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.