Eating like a King

I just ate a superior lunch consisting of chicken salad, chilli cheese, chorizo and a rosemary sourdough bread roll. This is not usual lunchtime fayre. I usually have some Knorr Super Chicken Noodle soup and a chunk of bread. But curiosity finally got the better of me today and sent me to Whole Foods on Kensington High Street; the hype worked it's subliminal magic on me. Thinking I'd perhaps pick up a loaf and a piece of cheese at most I took a small basket, and, twenty minutes later, found myself at the till, laden with goods and forking out £28.













This is the sort of person you see in Whole Foods. They are mostly hippy parents with too much money buying sugar-free cereals for their evil, posh children.















But this is the AMAZING cheese counter that acted as the catalyst for my spree and NOW you understand how it happened.

I really must stop shopping at any food stores that are not my local grocer, my local butcher, my local baker, or Tesco. Because whenever I do I ALWAYS end up spending over £20 on less than one basket of food. I could get a whole trolley of food at Tesco for that!

So, from tomorrow James and I are on wartime rations for the next few days while our cat and rabbit continue to eat their (large) stock of luxury veterinary-recommended pet foods. They have a much better life than us. They eat and sleep all day, and get us to take their shit away for them.

Bastards.

I think I may have just watched the best episode of BBC London ever.

Among all the usual bollocks about the mayoral election was a feature about a guy who roams around London in a full Alien costume just to amuse people. This guy does it for love and charity, and because it makes him and other people laugh, which I think is a fucking ace reason. It directly mimicks a dream I have always had of hiring a Chewbacca costume and performing my day-to-day duties whilst wearing it. In fact, it is better than my dream, because the Alien is perhaps one of the most amusing movie villains, when placed in a regular setting (like the tube or the bookies).

Anyway, all this writing is counterproductive, because you only need to look at the picture to appreciate how excellent it is. So don't let me waste any more of your precious time.

TRIUMPH!

It is a great day for Ladies Who Love Dinosaurs. Today I discovered, whilst Googling my favourite cheese to try and find a local outlet, that if you Google search 'Spicy Nun' the very first website you are shown is THIS ONE.

It is probably the best day of my life.

Travels with my cervix...

Today I had to go to hospital.
It's okay. I'M STILL ALIVE!

I had an appointment for a feminine procedure. I took James with me for comfort, but when I was finally called I took a deep breath, covered my privates with a linen sheet, mounted the Colposcopy Torture Chair (see below for image) and allowed a man in a white coat to take photographs of my cervix. Some may be embarrassed by this, but I'm not ashamed of what I had done, in fact I think I am in a privileged position, as I have seen the inside of my own vagina. How many women can say that, eh?!* I know exactly what my cervix looks like. I'm not boasting, but I could probably pick it out of a line up, if I ever had to.

This is the chair that they put me in:Those ain't arm-rests, gents, they're for your KNEES!

I only nearly cried, and that was when the surgeon told me to cough because he 'couldn't find' my cervix. I yelled "WHAT? HAS IT DISAPPEARED?!", and the nurse placed her hand reassuringly on my thigh (in hindsight she was probably restraining me).

So yes, way much more information than any of you will ever want to know, but I had to preserve this moment for all posterity, so that I may bore my daughters with horror stories when they reach child-bearing age.

Oh yeah, and I worked out that the Whittington Hospital is named after Dick Whittington. It only took me five years. Which is less than it took me to work out that Q8 fuel's name is a pun on 'Kuwait'.

* except the several thousand across the world that have it done every day. Obviously. I never said it wasn't common!

A dickheads guide to mental illness (compiled and written by a dickhead, for dickheads)

Slurping on the Tixylix seems to be working. As does listening to Crowded House. And eating vegetables. Today I was able to leave the house for more than half an hour. Not that you care, you bunch of faceless geeks.

So I have made this list, I'm putting it here so that it can burn into my retinas for all eternity. It is a list of things that I need to do in order to fully pull myself out of this rut and become a functioning human being again. But it could also serve as some sort of idiots guide to surviving minor depressive episodes.

1. Wash face in morning. This is usually a no-brainer. But when I'm fucked up I always forget and take the bins out with jam and last night's drool sticking my hair to my chin.

2. Remember to eat different coloured food. Beige food is generally the most convenient as it covers biscuits, bread (toast), Shreddies and peanut butter. All of which can be eaten raw or can be prepared with minimum fuss in under three minutes. All of which contribute to malaise.

3. Vary your liquid intake. Not tea. Tea is another beige foodstuff. Tea has caffeine in it and contributes to the devil's insomnia. So you get out of bed at two-hourly intervals and make yourself a cup of tea to calm down. Only to have the caffeine kick in 20 minutes later. And the bladder urges. Yadda, yadda, yadda. This cycle can go on for 72 hours.

4. Step away from the television. It can lull you into a false sense of security. You might think you're on the mend, because 'Loose Woman' Colleen Nolan's comely bosoms provide some sort of vicarious audio-visual cuddle, but when the news comes on at 1.30 you're in for a nasty shock.

5. Sleep on your back. If you sleep on your front or side, as I do, then you will be very tempted to cling onto your pillow for sanctuary during the night/early morning. I have spent twenty minutes unsticking myself from a pillow before.

6. Don't sleep during the afternoon. You'll only wake up at 6pm and think 'oh fuck, there's still HOURS left to get through'. Might as well sit 'em out conscious.

7. Go out for a bit. Yeah, so you'll think people are staring at you, but actually, Stroud Green Tesco's on a weekday is a veritable melting pot of mental disorders, and you'll blend in just fine. My personal favourite character is Half-Tranny-Man, who wears one DM boot and one high-heeled shoe and walks like a pirate. Except last time I saw him he wasn't wearing any shoes, or walking, because he'd found a wheelchair in a skip.

8. Borrow an animal. Find a friend with one or get one of your own. The stupider the better. I favour dogs, but rabbits and parrots will do. NOT CATS, they don't give a fuck about you, they will only reject you.

9. Try not to text people. You'll only bore them, and they can't do anything to help you anyway.

10. If all else fails, and I mean all else, then do this: Take valium/sleeping pills for 48 hours straight. Wake up after two days, having forgotten why you fell asleep in the first place. Carry on as normal.

I have decided...

... that I only like Jeremy Kyle when his guests are from West Country or Wales. Londoners make very boring guests. Mancunians and Yorkshiremen/women are terrifying. I much prefer morbidly fat people with a chip on their shoulder and a lilt to their accent. Are they really so bored that they need to go on Jeremy Kyle to spice up their lives?

Not too hot this week. Have had an ear infection that's lasted AGES. I'm on the third lot of antibiotics for it. Subsequently my immune system is so fuckered that I have caught a stinking cold, rendering me well and truly immobile. I am relying on Tixylix children's cough syrup to sort me out.

Viruses and malaise always bring on bouts of depression, and recent events are no exception. I have been hiding in my flat and eating the entire contents of my freezer to avoid venturing outside. It's not a very healthy state of affairs is it ladies and gents?

What would YOU do?

I like listening to other people's conversations on the tube, especially if they're being really angry or emphatic. So yesterday I knew I'd hit gold when two arguing scenester kids (with stupid fringes and massive Nike trainers) holding skateboards boarded my carriage mid-argument. It soon became clear that they were arguing about who sang lead vocals on various Clash songs, if one said Mick Jones, the other said Joe Strummer and so on. Not actually that interesting, really. Until I realised that they were talking about Joe Strummer in the present tense. And continued to do so for quite some time.
- Holy Moly, thought I, They think Joe Strummer is still alive
This led to a moral dilemma. Should I, could I, be the one to break it to them that the artist they were arguing so passionately over died of congenital heart failure more than five years ago? I decided to give it a few minutes, generously thinking that perhaps they did know, and were just shit grammartarians.

But then one of them said 'Right, well when we go and see Joe Strummer next time he tours you'll EAT YOUR WORDS'.

Oh to be seventeen, stupid and blissfully unaware of the harsh realities of rock 'n' roll. I didn't have time to tell them after that bombhell, as they got off at Paddington and I was left wondering how, or if, they would ever find out. I'm banking on Wikipedia.