what the sum is) you'll have worked out my age from that statement. It's not that old when you look at the number literally; but when I think about fast approaching my late twenties, fear strikes my very core. While my nephew is enjoying his birthday party and his last bastion of childhood; I'll be racing towards thirty. Then middle age. Then before you know it, I'll be 50. Then thinking about retirement. Then dead. I think I've managed to convince myself that this is all a very long way off though, so I'll try not to ponder this too much.

Anyway, the thing that's tipped me over the edge today is my baby sister. No longer a baby. Has her own flat and is moving to London with her other half. I don't think it's age or anything that's bothering me here; it's more to do with the fact that I'll really miss her! There was a time not so long ago when you could feel the mutual loathing and seething whenever we were in the same room. We were both evil children and fought a lot, and spent a considerable amount of time getting the other back for past offences. Then we hit our teens and the fighting still continued, but we had delightful name-calling, screaming, slapping and door slamming added to the mix. She'll deny this vehemently, but I swear on one occasion she slammed my neck in her bedroom door. But I used to grab her wrists and pin her down, which she hated. It worked out even.

Thankfully, we both emerged from this hideous teenage era unscathed (our mother was most relieved), and I moved out and she went to college. And we found that we actually get along. Is that called growing up? So there you have it. I wish her luck and know she'll be happy. I'll probably see more of her now than I ever have, come to think of it. Such is the way when someone moves - you tend to make more of an effort! And I've told her to expect lots of visitors who just happen to be passing though London. Hell, a free base in the capital! You can't knock it.

But still, I'm off to look up stair lifts and mobility scooters on t'interweb. No doubt I'll be needing them soon so it's best to be prepared.

Teenage kicks (and twenty-something time-wasting)...

I worshipped Ewan McGregor when I was 15. Oh, who am I kidding? I still do. But today, I don't have little Ewan pictures stuck all around my bedroom mirror and his face adorning my walls on giant posters. But I might if only my Other Half would let me. I think I've always had crushes on famous boys; the first one was probably Corey Feldman in The Goonies. My friend preferred Mikey, but it was Mouth and his rude Spanish all the way for me. Then there was David Bowie. Bit of an peculiar choice you might think - but when I was 10, all I wanted to do was run away to the Goblin City and live in the castle with Jareth the Goblin King. If you don't know what I'm on about, shame on you - read all about it here.

My celebrity crushes dissipated in my later teens - but have since returned with a vengeance. Perhaps it's the boredom of my working day. Which brings me to a recent topic of discussion at work... the freebie list. We have very philosophical conversations and emails at work, as you can see. Made famous by Friends (I think Ross laminated his choices?!), the freebie list is the select group of celebrities you have crushes on who you're allowed to, er, have relations with, shall we say - should the opportunity ever present itself and your significant other can't say anything about it. My list resulted in several confused faces and I'm sure a couple of my choices were googled by my puzzled onlookers. Anyway:

1. Ewan McGregor. The afore-mentioned Mr. McGregor still holds the #1 spot on my list. He might be married and a bit beardy by now, but I don't care. I've even forgiven him for that ridiculous hair-do and facial wig in the gawd-awful Star Wars prequels.

2. David Tennant. And I don't even watch Dr. Who. I think it's his hair that does it.

3. Kyle Reese/Michael Biehn. The year would HAVE to be 1984 and I would need to be Sarah Connor, though. Oh, come on! He went through time for her! But if fictional characters don't apply, I'll take the very sweet John Simm as my #3 contestant.

4. Brett Anderson. I've loved him ever since I bought my first Suede single aged 13.

5. Andrew Lincoln. A forgotten teenage crush recently rediscovered upon repeat viewings of This Life. Damn that Milly woman; she didn't deserve him.

Honourable mention: I know I can't really choose fictional characters but if I could, Gene Hunt and his one-liners would be up there. It's so very politically incorrect and against the rules of feminism - but I'd quite happily let him give me a slap. That's really quite wrong.

So there you have it. I stand by my choices. They're liable to change, however, but they're not as odd as some - one of my friends had crushes on both Sean Connery (not so odd really; I suppose he could be considered as a bit of a silver fox) and Captain Von Trapp. Yes, you read that right. The Sound of Music dude. Each to their own!

The art of procrastination...

Let me tell you something about today: I've done bot all. This phrase made an esteemed colleague of mine giggle profusely when I emailed her from two desks away to tell her so, but it's true. Well, it's part true. I've done bot all work-wise. But I've been a Grade-A procrastinator. Today's been one of those days where I've had a million and one things to do but the motivation of a tortoise about to go into hibernation. Tiredness? A little bit. That Monday feeling? Yep. Easily distracted by shiny things? Definitely. You're listening to the Queen of Procrastination.

I was always that kid at school who did their homework at 10:30 on a Sunday night. And I'll always be that girl who leaves everything to the last minute. And no matter how many urgent things I have to do or how many deadlines I'm against, I'll always find something more important. But procrastination is an art form. You can't just sit and do nothing - that's just a waste of time. You have to so something - however trivial - to use up your time and distract you from what you should be doing. It's a skill. And a skill I've mastered over the years. It's almost mandatory at university.

For instance, a true procrastinator will not sit and stare into space doing nothing. No. A true procrastinator will make a list about what they could make for their tea using the ingredients in their fridge. Or reorganise the pens in their desk tidy. Or maybe write out their name backwards and try to memorise how to pronounce it. Perhaps even draw a diagram of how they're going to re-file the papers on their desk when they get around to it. There's a distinction. And all these things I have completed today instead of my work. The down side to my top-class dallying is that by the end of the week, I'll feel terrible. I'll become an insomniac and stress about not finishing half the things I needed to, and I'll only have myself to blame. But I can live with that.

I'm just not sure my boss will agree with me when she returns from holiday to find my to-do list doesn't have any ticks against it. I don't think she studied procrastination at uni.

Back to the old school...

Yesterday, whilst congregating and gossiping around the kettle in the office kitchen with several of my regular kettle-attendees for the umpteenth time that day (don't tell my boss), it struck me that the workplace is not unlike school. And the more I thought about it, the more comparisons I could make. Maybe I've seen Mean Girls too many many times.

School: The classy house-block loos were the place to bitch every break time.
Office: We meet in the kitchen to gossip several times a day.

School: Passing notes to friends in classes when bored about who we fancy.
Office: Write chain emails to equally bored colleagues about anything.

School: If you didn't do your homework your teacher shouted at you and put you on detention.
Office: Miss a deadline and your boss yells at you; you then have a silent cry in the toilets.

School: Sit at several desks throughout the day, often covered in graffiti and chewing gum.
Office: Sit at a desk. A very messy one with an overflowing in-tray.

School: Spend pocket money on make-up, clothes, junk you don't need and nights out.
Office: Spend payslip on make-up, clothes, junk you don't need, nights out and the bills.

School: Have lunch in the cafeteria with your mates. Moan when the bell goes for lessons again.
Office: Have lunch in the cafe with your pals. Moan when you can only manage a half-hour break.

School: Complaining to your PE teacher that you had terrible cramps would never get you out of cross country.
Office: Complaining about period pains in an office full of women gets you off nothing.

School: Watch new episodes of 'Friends'.
Office: Watch the endless repeats of old 'Friends' episodes on E4.

School: Reading magazines by stealth - under desks, behind textbooks etc - and giggling at the problem pages.
Office: Reading Digital Spy and Heatworld online, and closing the screen when someone important walks past. Forward on the articles with the celebrity shock-factor.

And the sad thing is, that after seven years of school and sixth form, four of uni and three of full-time work so far... I'm just as unmotivated now as I was then. And just as clumsy. At school I'd often walk into doors, fall off seats and drop things. Today, I'm well know for being completely unable to text-and-walk; frequently sit down where there is no seat; and yesterday I tripped over someone's bin and was caught by a quick-witted colleague who exclaimed very loudly that I'd just 'kicked the bucket.' Sigh.

That Sunday night feeling (on a Monday)...

Well, it's finally happened. It usually happens at about ten o'clock on a Sunday night actually, but because of the Bank Holiday, it's just hit me now. At least I bought myself another day. Yes, I'm back at work tomorrow. Can you tell I'm really pleased about it? There really is something about that horrible Sunday night feeling that makes you want to throw yourself into the nearest line of traffic just so you don't have to go back into work. Or wish that your Dad was a multi-millionaire so you could become an heiress. I'm sure I could find better ways to use up my time than Paris Hilton.

I had a lovely day today, as well. I feel like I've seen my gal pals quite a lot this week and done a lot of catching up. We took a trip into town and tried out a new restaurant we'd all been dying to go to (where they just do starters and desserts, the aptly-named Starters and Puds); and had a nice relaxing chat over a bottle of wine. Then I got home and spoilt it all by stewing over what's waiting in my in-tray for me, and what I need to sort out and whether my desk is even more littered with paper than it was before I left on my jollies last week. And whether or not my work wardrobe is all clean. And where the hell is my security pass? Is my phone charged up? More, importantly, is my iPod?? (This has been difficult as somehow the docking station seems to have broken. I take no responsibility for it.)

But anyway, I have to try and put all this out of my mind otherwise I'll be pacing about all night or having terrible work-related dreams. (Please say you've had them too; I don't want to be the only one who dreamt that the pile of papers consuming their desk toppled over and buried them alive in a paper avalanche. Or maybe you've had the one where there was a work-related emergency which caused you to wake up in a cold sweat - and promptly check your Outlook remotely? No? Perhaps I should take more time off.)

Ho hum, at least it's a four-day week. Roll on Friday night.

Nuclear cocktails and red hair...

You can't beat a good cocktail. Especially half-price ones on a Thursday night. Which is the conclusion myself and some gal pals reached this week when we took our twenty-something nostalgia out in our kitten heels to the former haunt of our seventeen-year-old-selves. They'd cut the cocktail menu in half since we were last there (or were we now just old enough to know what we liked to drink instead of working our way down the whole menu?) but we still managed to quaff our way through several bizarrely-titled tipples.

It would have been rude not to have twice as many since they were half price anyway, was our philosophy. So, after several Caribbean Romances; Total Knock-Outs; a few of that old staple - Sex on the Beach; and a one whose name I forget but was a rather strange radioactive-glowing-green Incredible Hulk colour, we consequently spent the night cackling in the corner like the Witches of Eastwick reminiscing about the ridiculous fashions we used to sport in the very same bar almost a decade previous, planning to take a trip together and generally having a good old gossip about things I couldn't possibly repeat. Friday morning I woke up - mercifully still on holiday - with a headache only fizzy tablets can cure and thirst like no other.

Still, I had an appointment to keep and since my hair has taken on a life of its own and turned into rabbit-hutch hay over the past few weeks, I wasn't about to miss it. Plus I fancied a change of colour. My hair's been the colour of stringy dull rat tails for too long. Wasn't sure what yet, perhaps inspiration would hit me in the stylist's chair. It did. Not only am I very pleased that the straw-like quality has disappeared, but the length has been halved and I now have a swept fringe. Plus I'm chestnutty-red. And don't have to get up specially an hour earlier in the mornings now to wash and straighten my tresses. Anything that gives me an extra hour in bed is fine by me.

Maybe I should rename this 'the indecisive musings of a blasé partial-redhead?' Not so catchy? Yeah, well, it'll probably wash out soon anyway.

Shake, rattle and norimaki rolls...

I'm on holiday from work this week. It's great. I don't have to worry about staying up late on a school night and dragging myself in the next morning to face my colleagues, looking like Wurzel Gummidge's lesser known sister crossed with the corpse bride, oh no. (For those of you who don't remember Wurzel Gummidge, he was a scarecrow. And quite a freaky one at that.) I'm just frightening my Other Half with that guise on a daily basis instead of my co-workers. Being a lady of leisure has many fringe benefits. There's the lie-ins, time to potter and the knowledge that you can go anywhere and do anything (or not - but it's nice to have the option).

Going out during the day and laughing and pointing at people who have to work is near the top of the list of pluses, though. But so is going out to eat. Oh yes, lunch somewhere lovely without having to plumb for a Boots Meal Deal, and without looking at the clock on your phone every two minutes and wondering if you have time to finish and make it back in time for the weekly team meeting. Which is why my good self and The Other Half decided upon a leisurely meander around town in the sunshine followed by some sushi. And I'll stop you there - that's not a euphemism. Sadly, the world and his dog were conspiring against us.

Mishap #1 - no parking spaces. Not a major issue, but we got dizzy going round and round the multi-storey. Mishap #2 - when we did finally find a space, the heavens opened as we left the car. I did not plan ahead and bring a brolly. Mishap #3 - umbrella-less, my hair began to frizz and both our jeans were soaked up to the flamin' knee. Mishap #4 - long queue at sushi place. Seems a lot of people had the same idea as us to avoid said rain. Mishap #5 - chef warfare. This is the one we really couldn't have planned for. A heated argument erupts in the open-plan kitchen. A plate of norimaki rolls crashes to the floor. Something whizzes past our heads. Then we feel the dreaded splat. We look at each other. Two waitresses look at us with open jaws. Both of us resemble abstract expressionist artists let loose in the studio. Except the canvas was our shirts and the paint was hoi-sin sauce.

Maybe this is my karma because I laugh and point at people who have to go to work. Anyway. I'm off to wash the gloop off my already rain-sodden jeans. Think I might have been better off at work today. And I definitely need to sort my hair out.

Lipstick Jungle or American Psycho...

New books. I love the smell of new books. Almost as much as I love choosing them in the bookshop. Examining the titles and poring over the covers; picking up ones that sound interesting or just plain bizarre; thumbing through the pages breathing in that first intoxicating aroma of the characters and storylines. Unfortunately, these days my bookshop of convenience has become the internet, and reading user comments and glancing at star ratings is du jour. Saying that, it's not so bad. There's still that thrill of new books arriving through the post and hitting the doormat, waiting for you to open them. And you can order stuff at work when you're bored and nobody is looking. Bonus.

I started reading Candace Bushnell's 'Lipstick Jungle' a wee while ago. I liked 'Sex and the City' but 'Trading Up' was a bit irritating...however I thought I'd give 'Lipstick Jungle' a chance as it was all pretty and girly and had a cocktail on the front, and also happened to come free with the copy of Cosmo I'd picked up in the supermarket which promised 'a great summer read' and had the intriguing guide to becoming 'a sex goddess in 9 steps' on the cover. I really shouldn't have bothered. The one-dimensional vacuous characters are like older, bitter, harsher and less amusing versions of the SATC girls. I just didn't care about the plot. There are only so many fashion shows and champagne parties you can read about. At least in SATC, it was funny. And the crap characters all have rubbish names. Victory Ford, anyone? Sounds like a commemorative car. So, I gave up after a few chapters and started reading my old friend 'American Psycho' again. But I've been itching for something new to read- new characters to love, so online I went.

Amazon's personalised recommendations always make me giggle. 'You once bought a cookery book, so you might be interested in this, 'Build Your own Garden Shed' - that kind of thing. Hmm. But this time they seemed to get it right, suggesting authors along the lines I was looking. Bret Easton Ellis was in my head. I loved 'American Psycho' so much, but haven't actually read any of his other stuff. And they looked appealing enough. After a few minutes of dithering I plumbed for 'Less Than Zero' and 'The Rules of Attraction.' Plus a DVD of Parenthood to take me up to the free delivery limit. Don't judge.

Sorted. New books to read by Saturday. Fantastic. I could do with a reading day. Wrong! Even though I was up early yesterday and listening out for the postman especially, I still managed to miss him. Turns out the flamin' doorbell is kaput and the little Royal Mail note pushed through the door says not to bother collecting my package from the depot for 48 hrs. Now not only do I not have anything to read - but 'Lipstick Jungle' is glaring at me from the shelf. It's my own fault. I shouldn't buy magazines for the free books. Particularly magazines whose covers proudly display bold statements like 'Climb the Career Ladder - Fast' alongside 'How to Knit Your Own Lingerie'.

Pyjamas plus alcohol and Sundays equals...

Hangover TV. I'm not going to lie that I don't watch it occasionally. OK, I watch it quite a lot. But so do you, don't kid yourself. Especially on Sundays when T4 have that delightful and yet soul-destroying mix of all the pretty people in Hollyoaks, Friends and - throughout the summer months - repeats of Big Brother you didn't watch on Friday as you were too busy polishing off that bottle of Tia Maria. Oh, was that just me?

A recent conversation with a friend resulted in us hatching a half-arsed plan to launch our own TV channel that would constantly stream the hangover-TV shows that we and everyone our age would want to watch. You know the stuff, that TV gold of yesteryear that they never show anymore. All the children's TV favourites you used to race home from school to watch Andi Peters and Ed the Duck in the Broom Cupboard present. We even had potential advertisers worked out, and how we would need to bring in extra revenue. (Yes, we really were that bored.)

My friend's hangover-TV choices were very male-centric (and included some stuff I had to Google - Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors, anyone?) while mine were the typical girly ones you'd expect, so we had a nice balance. Is there a point to all this then? Well, no, not really. But when Hollyoaks was on again this morning I was thinking about how hangover TV actually WOULD be so much better if you could watch all the things you loved decades ago, rather than the tangled love-lives of people in a Chester suburb who don't even have the decency to sport Chester accents. So this brings me to my very first list, and feel free to add or amend to it if you so wish.

My Top 10 80s Children's TV shows I Would Like to See on TV Again (catchy, eh?)

He-Man and She-Ra (you can't have one without the other)

Ah, the twins of Eternia and Etheria and their bad haircuts. You'd have thought Prince Adam would have stopped his mother from giving him a bob beyond the age of 5, but he didn't seem to mind. What I loved about He-Man was his direct-to-camera morals at the end of each story. And there was something a little bit seedy about She-Ra. Maybe it was her boots. Or her skirt.

Maid Marian and Her Merry Men
Maaaaaariaaaaaan! Robin Hood was a big Jessie and and Maid Marian was a tomboy. Tony Robinson hadn't started digging up fields at this point and minced about as the Sheriff with a band of lunatic guardsmen. That giant dude who always pops up in British films and TV shows as village idiots popped up as one of the Great Unwashed merry men.

Round the Twist
Set in a haunted lighthouse on the Aussie coast where 3 kids solve mysteries with a fantastic theme tune and really, really weird stories...does anyone remember the one with the phantom seagull with rubies for eyes who poohed on the kids so much they looked like walking marshmallow men?

Fun House
There's a bit of an urban myth around my hometown that a friend of a friend went on this and won. Pat Sharp displayed the best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) mullet this side of Limahl and kids ran amok in ball pools, with go-carts, gunge and all sorts. I wonder what happened to Melanie and Martina?

Jem and the Holograms
For obvious reasons (my name, in case you haven't worked it out) I was ALWAYS Jem whenever we acted this out in the playground. We often had some trouble recruiting a willing boy to play Rio though, and it's only looking back now that I wish I could have been one of the Misfits instead of Jem. Their music really was better.

Knightmare
Yes, it's really geeky and the effects are rubbish now but did you never wonder how they did it then? Or if they really were walking through a dungeon towards a door trying to avoid a gatekeeper with an axe on one side and a stick of dynamite about to go off on the other?

Stoppit and Tidyup
I'm sure Terry Wogan voiced these little critters. I don't remember all of them but 'Eat Your Greens' and the two bees, 'Bee-Have' and 'Bee-Quiet' stick out for some reason. I have a friend whose sister drew Stoppit and Tidyup on a t-shirt using Fluffit pens for her. Remember those? They made 3d designs on your clothes after you heated the drawings up with a hairdryer. Mine never worked.

The Moomins
A very bizarre cartoon. Think they were Polish? Anyway, white hippos who wear aprons and top hats and live in a lighthouse in Moomin Valley with a kangaroo and an annoying brat named Little Mai. There was one very creepy episode where they were all trying to fight a big hill with eyes who froze everyone around her.

Eerie, Indiana
The American version of Round the Twist in a way, with a very young Omri Katz (the one from Hocus Pocus - the guy who lit the Black Flame Candle) and his mate solving mysteries and having bizarre encounters with urban legends in the weirdo-filled town of Eerie.

Thundercats
Another one with a fantastic theme tune. They just don't make theme tunes like this anymore. I'm still slightly disturbed that the main character shares his name with waterproof kitchen flooring, however. Mummra was a very bad baddie and all the boys in my class had a slightly wrong crush on Cheetara in her leopard-print leotard.

A special mention goes to The Poddington Peas. Simply because I have been known to break out into a chorus of the Poddington song and frighten onlookers. Ooh, this could lead to a separate post about 80s toys. I'll make a note of that...