Archive for May, 2008


May 29, 2008

Here is a thought I have from time to time:

Why is the plural of moose not moosi?


Yo-yo Nicc-ers

May 28, 2008

5 months ago (yes, really! time flies) I packed up my bags and emigrated (well, sort of) to London. 

In the last 5 months:

I’ve met some amazing people

Who helped to commandeer a bus

 Spent a hell of a lot of my life on the underground

And lunchtimes stroking goats

Accepted a pool challenge from an ‘unbeaten’ pool-player and won myself free dinner


Saw a LOT of bands!

And lived in a very nice house with 5 very nice people including Emily who makes me cake and cups of tea

Now I’m off back home to Edinburgh in 2 weeks! (if I finally get to resign)

cheers London!  We had our ups and downs; I’m the owner of an even more confused accent, I’ll never go to a doctor again in my life and I’m slightly afraid of anyone with a backpack, however I’ve perfected the art of tube surfing (having conquered one of the renowned black runs) and can barter with minicab drivers like a pro. 

(I’m waving)

La-la Versus Technology

May 26, 2008

Me and technology have a love-hate relationship.


My new widescreen TV.  

Oh wow, it’s so pretty! It’s opposite the end of my bed, so just like having a home cinema.  I can almost see already the beautiful camera angles and ambitious panoramic shots from the various movies I’ll be watching.  Everything will be brighter, sharper.   I might not even need my glasses – not that I can find them anyway.


I have no remote control. 

…or aerial. 

…or DVD player.  It’s in Edinburgh.  I am in London. 

I just stare at it.




Movies. In general.  Online, at cinema, on TV, on DVD. 

Going to a friend’s house to watch a DVD (in this case, pal Jo’s house on rainy bank holiday Monday to watch Run Fatboy Run).


DVD disappearing into the abyss that is the body of the DVD player. 

Spending an hour taking the DVD player apart with a screwdriver to retrieve it. 

Resigned…or not?

May 22, 2008

Today I gave my resignation at my job.   Then my boss gave it back.


How could I get this so wrong? 

I thought it was simple – you write a letter saying that you don’t want a job anymore, you wait the agonising time it takes for the really difficult boss to leave so that you get time to talk to the nice one.  Then you get the courage up to utter the telltale words of ‘um…Mike, could I have a wee chat with you please?’ only to then have the awkward moment of trying to find an unoccupied room in a very large and busy office.


So I put it to him like this:

Me: “so, Mike. I’m really sorry but it’s just not working out. I’m not happy in the job and I really don’t think it’s the right one for me; perhaps even the organisation is just not right for me”.  (an encouraging nod from Mike makes me continue, perilously, on this journey of quitterdom) 

Along the lines of:

“don’t feel like i’m getting anything out of this position…hate coming to work everyday…not giving it my best..role isn’t the right one for me…” etc…


Short but sweet. I thought this was quite a good speech to have made up on the spot.   


So how come, three-quarters of an hour later I’m non the wiser as to whether I have actually handed in my notice or not!?  I remember something about having to ‘wait’,  and maybe a little ‘see how things pan out’  followed by a few ‘good opportunity’ lines thrown in for good measure.  Add to this a general feeling of being 12 years old, realising that you’ve lost your train of thought and can’t even remember your own name and you’re just about where I was at the end of this meeting.


Have I quit or have I not?  I have absolutely no idea.


So confused.  Here’s a picture of Pingu to make it all seem better.


A perfect afternoon’s entertainment

May 15, 2008

This afternoon, having once again been sent home from work sick, I watched Black Sheep – well, at least it’s animal themed!

A zombie sheep has just ripped out a man’s mouth.  It’s one to watch at 5am, preferably not sober

Admittedly it’s not helping to make me feel less sick, but at least I don’t feel like eating a kebab anytime soon

One kidney down, one to go

May 13, 2008

Owwwwwwwwwwwww!!!  All is not good in La-La Land.  Another trip to the ‘burgh nearly ended in disaster as having a fainting spell somewhere just outside Doncaster on a fast moving train threatened to jeopardise whether this author, plus what felt like 10 carrier bags of clothes, made it safely home.    Add to this a general feeling of sickness and dizziness.  Now before you think ‘appendicitis!’, I’ll explain that I’d had a slight pain in the left side for quite a few weeks, plus a feeling of not really being ‘with it’ but, fearing a doctor visit, plus acceptance that the latter symptom is quite normal for me, had hoped it would just melt away. 


Yeah.  It didn’t.  The ‘slight’ pain was now a throbbing full-blown agonising stomach-clutching affair.

Those of you who have read my previous London doctor visit will be able to understand my fear at the realisation that a doctor must be consulted – and soon.  This girl’s not daft; I hightailed it down early Monday morning to the rival surgery on the block.  ‘I’ve only just moved down and haven’t registered with anyone yet’ says me, all innocence and dramatic tummy clutching.    

 Imagine my relief when I discovered no pee sticks on the floor and a nice stern doctor, very different from the grinning previous version who had tried to get me to educate his brother about cow and goat management in Saudi Arabia. 

To emphasise this, here is a goat standing on a cow:

So – here I am.  Oh – what’s wrong with me?  A kidney infection.  Yes. Lovely.  Apparently it’s swollen.  The doctor got quite excited about this fact.  I’m all antibiotic’d-up and off the booze (well, for so long as the antibiotics are required), with people getting very excited for some reason about my ‘real’ illness.  I’m not excited. It hurts. Like a big stitch. But worse.

Although I am completely understanding that this has been a chronic, rather than acute, onset of illness, I would still like to place some blame.  So here it is.  I have decided to blame the toxic, ectoplasmic green stuff I was made to drink on Saturday night. 


May 13, 2008


Me me me, it’s all about me.

May 6, 2008

Fellow blogger Withwood commented that I don’t use photos enough in my blogs.  I’d hate to be considered lacking in substance, therefore here is a random photo of my pretty new shoes.  Wow.  So pretty. 

Not worn them yet. Bet they hurt like hell.

London on the Pull

May 5, 2008

In the 3 months I’ve been down in that there London, I’ve noticed how exercise-obsessed these folk are.  I mean, I’m not saying that Scottish people don’t work out – of course they do! But it’s rare you’ll hear anyone discussing it.  In London, however, my housemates and workmates punctuate most conversations with gym-chat, including the frustratingly regular utterance of “I can’t come out tonight, I have to go for a run”. 

I eat healthily and try to look after myself, but I don’t do gyms. I find gym-chat extremely boring and can’t think of anything worse than paying monthly for the privilege of feeling guilty.  Because I know I won’t go.  I hate doing anything I feel forced to do, so I’d rather watch what I eat, walk further and go dancing more often. 

But I’ve discovered why they do it – it’s a deadly weapon in the pulling-war!

Here’s my evidence:  

1)  I’m dancing away in a (really really bad and cheesy) club in Clapham.  I feel a tap on my arm and turn to see a guy in white T-shirt dancing with his mates. 

“You should come and dance over here with me” he shouts over the music. 

“Why?” I ask (a reasonable enough question I thought, after all, there were plenty of men on the dancefloor).  I start wondering what marvels lie in store for me if I dance next to him.  Perhaps he’s a movie-scout blown away by my dance-floor talent and I’m about to be discovered as the new Jessica Alba and cast in ‘Step Up 4: the Clapham years’. 

In answer he rolls up his sleeve, flexes his (albeit large) arm muscles and grins. 

Ah, the disappointment.


2)  I’m in a bar in Angel, drinking with some mates.  The music’s pretty good – re-mixes of NYPC, MGMT, Fischerspooner, Cut Copy – and the crowd’s started dancing. 

A guy dances over – “Alright girls?  You ‘aving a good night?”

Us – “yeah, good thanks!”

At this point the guy starts dancing right up to us, flexing his muscles, gesturing to his (clenched) torso, mouth open.  “c’mon girls, you know you want to dance!”

Me – “i would do, but you’re a bit scary”

Guy – ” what do you mean, scary!  check out this body”.  (shimmies) “c’mon girls, you have to dance!” (starts gyrating)

Me – “now you’re even scarier” (look at friend who looks like she’s dying to run away)

Guy  (sticks middle finger up at me) – “ah, fuck off then, bitch!”


So I did.   🙂


I’m off to scotland again next week to dance with some real men.  I’ll have a job to find them though, most are inside playing Grand Theft Auto IV!


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