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.