That's All, Folks

Well, readers, this is to be my last ever DOADR entry. After a good ten minutes consideration, I've decided 'tis time to move on to pastures new. This has nothing to do with the fact that my social life is hectic for the next three weeks and I really couldn't be arsed writing with a constant hangover. Nope, it's time for a fresh start. As the year draws to a close, so should this blog.

The truth is, I am a journalist and I should be writing about things that journalists write about: current affairs, climate change, wanker bankers, Jordan's attacks on Peter's manhood, that sort of thing. The Boyfriend feigned support when I told him of this change in direction and tried not to react when I suggested I start with Darling's windfall tax on bonuses in the City. OK, so I'm no Robert Peston, but I'm confident I can venture an informed opinion on most subjects, albeit formed from my own unique understanding of the subject in question.

There is also a glaringly obvious reason why DOADR has run its course. I am no longer a receptionist, nor am I particularly disgruntled. When I started this diary, six months ago, I was pushing 26 and my career looked about as promising as all 192 countries attending the Climate Conference in Copenhagen this week, reaching a unilateral agreement. See – I do know my stuff. (It is Copenhagen, right?)

I'm pleased to say this is no longer the case. Yes, I am currently working for a magazine about caravans (oops, did I just let my anonymity slip?) but I have to admit, I really enjoy what I do. I love the impassioned readers who compare motorhome prejudice to ethnic cleansing and send me videos of their grandchildren in their caravan, accompanied by wishes for a 'tender Christmas'; I love the bizarre assignments I'm sent on; I love my colleagues and I love the fact that I'm working for one of the largest and most respected magazine publishers in the UK. Most of all, I'm excited by the promise of what's to come.

This blog has been wonderfully indulgent and I have been both surprised and touched that anyone other than my mum finds the minutiae of my life even vaguely interesting. An even bigger surprise, has been the readership itself. I had expected my girlfriends would follow tales of dietary angst and PMS, but not uncles, The Boyfriend's mates and my 17-year-old male cousin. One friend of The Boyfriend's, who I have long believed to be a misogynist, regularly logs on to find out what's been happening in Annie's world. I've also been told he's upset he hasn't been mentioned. Gaz, there's love. But I still think you're a chauvinist pig.

It was difficult for me, unashamed Luddite that I am, to even contemplate getting on board with blogging. I still have a Nokia 3310, send handwritten letters and left Twitter because it was all too complicated (I'm even in a Book Club for Christ's sake) and yet, this whole experience has been great fun. It was a comfort to know that, after a crappy day behind reception, I could come home and vent and someone out there would be reading. Hurrah for technological progress!

So, thanks guys. I really do appreciate the support and am glad you've enjoyed reading this. I'm still writing bar and restaurant reviews for Fluid (www.fluidfoundation.co.uk) and who knows, I may once again, re-enter the blogosphere, but instead of sharing all about my life, I'll write about yer man with the bushy brows. What's his face? You know, the one with the red briefcase who's going to tax those horrid bankers?

It'll come to me.... So, Jordan and Peter, eh?

Happy Christmas and New Year, etc.

Signing off.

Alix. I mean Annie. I mean....

Hook, line and sink, sink, sinking...

I interviewed this guy yesterday for Fluid Foundation – TV chef, Valentine Warner. You may have seen him in a semi-aroused state, praising his own culinary creations on the BBC series 'What to Eat Now'. Beeb bosses have dubbed him the 'Russell Brand of the kitchen' and I must say, I can see the similarities. Look at that unbuttoned shirt, those manly hands, the gleeful smile as he spreads his chosen bird's legs...

I put this comparison to him, one he flatly denied, of course. He wanted a discourse on food and his latest TV series, being a TV chef and all, whereas I wanted to talk hair – how does he keep it so voluminous? I also asked him where he lived and before he had a chance to reply, assured him I wouldn't stalk him. This might seem like an odd thing to say at an interview, though not when you have a history of stalking. But that's a story for another day.

Also this week, I attended the annual luncheon of a well-known motoring institute, on behalf of Tractor magazine. All went relatively well at first. I managed some successful networking, despite having zero knowledge of, nor interest in, cars. It always astounds me how enthusiasts think everyone else shares the same unbridled passion for their hobby. I was spoken at for a full hour about engine sizes. I nodded politely of course, but if the glazed over eyes failed to denote my boredom, you'd think the entire bottle of wine I consumed before our starters arrived, would have said something?

Anyway, we had sat down to lunch when I thought I should do the rounds and introduce myself. After shaking hands with the rest of my table, I was about to reach across to the girl opposite, when I noticed she had a prosthetic arm. I observed it was her left arm and so naturally, I assumed the right would be fit for a handshake. So, over I go, extending the hand of acquaintance when out of nowhere, the right arm is raised from its hiding place under the table, and a hook is produced.

I was immediately thrown. One failed limb I can deal with but this was entirely unexpected. She waved it at me in polite acknowledgment of my attempt to observe etiquette and was, no doubt, letting me off the hook (I couldn't resist).

She was just about to resume her conversation with her lunch partner and that would have put an end to the embarrassment. Naturally, I couldn't let it go for fear of being seen to discriminate, so, I made the call and shook that hook. Rather vigorously I may add, in an attempt to convince everyone at the table that I carry no prejudices whatsoever towards Britain's disabled populace.

The girl smiled, seeming rather bemused by my obvious anxiety, and we carried on with our meal. I had almost wiped the incident from my mind when, on taking leave of my fellow diners, I felt obliged to do yet another round of the table, entirely forgetting about the hook. When I reached my friend once again, I remembered, mid hand-extension, what I was dealing with and terrified she might not be so forgiving this time, I immediately retracted the hand and waved it in the air in an enthusiastic fist pump, muttering something about what a great lunch this had been. I legged it before I could gauge the reaction.

Between my bunny boiling behaviour at the interview and inability to engage with those of limited mobility, it has been a week of unrelenting mortification. I have just about recovered and am off to review the London Christmas Taste Fest today. I have been told by my editor I'll be interviewing a TV chef. As long as he's not hot or disabled, I think I'll be OK. I refuse to even contemplate the outcome if he's both...

Tuesday 1 December: Advent is here!

In a fit of domesticity on Sunday morning, I cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom, baked 18 blueberry muffins and a nutty apple loaf, and washed The Boyfriend's undergarments. In the afternoon some girlfriends popped over to examine my efforts (the baking, not the boxers). The verdict was a resounding thumbs up.

So yesterday, with seven leftover muffins tempting me in the kitchen, I decided to show off my culinary prowess and bring them into work. There were plenty of approving nods and contented chews as the buns were consumed. I was confident I'd earned some serious employee brownie points and was about to settle down to my work with a whistle when my colleague arrives into the office with a homemade gingerbread house.

Seriously, a gingerbread house? Apparently, she whittled it together last night. Now this was no ordinary gingerbread house. This was the Graceland of confectionary residences. I wouldn't be surprised if I switched on Cribs and saw a gingerbread man stroking the black satin sheets of his waterbed, purring 'This is where the magic happens.'

What are the chances, in a global media organisation that you'll find two people who spontaneously decide to bake for their colleagues on the same day, never mind the likelihood of one of them throwing together something as elaborate as a gingerbread house? (sorry to keep labouring the point but even Waitrose doesn't make them)

But this is a girl who's already made her own jams, chutneys and truffles as Christmas presents, spent last week teaching herself html so she could construct an Advent Calendar for tractor.co.uk and cycles abut four miles to and from work each day. And the truly sickening thing is, she's a top bird. Funny, down to earth, sound as the proverbial pound. I should have known better than to try and compete with this level of perfection. Competitiveness is for insecure losers, anyway. And I, am most definitely not, an insecure loser.

In other news, my work Christmas party is next week. Should be very chilled out. A few drinks, some karaoke – I haven't prepared anything, really. Just Mariah's back catalogue. My voice coach says I've almost nailed 'Hero'. Anyway, like I said, it will be a very relaxed affair.

Pants, is that the time? Don't want to be late for work.

Sunday 29 November

There are many things about living in London that piss me off: commuting, people walking too slowly through the tube station, the fact that I'm bothered by people walking too slowly through the tube station, and so forth. But on Saturdays, after my jog on the common, I potter along the Northcote Road to Gail's for my morning Pain au Chocolat, watching Clapham's latest initiates into parenthood proudly push their double strollers into Cath Kidston, and London life doesn't seem so bad after all.

OK, that's utter nonsense. I hate kids and as my far-from-firm backside demonstrates, I've yet to discover the joys of jogging. I also think I may have developed a touch of the Madonnas in reverse. (Since when are prams 'strollers'?)

Anyway, my fast flailing point is, that despite the commuting and the pollution and the mass anger, London's actually a pretty cool place to live.

Take last night, for example. Mid-week, I had fully intended on committing to a night on the sofa yet again with a bottle of wine and the X Factor, even though the show is thoroughly boring now that the twins have gone. Lately though, I've been trying to be more spontaneous, so when my friend Jenny suggested The Boyfriend and I attend a 'Secret Cinema' outing with her and her other half, I begrudgingly said yes.

Hurrah for enforced spontaneity! It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. We were instructed in an anonymous email, to dress up in gangsters and molls attire and meet in a mysterious location under a bridge in East London, with a flower for 'The Boss'. As we queued along a dark, cobble-paved lane in the pissing rain, we were entertained by a troupe of actors decked out in 1920s and 30s regalia and driving vintage, Chicago gangster-style cars. Once inside, we were ushered up a narrow flight of stairs through a tiny side door, which opened up into a huge Art Deco ballroom. A swing band and tap dancers entertained the crowd while in an old fashioned boxing ring constructed at the back of the room, a couple of 'mobsters' slugged it out. We feasted on popcorn and chilli dogs, had a few relaxing glasses of wine and watched Bugsy Malone.

Just before the final scene, where the gangsters charge Fat Sam's Bar, armed with custard pie-filled machine guns, the film was stopped and Fat Sam's boys ran through the audience administering plastic anoraks, paper plates and squirty cream. The film was put back on and on the compere's signal, a mass custard pie fight ensued before everyone piled on stage for a the big finale.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun and yet was in bed by midnight, sober and correct, and feeling the love for my adopted hometown.

The point of this story: switch off from reality TV (unless Jedward is involved) and say yes to everything. Oh, and avoid the Northcote Road on weekends if images of happy families have you reaching for the nearest gun – custard pie filled, of course.

Tuesday 24th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Albert_Pearl_N1.Bar

Sunday 22 November

Having a lazy day. Here's a half-hearted attempt at self-promotion:

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/userprofile.aspx?UserListID=48188

Nothing new to report. Had a lovely potter in Brixton yesterday, followed by a disastrous fudge making session, and this morning, I stole an umbrella from a pensioner at mass (I'm so riddled with Catholic guilt right now, I can't even joke about it. I'm sure this will pass, so stay tuned).

This evening, I'm going to call into the Xtra Factor and complain about the other judges' treatment of Louis Walsh. I reckon this demonstration of loyalty towards a fellow compatriot should atone for my earlier indiscretion. Bless me Father.....

Embracing 'Movember'

I've been living in a state of perpetual ignorance these past few weeks (blame the Kraftmatic Adjustable Bed) and have only recently discovered the bizarre follicular phenomenon that is 'Movember'.

One of my good friends has been cultivating his mo' for several weeks and now sports a full-blown handlebar. He's withheld our jocular abuse (and no doubt sexual rejection) remarkably well but until now, I couldn't understand why anyone would want to do this to themselves.

I have been enlightened. This self-mutilation is all for charity. The fight against Prostate Cancer to be more specific. I'm a big fan of prostates and anything south of that region, so in solidarity with the male species, I have not only grown a mo, but a fro, too.

It took me a good few hours to get some serious growth going but not a bad effort, I must say.

Being serious for a moment (a sentence, i promise you,  you will never read in this blog again), give Movember and my friend Mick your support today, and change the face of men's health:

http://ie.movember.com/mospace/469341

Old at heart

It's been a while folks, but there's a good reason for my neglect of you. I was back in Ireland for a college reunion, had several restaurants to review and two days ago, I moved house. Thankfully, I've the day off work to recover and fill you lovely readers in on my latest endeavours.

I am in love with my new apartment. Most of Sunday was spent opening the mirrored concertina doors of my built-in wardrobe, watching the light inside automatically switch on, jumping into the closet to marvel at the space, then getting out and repeating the process. I also derived immense pleasure from fiddling with the controls on our Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (yes, you read that correctly). Before you judge me, the bed came with the gaff. I am prone to muscle fatigue, but have no mobility issues as of yet.

We also have an old-fashioned writing desk in the living room. I've been meaning to write a strongly worded letter to British Gas, concerning an unpalatable bill they recently sent us, but I haven't had the necessary implements, until now.

The only downside to our new abode (besides the apartment block caretaker who is, rather disturbingly, attempting to channel Jack Nicholson in The Shining) is a seeming lapse in The Boyfriend's sense of propriety. He is so entirely comfortable in his new habitat, he's taken to walking around the apartment in his underwear. While constructing Beth's Ikea furniture the other day, his new get up was accompanied by a beer in hand. Clearly, we'll be having chats.

We'd planned to spend the first night in with Beth's boyfriend, who was over from Paris to help with the move. He brought some champers and chocolates with him and the four of us settled down on the sofa to watch X Factor, Beth and I clad in fluffy dressing gowns, our men in their slippers. On re-entering the room after an ad break, I surveyed this horrifying display of middle age and, not quite ready for pureed food and incontinence pads just yet, I persuaded everyone to get up and dressed, slapped on that Black Eyed Peas song that seems to get today's 'yoof' excited and we hit two parties, one of which was in a squat.

Human art installations, psychedelic light shows, sinks overflowing with moudly dishes and abstract conversation on abstractism – is this how one parties these days? I tried my best to embrace it, even attempted a spot of shape throwing, but I must admit, I longed to get back to my geriatric bed.

We grabbed a kebab on the way home, another stab at forcing nostalgia for our wilder days but the smoked salmon in the fridge was calling me.

I crawled into bed to finish my novel for tonight's Book Club. Yes, I am a sad old fart (in a hot young body) but look at it this way- I'll probably have my mid life crisis behind me before I get married. So, while your kids are cringing at your cliched attempts to stay young at heart, I'll genuinely be the coolest parent on the block.

Thursday 5th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Greens_Restaurant_and_Oyster_Bar_EC3V.Bar_Restaurant

Mother knows... a lot more than you'd think

During my weekly phone conversation with mum earlier, in which everything from her flailing gym efforts to my younger sister's licentiousness is discussed, she revealed something deeply disturbing. One minute, we're deriding the in-laws for their collective lapse in sartorial judgement at a recent family gathering, the next, she's telling me that an 18 year-old boy had an erection in front of her.

Did you just vomit a little bit in your mouth? Good. You have some idea of my initial reaction.

Naturally, I told her I needed more information (though I dreaded receiving it). Apparently, she had volunteered to cook the weekly fry up for my sister's rowing club teammates the previous day. As she was browning her bangers, she noticed one of the members of the boys team, staring intently at her while he worked out on the rowing machine. He had an erection.

I asked her if she was certain and she frankly told me that it's been that long since she'd seen what one looks like, she checked it out three times to be sure. It was indeed, a 'boner'. I feel emotionally conflicted, here. Should I be alarmed that my mother has just said boner to me? Sickened that she's down with the modern slang for genitalia? Or relieved that my dad is no longer asserting his conjugal rites? (I'm assuming female sexuality didn't really figure in the Prehistoric era of masculine hegemony, somewhere round about they time they got hitched)

Perhaps the most unpalatable part of the conversation was the candidness of her narration. The words 'crotch' and 'tackle' were administered freely, in the same tones of motherly disappointment that are normally reserved for when you've failed to do your homework, not caught in flagrante.

Far from being ashamed at his evident arousal in front of a middle aged woman, worse, his friend's mother, I'm told the brazen youth continued to row, smirk on face, proud of his prowess. What's more, the rest of the lycra-clad team freely rearranged their manhood in her presence.

I was going to ask her if my sister will be allowed to continue her tenure at the club, but I wouldn't want to rock the boat.

Saturday 31st October- HALLOWEEEEEEEEEEN!!

This week, I plummeted new depths of professional misery when I was sent to review an eco pod in a Milton Keynes field. The pod had supposedly been insulated in sheep's wool to keep it cosy. Clearly, this sheep's diet was lacking a good dose of Vitamin E. I was bloody freezing all night and as there was no electricity- it being an eco pod and all- I had no choice but to go to bed at 8pm.

I suppose it might have helped matters if I'd brought a sleeping bag or torch but it's been a while since my childhood days of camping en familie and I'm a bit out of practice. A colleague expressed incredulity at my ill-preparedness. 'How can you not have a head torch?' she sneered.

Oh, I'm sorry. When moving to the media capital of the world last year to pursue a career as a hard-nosed journalist, a head torch didn't immediately spring to mind as one of the essential tools of the trade.

I returned to the office the next day, sans shower, and grumpy from my night of insomnia, then it was straight to my evening job as a restaurant critic. Thankfully, my latest review was a champagne and oyster bar, the latter, conveniently disguising the scent of unwashed flesh. I polished off a bottle and a half of wine, which cured me of my chronic fatigue and now I sit here perky, clean and ready for an evening of Halloween gaiety.

Thinking of dressing up as a camper. Ah, but you'd need a head torch for that, wouldn't you? Dammit. I knew it was a useful piece of equipment.

PS

Bit controversial but as I'm a financial reject, I've nothing to lose.

John and Edward to win X Factor.

Wednesday 21st October

After years of avoidance and denial, I finally decided to bite the bullet and apply for a credit card. I must say, I derived a strange thrill from filling in my online form. This was a step towards financial independence. No longer would I have to tap the parentals for cash. A shiny new piece of environmentally unsound material was to be my passport to adulthood.

Alas, it was not to be. I have been rejected THREE times in thirty minutes. My bank doesn't want me, I'm not one of Sainsburys' Finest, even Tesco have pissed on my independence day parade. Every Little Helps, eh? Like hell it does. Why won't you help me, Tesco, huh?

I feel thoroughly despondent. Rejected. Alone. Am watching some woeful BBC3 documentary on chav weddings and eating a Sainsburys' Be Good to Yourself hot cross bun. I wish I could say it's a bitter irony to swallow but it actually tastes rather good. And less than 3% fat, too.

Sunday 18th October

Met with Oliver earlier this week (floppy-haired uni mate with bizarre predilection for First World War clothing. Used to be in love with his cousin). He wanted to fill me in on his activities since being made redundant last May.

Knowing Olly's natural predisposition to melancholia, I was surprised to find him upbeat, appropriately attired and no longer in the throes of unrequited passion for a family member. He seemed relieved to have been given the boot from his position in ad sales and saw his newly acquired freedom as an opportunity to take some time out to 'discover his place in the universe'.

I'm fond of Olly. Truly, I am. But ever since I've known him, he's been trying to discover his place in the universe. At 22, he suffered a pre mid-life crisis and bought himself a vintage Jag; a beautiful set of wheels that never made it past the driveway of his parents' charming country pile.

This time however, it would seem he's determined to figure out where his destiny lies. Over the past five months he's been studying the Alexander Technique, taking his girlfriend's whippet to puppy class and consulting a psycho analyst four times a week. I'm sure prospective employers will be thrilled with his new skillset: good posture, self-reflection and dog dressing.

Still, it must be said the journey of self-discovery holds a certain appeal. Had I the time and means, I'd happily attempt to find myself. First on the list would be to hire a personal trainer to come to my flat at 5 am each morning with a loudspeaker and an egg white omelette. Everyone knows enlightenment starts with a firm set of buttocks.

As for therapy, I'm at a loss to comprehend how parting with 50 quid an hour to talk about yourself, aids the self-understanding process. FIFTY pounds! To babble incessantly to a stranger with no constructive feedback on your neuroses? I talk about myself to myself all the time. For free.

Olly says therapy is therapeutic, funnily enough. Helps him to work through some of his issues. I can tell you right now what his issues are. An excessive trust fund and too much time to think about how to spend it. Lose the therapist. Get a job. Ever considered ad sales?

Ooh, I'm good at this. That'll be 50 quid please.

Thursday 15th October 2009

Have nothing interesting to say, so here's something I wrote earlier:

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Bangalore_Express_EC3V.Bar_Restaurant

Tuesday 13th October

I know I said I'm on strike but I'm thoroughly upset and need to offload: 

I FORGOT my packed lunch this morning! 

Big deal, you cry, but lunch is the highlight of my day and this lunch in particular was pure sex in a tuppaware box- organic shredded chicken, lightly toasted blanched almonds, french beans and a honey and mustard dressing. I got the recipe off Hugh-Fernley-Whats-his-face in The Guardian.

I am DEVASTATED. Had to make do with a ready made sandwich and cold soup from Tescos. My day has been ruined. Clearly, God doesn't want me to be thin and healthy and eat organic food so I'm now polishing off work's supply of custard creams. I could weep.

That is all.

Sunday 11th October

It's becoming increasingly clear that my nearest and dearest are using DOADR to keep up to date with what's happening in my life. Yes, it's sweet they take a vague interest, but dipping into an online diary on occasion does not exempt you from picking up the phone or dropping an email every once in a while. You know, keeping in touch- that thing that mates do. (David H, I'm talking to you).

So, this week, I am going on strike. No more blog until a little bit of lovin' comes my way. You have to make the effort, folks. I don't however, want to penalise those readers who do take their friendship duties seriously (greatly appreciate the hourly updates, Lils). For you lovely lot, here's a recap of my week:

• Began the Clapham flat hunt in earnest. Met agent with freakishly high barnet and pointy shoes, who promised us the world. We got a bedsit above a massage parlour. The search continues.
• Reviewed a cool restaurant in the City for my job on the side- Fluid Foundation
• Considered voting for the Tories in the next election.
• Made a royal tit out of myself, strutting through Croydon to Rod Stewart's version of "The way you look tonight" (made me think of my dad someday walking me down the ailsle. I started weeping outside Greggs, attracting concerned glances from passersby. Told them I'd a dodgy sausage roll for lunch).
• Dragged The Boyfriend to see 'Sister Act', the musical. He pretended not to like it as I'd booked us the cheap seats, forcing him to spend two hours with inebriated social deviants and the clinically obese. Caught him tapping his Burberry umbrella in appreciation of the soul, though.
• Changed my mind about voting for the Tories.

Eh, that's it really. Gripping stuff there. I am now officially on strike. Might go off on holidays with London's Royal Mail workers. I hear they've got a bit of time to kill.

Baci,

Annie x

2:02pm

WHY AM I SO OBESE?!

Two minutes. Not bad.

Monday 5th October

It's Monday, which equals misery. Couple that with last night's sudden realisation that if I eat five double chocolate cookies in one sitting, I will put on weight (I curse old age)- we’re talking despair on an epic scale.

Yet for some strange reason, wobbly bits and Monday blues have failed to dampen my spirits. I am- dare I say it- happy.

I think it’s down to a thoroughly enjoyable weekend spent poncing about stately homes in the countryside (The Boyfriend and I have, tragically, become National Trust Nigels), and hanging out with old friends in Clapham. Who cares about something as trivial as weight when there's fun to be had?

I’ve also finally managed to talk The Boyfriend (and myself) around to the pleasures of London’s south side. We’ve settled on Clapham for our next London adventure and are moving there next month. It’s true, Clapham is the easy option; London for Beginners, some might say. Every Paddy bold enough to tear himself away from Barry's tea and mammy's soda bread, invariably ends up there.

But isn’t there comfort in familiarity? London ain’t the easiest place to set up shop. It’s full of the career obsessed and the clinically angry. I can say this without offense, for I am one of them. That's not to say I’m not fond of the place. I’ve done my time in ‘real’ London- eating fried chicken in New Cross, squaring up to rude boys in Brixton, etc- and it's all very hip and exciting, but for now, I’m quite happy to play it safe in the cosy confines of Clapham. Everyone we love lives there or in the vicinity. It’s the logical choice.

First on the agenda when we move: sign up to the nearest gym. I'm giving this happiness thing another hour before it wears off then it's back to self-loathing and despair.

 

Saturday 26th September

I got up at 8 this morning to watch a week-old rerun of Jonathan Ross' interview with Peter Andre. Was dying to see how Pete would deal with Ross' probes for the low down on his divorce from Jordan. Thankfully, he handled himself with class and decorum, unlike that floosie he was married to. This pleases me. (By the way, I'm painfully aware that if 'sad arse' were added to the Oxford English dictionary, my name would be right beside it).

So, I was gonna fill you in on Rome and further Ibiza antics but today, I'd like to discuss boyfriends, specifically why they suck. I'm usually opposed to dividing the sexes along enemy lines but today, I'm throwing in the towel. Why doesn't my man understand me?!

It's been ages since he's done anything romantic for me. In the early days of our courtship I was wooed with love letters, massages and meat. I'm not speaking euphemistically here- he actually brought a fillet steak along to one of my uni lectures. I think he'd intended on using it as a prop to proclaim his love for me. "Man needs meat, meat is passion, you are meat, I eat meat..." (I subsequently discovered the "best butcher in Dublin" from which he acquired the steak, was next door to his favourite watering hole).

Anyway, now that we live together, it's the occasional bunch of flowers and a pat on the backside when I've made the effort to wear matching underwear. On the way home from breakfast this morning, I decided to stop speaking to him until he rectifies the situation. He claimed to be completely ignorant of what was bothering me and didn't really seem to care whether I was talking to him or not. So I chucked a cup of green tea over a nearby bush (I have a girl's aim) and ran off, cursing his existence. I didn't realise there was a gardener trimming said bush from the other side who, whilst mopping his tea-stained brow, told the boyfriend I was high-maintenance.

So here I am, all alone on a Saturday afternoon, insulted by a gardener and likely to be charged with GBH. All because my boyfriend is a moron who is unable to anticipate my needs. High maintenance indeed. Humph.

Sunday 20th September

I'm back from my travels, a pathetic parody of the Ibiza holiday maker (the boho type that inhabits the north of the island I hasten to add, NOT the 'make mine a full English' cretin one encounters in Chav Antonio). My body has packed itself in and I'm ridden with alcohol bloat and a chronic dose of Post Session Depression.

Maladies aside, it was a memorable week of merriment, good company and eh, rain. Yup dear readers, the heavens opened and pissed on us royally for three full days. But did it hinder our debauchery, robust Paddies like ourselves? Never!

We danced with old men in pink turbans, swam naked with hippies, sampled the island's many herbal refreshments and found endless amusement sharing all during a candlelit game of 'I've Never' (the puerile pleasures of uni days never wane). 

A word of warning however, re game playing: couples charades should be avoided at all costs. Boys, 'Gulag Archipelago' is not a fair tradeoff for 'Jaws'.

More installments on our Ibiza shananigans to follow when I get back from tractor testing in Rome. That's if I make it back alive. Have never driven a tractor nor abroad for that matter. Could make for an interesting trip.

See you next week. Hopefully.

Friday 11th September

DOADR is logging off for a week. This former receptionist will be sunning her generously padded and exceptionally dimpled seat at her exclusive villa in Ibiza.

My bags are packed, the latest tractor reviews are up to date, and a glass of rose awaits me at my friend's gaff in Clapham. Lily has requested 'something neon' as a souvenir. I told her if I can bring my sanity back with me, I've done well.

Glowstick at the ready, Ibiza, let's be 'avin it!

8.25am

I'm going to Ibiza by the way.

Thursday 10th September

Ibiza, Ibiza, IBIZA!!!

Sunday 4th September

What a waste of a weekend. I had intended on being thoroughly productive- cleaning, grocery shopping, watering my basil plant, etc.

Instead, Saturday was spent on the sofa watching X Factor and a really bad 9/11 movie (I was unable to muster the strength to switch to a more hangover-friendly film).

My malaise was due to an excess of merriment the previous evening, which abruptly concluded when I threw up inside my Waitrose Made For Life bag on the bus home. Class act, me.

The thing is (and despite what you may be thinking, this is NOT a case of drinker’s denial), I didn’t consume a great deal of alcohol, well- no more than your average Friday night’s intake anyway. I didn’t mix my drinks; I imbibed on a full stomach; and it was after 8pm before I had my first swall (as we say back in Belfast). In short, I followed all the rules.

Lily thinks my lack of sobriety was due to recent weight loss and I’m happy enough to go along with it. This way, I can deny all culpability and I get to be skinny. Win-win.

Poor Lils, she’s a very reserved drunk. Come to think of it, I’ve only seen her truly legless once, which makes my own occasional drunken indiscretion all the more embarrassing. It’s somewhat lacking in decorum to have your hair held back for you by a mate, younger than your little sister, while you vomit your 26 year-old heart out (btw, is there an age where it’s unacceptable to be visibly drunk? If so, perhaps it’s time I had a word with my parents).

But still, every girl knows that when you sign up for female friendship, such messy jobs are written into the contract.

Some were not much impressed by the events of the evening. Never mind that I was well behaved at the party and didn’t offend anyone. Vomiting on a bus, it would seem, is akin to murder or prostitution. I’ve had the misfortune of being horribly drunk twice in the last four months and probably a total of five times over a two year period, yet you’d swear, I’m one step away from a stint in The Priory, the way some people act.

So, my dear readers, I can respond in one of two ways: I can hang up my party shoes, pour that bottle of 2001 Pouilly Fuisse I’ve been saving for a special occasion down the sink and sign up for AA classes OR; I can accept that sometimes, I will get drunk. I might fall over, talk rubbish, say something bordering on offensive and yes; I might just throw up when my body has had enough abuse. When this happens, as it has done in the past and no doubt will in the future, I will go easy on the sauce, take plenty of green tea and become a hermit, only to resurface a few months later and make a royal fool of myself all over again.

As old friend and new roomie Beth put it: “no one has gone through life without making a complete tit off themselves”. And that’s what I love about my oldest mates. There’s never any judgement because they’ve all been in the same situation. So you see, I’m happy to keep flying that tit flag. In fact, it’s imperative that I do so. It’s a charitable act, when you think about it. I am Everyman, making people feel less bad about their imperfections by my own ungodly behaviour. I’m so saintly, I should be canonised. Such goodness deserves a drink. Better make mine a double.

Sunday 30th August

Lily has moved out. Perhaps my note leaving pushed her over the edge. I took exception to pots caked in five day old risotto, and chocolate sauce splattered across the walls. Was I not justified in the odd death threat? Despite this, I was sad to see her go but have been enduring the loss as best I can.

We have a new flatmate, Beth- an old uni friend. She's exceptionally clean and generous with her Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. You couldn't ask for more in a housemate, really. However, I'm not quite sure yet how I feel about her ironing habits. I came home the other day to find her pressing The Boyfriend's boxers, whistling the theme tune to Disney's 'Be Our Guest' while she worked. He of course, was delighted with the fruits of her labour. I've not so much as washed a sock for him since we moved in together and now he's having his intimates attended to. Next thing, she'll be hopping into bed with us and complimenting his manhood.

I'm undecided as to what course of action to take. On the one hand, my future wife credentials could be seriously jeopardised if I allow this to continue. He'll no doubt start to expect the same wifely behaviour from me. I am a serious journalist dammit, at the forefront of agricultural reporting. How can I commit to the domestic grind when there are cows to save and tractors to be raced!

On the other hand, I must not be selfish. Beth clearly takes pleasure in her work. She's also taken to ironing my smalls and bringing The Boyfriend and me tea in bed. How can I deprive both of them of such joy?

No, I must hold my tongue and soldier on as best I can. And if it all starts to get a bit too creepy, I can always leave her a note.

Tuesday 25th August

I have turned into a note-leaver. You know the type. Too spineless to tell their housemate to their face that they're a filthy cretin and therefore resorts to placing angry post-its in random places ("Clean your crap stains" on top of the toilet cistern, for example). 

My American housemate considers this a passive aggressive gesture and has thus far, like the others, ignored my pleas for a cleaner, greener household. The thing is- thanks to a spot of detective work, monitoring everyone's regularity- I know EXACTLY who the phantom shit and run is. Being the decent soul that I am, I didn't want to embarrass anyone by parading the evidence in their face, which is why I resorted to the note. 

If  I'm going to be patently ignored however, you leave me with no choice, roomies. Dirty protest. Think Irish POWs circa '78. In yoh face!

Passive aggressive, my backside. I'm bringing aggression to the frontline biactches!

Sunday 16th August

The Boyfriend, on his return from a recent visit to the South of France, announced he is becoming a socialist. It would seem he has "grown weary of London and its angry, consumerist ways" and wants us to up sticks and move to some sleepy hamlet in Burgundy. 

As you know, I have renounced all things French so the timing of his premature mid-life crisis isn’t the best.

And don't get me started on the socialism thing. This, from a man who refuses to clothe his feet in anything less than 100% cashmere, and kicks up a stink when I suggest eating somewhere that requires a voucher. But now he insists he has "profoundly and irrevocably" changed after witnessing the camaraderie between villagers on his trip.

"Everyone is equal,” he told me. “The doctor is friends with the postman, nobody asks you what you do for a living and everyone takes pride in their work."

It's astonishing he was able to nail rural France in just one weekend. A perceptive individual is The Boyfriend.

All week he’s been singing the same tune- he could labour on a farm, I could clean houses. There isn’t the same imperative to mindlessly consume over there- we can live off the land, and our love.

Faced with choice of donning a pinafore and brushing up on my peasant French, or searching for a new partner at my time of life, I started preparing an ad for Guardian Soulmates, when thankfully; he appeared to return to his old capitalist ways.

When offered VIP tickets to see U2 play Wembley last Friday, he jumped at the chance, leaving me trying to discern the ant-like figures of Bono et al from the back of the stadium while he mingled with celebs in an enclosed platform, raised up from the crowd of “plebs” or diehard fans to you and me.

Vive la socialism.

Sunday 2nd August

Regular followers of this diary will be aware of my turbulent relationship with the French. In many ways, I am the ultimate Francophile: I was born on Bastille Day, my favourite book is The Count of Monte Cristo and I’m currently on the French Women Don’t Get Fat diet (which has been going rather well, if you discount the South African wine I surreptitiously enjoyed with my Brie last night). I even look great in red lipstick.

I applaud the Republican principles of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite and adore French cuisine. It’s just a pity then, that the French, as a nation, suck.

I have had several run-ins with our Gallic cousins, affronted by their unwavering refusal to admit culpability when they invariably cause offence. So it should come as no surprise when I confess that I nearly came to blows with one last night. The sneering Pierre nicked our taxi as I was trying to negotiate a fare with the driver.

“I am taking zis taxi biiieeeeetches,” he proclaimed with a flick of his cravat (faux Dior), pushing past us to get into the back seat. He refused to listen to the entreaties of his embarrassed Anglo-Saxon companion and merely reiterated his earlier sentiment.
“Back off biiieeetches, zis taxi iiiiiss mine.”

Defiant as Napoleon, he refused to budge. Alas, also like the historic Emperor, he had greatly underestimated his opponent. Enraging a Northern Irish woman? Schoolboy error, Pierre!

I thrust myself into the taxi with him, told him his economy was in tatters, he had a pervert for a President, Hell; his government couldn’t even secure an Olympic bid! I saved my trump card for last- Italian wine is far superior to French.

Of course, my rantings achieved nothing. I merely confirmed that the Irish are a nation of drunken fishwives and he sped off in his taxi, undoubtedly feeling amply entitled to retain his supposed birthright to superiority.

I went home, kicking myself for not having handled the situation in a more dignified manner. I did however, take great pleasure in throwing out a full chunk of Epoisse, making toasties with good old-fashioned Cracker Barrel instead. Hardly Waterloo, but a minor victory for me.

Friday 31st July

Today, I frank my last letter, transfer my last call, bugger up my last stationery order… you get it. I’m leaving.

I’m strangely sad to go. Kosher sandwich mishaps and workers’ revolt aside, I shall miss this place. I’ve already received two bunches of flowers, lots of good wishes and a compliment on my “smiley morning face”. Clearly, this lot aren’t familiar with “Diary of a DISGRUNTLED receptionist”.

Speaking of which, still haven't figured out what to rename this blog. Diary of a Tractor Journo? Diary of a Formerly Disgruntled Receptionist who is no longer a receptionist but still very much disgruntled"?

Answers on a postcard please...

Tuesday 28th July

5:51 pm

I’m shattered today. Spent half the night in a fitful sleep, my fidgeting eventually waking The Boyfriend at 4:30 am. He wasn’t cross at first. A recurring nightmare involving killer shrimp has made him incredibly tolerant of bad dreams. He reached in for a comforting hug.

I dreamt that I spent my very first Christmas away from home with his family. We had gotten married the previous year and it was my turn to go to his. I felt miserable because I missed my mum and her Christmas pudding and wanted to know if there was any way we could reach a compromise whereby we spend every Christmas with my family.

A disgusted snort as the consoling arm roughly returned to other side of the bed, firmly ended the discussion.

Yes, it is cruelly unfair to disturb one’s sleep over a dream about marital obligations but such concerns weigh heavily on my mind. I am a dreadful worrier. I never cease worrying, even when I’m in a carefree mood (then I worry about the inevitable end of my high).

Take last Saturday. It was a glorious summer’s day and The Boyfriend and I were en route to our local deli for our usual croissants and coffee.

I thought I had, the previous evening, exhausted my list of things to worry about that weekend:
“How do I get out of leaving drinks with work next week? Should I tell them I’m flying home that evening? But what if one of my colleagues should also happen to be catching a flight from Gatwick at the same time and offers me a lift? I’ll have to go to the airport and pretend to check in and I want to go see Harry Potter on Friday night.”

Climate change was also on the agenda but given The Boyfriend’s newfound love for Mother Earth, I had someone to share that particular burden.

On Saturday though, something else cropped up which filled me with dread- Birth. The pain, the aesthetic implications for my vagina, the wellbeing of the child in question. What if I’m forced to have a C section? Will this irrevocably disrupt the bond between mother and child? Will I ever be able to wear a bikini again?

For the record, I am not pregnant, nor planning on becoming pregnant any time soon, nor even engaged to be married. But should I accidentally become pregnant, birth will be a very real concern, a constant worry for nine whole months.

At times like these, I call upon my rudimentary knowledge of Yogic breathing. I am calm. I am zen-like. Life is good. Birth is life. I embrace birth. OOMMMMMMMM.

Friday 24th July

I’ve just bought a copy of “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. Recently, I’ve become obsessed with French women. You may find this surprising after my run-in with the boyfriend’s sister-in-law. We’ll call her Le Baguette from here on in. But let’s face it- anyone who makes her guests sit on the floor lest they sully her furniture, has balls.

There’s something remarkably self-assured about French birds. They exude self-control and refinement and I have decided I could do with a spot of refinement myself, certainly after my unchecked behaviour of late (Note to self: alternating champagne with shots of vodka at suburban garden parties is apparently not the done thing over here).

I shall keep you posted on my transformation from hefty miscreant to gamine Gallic goddess. After I’ve finished the Krispy Kreme one of the secretaries just handed me.

Thursday 23rd July

Last week, I feared for the continued existence of this diary. How can one write about life as a disgruntled receptionist when one is neither;
a) A receptionist nor,
b) Disgruntled?

Still, I’ve another week before I throw in the towel here so I’m technically still a receptionist. And, after a brief dalliance with ecstasy (of the non-chemical variety), I am now back to being firmly pissed off with the world.

Here is a list of things that piss me off:

Bus drivers
People eating your popcorn in the cinema when they’re too tight to buy their own
Stains down the toilet bowl- Use the bloody brush!
People who talk too much
People who talk too little
Negativity. I especially hate negativity.

Thought I’d feel better after making this list but clearly it was a pointless exercise. Like life, really.

5:32pm

I made a seating plan for my wedding today. Save your felicitations- it’s not for another three years. And I haven’t actually been proposed to yet. But there is a man on the scene and he has expressed an interest in settling down one day, albeit in a different time zone from me. But it doesn’t harm to be organised.

Limiting family and friends to 120 guests was easier than I thought. I took immense pleasure in crossing old enemies off the list, especially my boyfriend’s horrid French sister-in-law who made me sit of the floor the last time I was over at hers. All because I spilled a drop of red wine on her sofa EIGHT months prior to this. Bloody French and their impractical cream sofas. Someone needs to pull le baguette out of le arse.

Wednesday 22nd July

So my best friend Amy was made redundant last week. She’s thinking of taking off to South America for two months while she decides what she wants to do with her life. Why do some people have all the luck?

Don’t get me wrong. Last week I was thrilled with my shiny new career but now I’m wondering if the rat race is really for me. I’m a Cancerian, you see. Happiest when out on the open seas, being romanced by pirate kings and rustling up a love nest from nowt but a few coconuts on some remote desert island.

I feel as though I’m wasting my talents, languishing here in London. Though I have yet to work out what my talents actually are, I have always believed there is more to me than tractors and a fine pair of breasts.

Wednesday 22nd July

So my best friend Amy was made redundant last week. She’s thinking of taking off to South America for two months while she decides what she wants to do with her life. Why do some people have all the luck?

Don’t get me wrong. Last week I was thrilled with my shiny new career but now I’m wondering if the rat race is really for me. I’m a Cancerian, you see. Happiest when out on the open seas, being romanced by pirate kings and rustling up a love nest from nowt but a few coconuts on some remote desert island.

I feel as though I’m wasting my talents, languishing here in London. Though I have yet to work out what my talents actually are, I have always believed there is more to me than tractors and a fine pair of breasts.

11:31 am

Just got off the phone with a sales rep, looking to peddle his wares to one of the partners. He was from my part of the world and to be friendly (because that’s the kind of gal I am these days), I asked him what brought him to London.
“I’m here chasing the dream” he told me.
“How lovely,” I responded.
“Not really. I’m stuck in telesales and have no money. The dream sucks. You know how it is.”

I was going to point out that I actually have a fabulous new job and enough money to splash out on dinner at Cocoon this evening, so I don’t actually “know how it is” but the New Me decided this would be inappropriate.

Friday 17th July

Apologies for the laxness of my diary entries of late. I’ve been consumed by the happiness bug which makes writing about being unhappy somewhat tricky. It has been a week of job offers and birthdays, 5k charity runs completed without vomiting, and general good feeling towards mankind.

Until I come down from this high, I’ll have to write about other people’s unhappiness instead.

Monday 13th July

5:48 pm

I got the job at Tractor magazine! I am no longer a disgruntled receptionist!

Emmm.... does this blog have to end now?

Monday 13th July

Birthday tomorrow. Can’t exactly say I’m where I wanted to be at 26. I had envisaged a sparkling career- well on my way towards the editorship of a celebrated fashion mag, perhaps an interview with a world leader under my belt and a brief stint as a terrorist hostage prefacing a bestseller. Thinner legs, a Prada jacket and a modest apartment in Notting Hill were also part of the plan.

What do I get instead? Postal duties, cankles and the same coat I’ve been wearing since uni, stitched at the shoulders to keep the arms from falling off.

It doesn’t help that I live with the Welsh Superwoman, also known as Lily. The blonde, arm-flailing, Kate Bush exterior masks a freakishly strong will to achieve. Reporter for a leading national and halfway through her first novel, she bounces into the kitchen this morning to tell me she’s thinking of taking evening classes in interior design. I wanted to throw my porridge at her.

Did I mention she’s just turned 23? I hate my life.

Sunday 12th July

Pretty carrots swimming in the toilet bowl. Really should eat more greens though.

9:43 pm

I’m so frickin’ old! Why does no one fancy me?!

Saturday 11th July

5:45 pm

Girls’ night out tonight. Just a few civilised drinks over dinner to celebrate my impending birthday. I’m not really that bothered about it. Some people freak out about getting older but not me. Age is all in the mind and I have years ahead of me.

10th July 2009

10:47am

Aaargh! They want me to rage against the machine with them. I’ve been asked to sign the aforementioned memo and literally stand behind them as they threaten management with industrial action. I’m all for solidarity with my colleagues but really don’t want to get involved.

But what if I’m shunned by them and no longer invited out for 2 for 1 meal deals at Pizza Express?! Feckety Feck.

10th July 2009

10:36am

Mutiny! Dissension in the ranks! The secretaries have decided to revolt. It would seem they also have issues with management’s lack of sympathy towards debilitating illnesses. Led by stroke victim Shirley, who is stoically putting her whole right hand side into the effort, the girls have decided to write a memo to the bosses, expressing their dissatisfaction.

Wonderful! I wholeheartedly admire that “stick it to the man” mentality. Rage against the machine, ladies!

Wednesday 10th July

14:39

I’ve just been informed that I’m not getting paid for my day off this week. Apparently sick pay is discretional. Now I appreciate I wasn't actually ill. But they don't know this. At first, I thought I might have been spotted on my way to the interview but one of the secretaries who was off for a week after a stroke, isn’t getting paid either.

A STROKE?! Exactly how ill does one have to be to be to meet the criteria for sick pay? Presumably, chronic diarrhea is not expected to interfere with one's ability to work (did they seriously expect me to come in after telling them I was surgically attached to the toilet all weekend?) But if a stroke doesn't merit a leave of absence, I'm stumped as to what does.

Tues 7th July 2009

11:06 am

Have just been asked to start buying more “exciting” fruit in the weekly office grocery shop. Apparently, granny smiths don’t butter my employer's proverbial muffin. I’ve been thrown into a sea of self doubt. You are what fruit you eat and I’m clearly a bananas and pears kind of girl-comforting, reliable, the proletariat’s choice. I am the Jennifer Aniston of fruit. 

The Boss hasn’t been my biggest fan since I turned up to work in a denim mini skirt a few weeks ago (laundry day, took brief leave of senses). To further inflame the situation, I strolled into the board room with a tray of BLTs for the weekly Partners Meeting. This move didn’t go down too well, it being a Jewish Law firm and all. There I was in my tiny skirt, meaty thighs on display, pork offerings, quite literally on a silver platter. I felt like a veritable Biblical outcast. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the pork not been Tesco's Value range  (if you’re going to give kosher the two-fingered salute then for God’s sake Annie, do it right).

Rubbish day all round. 

Monday 6th July

I pulled my very first sickie today. My mother, wonderfully tolerant of hangovers, used to do it for me all the time when I still lived at home but this morning, it was entirely my own work.

Having sought the advice of more than one veteran of absenteeism, I went with the need for close proximity to the bathroom which ensured no further questions about my health were asked.

The reason for my truancy is a good one. I had a second interview for Tractor magazine. (What is it with niche magazines and the perfunctory nature of their titles? Boat, Caravan, Guitar, Moths- does the specialist market think its readership is so "special" that irony and humour will be entirely lost on them?)

The interview went fairly well. I managed to get by without becoming a parody of Irishness (which I find myself doing on a disturbingly frequent basis). I usually lapse into lots of earnest thigh slapping and talk about the "wee bit of craic" I'll bring to the office. This time, my potential employers were spared this Tomfoolery as I instead opted for a more zeitgeisty approach- reality TV rhetoric.

“Tractor writing is my dream. I just need someone to believe in that dream. I'm just a young lass from a small isle..." Ah feck it, I'm off again.

I’ll find out if this new tactic worked in week’s time. Meanwhile, it’s back to making giant balls out of elastic bands behind reception.