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.