Tuesday 8th January 2002!!

Firstly, I must apologise for leaving a blank file here for a few days - pure oversight on my part, and sheer lack of a block of time to sit down and write. Much has happened, the endless heady world of parties and paint brushes and mince pies and lying on the sofa in my pyjamas watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...ahem.

I thought parties were going to be a bit thin on the ground what with friends being the same way lately but between the mini playscheme reunion, the work party, Christmas Eve with Zoe and Beccy and New Year's Eve in the King's it was heady enough for me...I think I am still flushing the alcohol out of my system. It started innocently enough with Claire, Charlotte, Catherine, Colin, Lianne and a couple of teachers from East Shore in the King's (the setting for many a happy festive drink); Catherine played with my mobile phone (it's the new flippy Samsung A300 and I love it to bits, Christmas present from Mr Z); Lianne told me about her new car and we looked at the pictures of all the East Shore children doing their Christmas play (they made Bradley an angel, such irony); Claire related her star spotting stories - she saw Keanu Reeves on the tube and snogged Fred Durst in the name of an autograph - and we discussed our appreciation of a certain male play worker and argued over his sexuality. Then we all went off to Route, which was a shocking 6 quid on the door (I'm sure it was free last time I went there)..I breezed in, sticking out my tits and murmuring "Merry Christmas boys" to the bouncers and everyone else got asked for ID, so either I look like an old hag or I really do have the dulcet tones of 23 year old. Route was sadly NOT worth the money; some drunken fool at the bar thought I was trying to chat him up...
Him: If you get served first, will you buy me a beer?
Me: Hmmm...
Him: Go on, please
Me: Got the money?
Him: (Hands over money)
Me: OK, don't worry, I'll sort you out
Him: I was talking about the beer darlin!
Me: (thinks) what a pratt
Me: (looks him pointedly up and down) So was I!
(Beer is bought and changes hands)
Him: (launching himself at me to plant a Christmas kiss somewhere around my back molars) Thanks so much, I mean it...let's pretend I've got some mistletoe here...
M: Err, I don't think so.. (scarpers)

Some bloke surreptitiously brushed his hand over my behind on the dance floor too, so I treated him to a swift and hard elbow in the ribs which fairly doubled him over with laughter...or it might have been pain. But more fool him. It is, after all, a one-man behind these days. Anyway, the music was full of Hearsay and the sort of cheesy pop even *I* wouldn't be caught dead listening to and they rounded off the evening with a medley of Christmas carols. Luckily the company was good, it's always good to catch up with old friends.

The next evening was the work Christmas meal at the Belmont in Bedhampton; Dawn picked me up and we had a very amusing evening, filled with anti-man jokes (since we were a party of 7 women) and quips about Queen Elizabeth Country Park where they could be squeezed in to embarrass a certain person (I won't make it worse by mentioning it here). I ended up with three party hats on doing amusing things with mince pies for the camera, and I think everyone thought I was absolutely slaughtered which wasn't exactly the case - as usual, since it was wine, I was a lot drunker by the time I got home than I was in the restaurant. But on Monday, Lesley and Rita asked if I had been horribly hungover on Sunday. I took Christmas Eve morning off but when I went in it turned out everyone else was having a half day so I only stayed for about half an hour which was really cool.

Christmas Eve was the first night of truly drunken revelry. Mr Z arrived on the Sunday and we were going out with Zoe on Christmas Eve, which became Zoe and her brother and sisters and their friends, which became - 3 hours ahead of time - Zoe and her brothers and sisters and their friends and Beccy. Beccy was only staying a couple of hours and had to drive home from the Gosport ferry, the last of which went at 11pm. Since we didn't go out until 9 - after Mother Hand had had Zoe and Beccy in to say hello - I didn't think we'd drink much. Then we discovered our old haunt, 5th Avenue, or TIME as it is now, was only a pound to get into. So we all ended up huddled in the queue there, spotting familiar faces - the manager is still there - and talking about past times. Inside, we decamped to the bar and managed to consume seven shots of tequila each on top of everything else we drank...well, by the end the three of us were huddled together vowing to meet up four times a year at least and eternal friendship and making promises to be bridesmaids and so on...I was so drunk that I walked home in the freezing rain and barely noticed. I was so drunk that when I woke up on Christmas Day and midday, I was still partially drunk. Mr Z and I both pretty much reeked of tequila. I suppose my relationship with that particular spirit might at long last be rekindled, since it seems I can drink it without throwing it straight back up again which hasn't been the case since that brief, bottle-and-a-half in three hours encounter I had three years ago. That said, there were a few hairy moments when that lemon slice was the only thing standing between me and sure embarrassment via a chunky puddle at my feet or, worse still, at Mr Z's feet.

Such crazy Christmas merriment. The knitting of Slimming World was fast unravelling.

Christmas Day was nice, uneventful...I got all sorts of goodies including a massive blue wok from Mother Hand and a pen with a glow in the dark cow on the end from Justine, and the Delia 3 book from Maternal Gran. Mum cooked the dinner, I peeled the vegetables and hatched the dessert, and we all slumped in front of Eastenders and Only Fools and Horses, before I dragged Mr Z out on a walk to Castle Hill and back with me to try and dispel the bloated feeling I had. It was unusual spending Christmas in Portsmouth again after so long, especially with no work to do, but it was very relaxing. On Boxing Day Mr Z ran the gauntlet of my paternal relations in Southampton; Paternal Grandad came out with the classic, "She's got a boyfriend with a great haircut!" (since my Grandad is balding and Mr Z might be considered by some to be heading the same way) (aren't I tactful?! loun you) which was the most amusing quote of the day, I think. It seems both my Grans have asked Mother Hand if Mr Z and I are getting married - why the new year would suggest that I don't know.

The day after Boxing Day, Mother Hand disappeared off to London for her stint as a volunteer with the homeless and Mr Z and I got down to the serious business of painting. By Thursday evening, the first banister had been stripped back to the wood and two entire walls of the hall/stairwell (it's difficult to explain the floorplan here) had been daubed in a monstrous lime green colour that looks very strong but acceptable because there is no natural light and so much space. Honest. Nursing paint spotted hair and blistered fingers, we took ourselves off to see The Lord of the Rings at the pictures - I can't recommend it enough, I was very, very impressed, and even though I was frustrated that it finished when it did, I can see the wisdom of breaking it up into three films - the storoy will be much better for it. Anyway, Afterwards we were leaving Gunwharf, painty, me with my glasses and grubby jeans and my hair sticking in all directions (as usual) when who should catch my eye but a member of the old clique from my class at school...I called to her and said it was ironic that I should see her, since I saw her in a street in London two years ago and I hadn't seen anyone else...then I turned to her companion and saw it was another one of them. Before I knew it, two more had appeared. One of them even hugged me. They all looked immaculate of course, and asked me to join them for drinks the next night in Bar 38 (Mr Z visibly bristled, he is not a fan of Bar 38) with the rest of the cronies, and I was sorely tempted, I even tried to convince Zoe to come down, but talking to her made me realise that my curiosity was wasted. It's doubtful they would have bothered to spit on me had I been on fire at school. I'll never forget their fantastically unsuccessful attempt to slag me off behind my back while I was in the classroom. Pah. It just brings it all back. Still, they all reacted with suitable interest and envy when I said I'd spent the past year in Vegas, so it was worth going *gring*.

I must just interject with this amusing story. There was a girl in my class who I'd been at school with since the age of 5, who was always particularly mean to me, let's call her, oo I dunno, Charlotte Jackson, since it was her name. (I'm having a full on hissy bitch moment here). Anyway, when she flounced into the classroom on her 17th birthday with a face like a wet weekend in Wickham and told her sorry tale, I knew it was something I would never forget. "What's wrong?" queried her worried cronies, "didn't you get a car for your birthday?" "Yeeaaaahhhhh....." she sighed. "Isn't it new?" they all said, horrified. "Yeah," moaned our hard done by princess, "but it's only got three doors, and it's GREEN...." Cue much clique sympathy. For any Americans reading - this is not America. Cars are not common presents for 17 year olds, especially not new ones. Shortly after, the pampered Miss Charlotte left school, without doing her A-levels, to be a pop singer. That was six years ago. Have you ever heard of her? I heard of her once. Leaving for work one morning in my gap year, they read out her name and where she lived as the winner of £250 on one of those lame daytime quiz shows with a phone in.

I feel so much better for having told that story to everyone. To hell with karma - if there's one good thing about being 23 and having your own website, it's being able to strike back with true cattiness and spite at the people who made your life miserable when you were a child. I can honestly say that there were days at junior school when I didn't want to go because she was so horrible. So in a way, I hope she makes it because then I'll sell my story to a tabloid along with the photographs of her from my 5th birthday party.

But I digress. After another long day of painting and scraping during which Mother Hand's bedroom received a makeover of lavender hue (or pink, depending on how the light is) Mr Z and I trundled off to Portchester for a quiet night in the local with Zoe and her mum; Saturday we just went for a quiet drink by ourselves in the King's; Sunday we met up there with Graham, my old friend from Staffinder. I had to work New Year's Eve, while Mr Z scraped and injured his poor hands. Rita had swanned off for a new year in Paris so I was left alone to man the phones but it wasn't too bad, really. That evening Mr Z and I went to .... the King's, just for a change. It wasn't busy - private party, just us regulars, Kev the landlord, his friends and family (including several youngsters) and Dave the barman. Dave the barman at first seemed to be a bit gutted about having to work but soon perked up when he received his tip for the night, presented in coins in a full pint glass. Mr Z bought him "the green drink", much famed among the young drinkers at the Cherry Tree in Bristol, and I collected glasses and, when I gt too wobbly to feel safe doing this, I bribed the children with coins for the jelly bean dispenser to collect them, and fed the enormous dog monster munch instead. Mr Z ended up trying to get Dave to flip a coin with him over me whilst not very subtly telling me he was only joking, and then went off to go one better than me and collect ashtrays and wipe tables. He'll be a pub landlord yet ("pint of lager for the man, glass of white wine and fruit pastry for the lady..."). By the time we finally rolled - and I do mean rolled, especially from my point of view - into bed it was gone 3 and I had to go and lie on the bathroom floor for a few minutes for fear of some of the vodka I had consumed making a hasty reappearance. Drunk? That's not even the word. I slept for 10 hours and was still exhausted when I woke up.

Thus endeth the Yuletide revelry. New Year's Day consisted of: shower, dress in pyjamas, watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, eat, watch crap on TV (nature documentary), eat, watch Eastenders, watch film, go to bed. Well, there had to be at least one day like that over the whole period. Trouble was, I had a weigh in the next day and couldn't face going. Nor did I go ringing, since work at the end of last week - and so far this week - has been literally hell on wheels. But about now it's nearly midnight and I have to go to bed or else it will be hell on very sleepy wheels tomorrow. I shall finish this thrilling installment at a later date.

Wednesday 9th January

Before I got mired in tales of old school acquaintances last night, I was going to mention my big piece of news which arrived on Saturday. Mother Hand texted me at 10pm to say I had a letter from the university applications board - I was shocked she had waited 12 hours to tell me and my little heart started pounding as I rang her. My predicament was not helped by the fact that she was not at home, but when she did ring me back - after 15 harrowing minutes during which I was totally unable to concentrate on my game of Battleships in the Cherry Tree - I am pleased to announce that I have my place to study for my PGCE at Bath Spa. It commences in September, and between now and then I have to learn the curriculum with all its aspects of British history, and also learn to drive and get a car. No mean feat. But, what the hell, I was finding my life a little less challenging than usual of late, anyway.

Funny story. In the Cherry Tree, late on Saturday night as Mr Z cleaned tables and I sat chatting with the landlady, Julie, she asked me how long we'd been together and then asked me if I knew about his ex-wife. I burst out laughing thinking it was a good joke until I realised she was serious, and full of fear that she'd suddenly put her foot in it and let on this big secret. It turns out that somebody - she couldn't remember who - had pointed out Mr Z's ex-girflriend to Julie one night and told her she was Mr Z's ex-wife. I thought that was one of the most highly amusing mistruths I've heard in ages. At least now if anybody else asks if we're getting married - somebody else in the pub asked us on Friday night - I can say, "No, he's still married to his ex-wife". That'll go down like a lead balloon with my Grandmothers.

Old acquaintances from school have been in my mind of late since I have visited Friends Reunited and found a lot of my old classmates registered there. It's amazing that several of them are married, most of them live in London and a fair few have listed their current occupation as "something in marketing". I managed to sneak my website address into my entry so knowing my luck somebody will stumble in here and read my bitchy account of Miss Charlotte's antics. Tried to decide whether this bothered me but then realised that the chances of any of them actually getting in touch with me are slim to none, so I have, it would seem, no bridges to burn.

I have my precious purple keyboard back! Sibling trekked across to Southampton on the train today and picked up the bundle brought back from Vegas with my Uncle, knowing that there was money in it for him, so I am back with a keyboard that doesn't stick and draws instant attention through its unusual garishness. In this light the keys seem to melt together so I'm glad that I'm a two-fingered touch typist because otherwise I might be in trouble.

Hmm, what else? Ah yes. The Diet - day 89. I finally showed my face at a weigh-in this week and was faced with the area manager, my consultant being off sick. To my utter shock and delight, I had managed to lose a pound in the three weeks of excess between meetings. The area manager was rather enthusiastic and over the top - possibly because out of a class of 17, six of us were old members and eleven were new recruits - and I came out with the utter conviction that I should stop calling the eating plan a diet here, but "Eating Plan - day 89" doesn't sound nearly as good. Have been eating tuna salad on Ryvita all week in order to feel more virtuous but I think I blew it tonight when I nipped into the King's for a double gin and tonic on my way home. It's been a tough week at work, although calmer today. I'm irritated that I didn't leave this week as I had intended, since I only agreed to stay to help them with their new database which isn't going to be done within the next fortnight. Ah well, not my problem now, I'll be gone, the problem of Office Angels in Bristol.

Friday 18th January

Oh, January in Portsmouth, you are a force to be reckoned with. Your malice too easily erased from my fickle memory by a balmy winter in the desert, the bitter chill of your fingers nips my toes and nose nightly, leaving me sleeping with a double duvet and two blankets and deeply unsexy socks and still being cold. Alas, you are a poor bedfellow. Daily your leaden skies and bitter chill threaten snow, only to deliver unexpected showers of bone-freezing rain and rampant gales, blowing out to mornings filled with icy pavements under a dense blanket of frosty fog. How I longed for you as I watched the thermometer in the desert top 75 degrees every day! And this is how you repay me. I am deeply saddened that you have let me down so, January in Portsmouth. Not a whiff of snow at any reasonable hour of the day. Just the long cold, the weeks of chilly feet stretching endlessly ahead of me, no end in sight.

It's not the dark I mind. I quite like the dark. I think I might have the opposite of SAD because I get so much happier when the clocks go back. I mean, it starts so well - a whole extra hour in bed! And then long darkness to look forward to, no more going out to meet your friends in the pub at 7pm dolled up to the nines and it's daylight and you feel silly; out come the opaque tights for hiding multiple doughnuts now adhered to your thighs, out come the knee boots to hide where you nicked with the razor and the long sleeves to hide where you didn't manage to get a summer tan. Away with the sandals - no more fiddly toe nail painting for a couple of months - and those skimpy tops designed to show off flabby arms at their most grotesque. Smoking feels less abhorrent out of direct sunlight, too, in my opinion. I have to say, I relished the cold when it turned up. But I knew January was coming. February often brings snow, and Valentine's day for plotting surprises or plotting criminal damage with murderous intent, depending on relationship status (I refer to my Valentine's Day rantings of 2 years ago). December always seems like pure cold, and anyway there's Christmas and fairy lights...

I digress. Fairy Lights. Humour me, for a moment, in my rant. Fairy lights, I like. I have them up all year round. Plain, steady white ones. They make a nice, soft alternative to overhead light for those of us who dislike bright lights. But why? WHY?? Everywhere I went thise year, fairy lights brutally forced into being something to cause headaches and, in some cases, epileptic fitting. Fairy lights in every conceivable colour, flickering and flashing and playing tinny music and chasing along strands. Innocent fairy lights pressed into use as unwilling tools to best neighbours. Fairy lights - and this surely the worst display of their misuse - killing children. Indoor. Outdoor. Pearlescent. Icicle. Roped in their hundreds, surrounding big, plastic, glowing Santa Clauses, or in some cases, Winnie the Poohs. What on EARTH he has to do with Christmas, I don't know. Those poor fairy lights.

Sorry - discussing that got me into a jumping up and down fit of rage before Christmas, I had to mention it. But back to January in Portsmouth. January never seems to bring me anything to look forward to, which makes the cold slightly more difficult to bear.

This January, however, has been a bit different, since last weekend I was in London to celebrate Jen's birthday and this weekend I am upping sticks and moving to Bristol. But I'll start with the celebration. I was in a bit of shock the day before as I purchased a suitable birthday card - I picked out a locely shiny pink one proclaiming "I am 3" with every intention to colour a big 2 in front of the 3, a favoured trick of mine. I was almost to the check out when I realised that Jen actually turned 24 last week. That was very sobering because it means I'm going to be 24 in a few months. 24! I keep thinking as the years progress that eventually the extra year will stop being such a big thing. Ah, I thought, 21's the big age, it's all downhill from here. Then I reached 22. Then, as I planned to go to the desert, Jen bemoaned the fact that I would miss her 23rd birthday and how it was a really important one, and I scoffed. But she was right. The only thing that got me through my 23rd birthday was when the restaurant staff put happy birthday on the sound system and brought me an ice cream with candles in, a trick Mother Hand has been arranging for me for years. Goodness only knows what I'll do at 24. Jen and I will be in Ibiza at the time, if everything goes according to plan, which might ease the passage. Otheriwse I might have to hire a bouncy castle or something.

Anyway. Mr Z and I crammed ourseleves into Mother Hand's mini for the journey to London (I think Mr Z has managed to straighten his back now) and we stayed at the Quaker International Centre which provided a cheap, clean night of accomodation although their beds are a bit less than sturdy. We had lunch with Bernie in ULU and I bought a scarf in University of London colours (I think the getting older part is making me regress to studenthood - thankfully I will be a student again this time next year, sort of). I went to Covent Garden and bought some new shoes. We met up in the Moon Under Water and to my extreme delight, Kerrie and Ler showed up, Kerrie looking much more svelte than the last time I saw her, a whole 18 months ago. Then Stuart turned up too, and Jen and R and her friend Alison and her boyf Tony and R's friend Malcolm. Quite a merry party we made, too. Very merry, by the end of the evening. We ate a fabulous meal, punctuated by girlie exoduses (exodi?) to the toilets and mad spates of picture taking and much drinking of cocktails and wine, rounded off with ice creams with sparklers in for Jen and Ler (who also celebrated a birthday on Saturday). Then we adjourned to a pub in Leicester Square where, wonders never cease, Arran, my old neighbour from halls, turned up, looking, again, more svelte than I remembered and actually drinking which is a first as long as I've known him. We danced the night away, punctuated with girlie exodi (exoduses?) to the toilets and much drinking of vodka. MUCH drinking. Afterwards we stopped in Burger King and then started walking home. There was a sirened vehicle coming down the street and a man wailing in time with it walking towards me; he stopped in front of me and grabbed my nose. I was so surprised I didn't even know what to do. R managed to push him away and Mr Z chivalrously attempted to beat the crap out of him but, hampered by the crowds of people and hands full of Burger King, he found himself unable to do much more than look threatening (which he is very good at) and throw chips at the sorry nose defiler (which he was also very good at). Bless his heart. Nobody's ever been so defensive of me before. Wasting good chips on my well-being - I'm touched. I might have to send him flowers again. He even growled at somebody for asking if my feet were cold when we walked home (I was barefoot by this time, I never cope well with heels). I've got my very own Knight in Shining Armour!

Cos dyou know what? He can actually pick me up. Like, not as in, "Hey baby what's your sign?" but as in, lift me clean off the floor, without rupturing anything or falling over, for minutes at a time. I like this. It makes me feel very little. Being fat, that's a wonderful novelty. And, as I age, the novelty will surely not wear off (sorry Mr Z, no reprieve for you in sight). Every week, he picks me up and I say, "Have I lost weight?" and he nearly always says yes. Isn't that sweet?

Yes yes, alright, I know, vomit in keyboards worldwide.

Anyway, Saturday was a resounding success and then on Sunday we went to Wagamama with Justine because it was her birthday last week too. The weekend was highly enjoyable. Sadly, Monday had to come, and with it, the weigh-in. Which brings us neatly to The Diet - day 97. I don't want to talk about it. Suffice to say, were Mr Z to pick me up now, he would not truthfully be able to say I'd lost weight. It was a slip up of major proportions, and I have been frantically consuming Muller Lights and five-bean chilli (five different types of beans, not five beans) all week in a desperate attempt to rectify the situation. After doing so well at Christmas, too. Tsdk.

Tomorrow my stuff is moving to Bristol, aided by Mother Hand and a hire car. By stuff I mean all I own apart from a few clothes - including my computer. Alas, I shall be computerless for the next week. Not that anyone will notice, I've been so reticent about updating this of late you'd probably be surprised I'd been away if I started my next entry with "I'm back!". Now you've no reason to be surprised, cos I've told you. I am staying on at work for another week at the area manager's request - a cunning plan when I agreed, now just a burden. Work has been rather stressful of late. The only thing that got me out of bed this morning was knowing I only had to do half a day since I took the afternoon off to pack. Still, next week I am having somebody in to shadow me which should be fun. Then I move, and the week after I am shadowing teachers. In a bizarre twist of fate, the irony of which is not lost on me, the entire humanities department is out on field trips for the entire week of my shadowing. Thus, I have the delights of a plethora of other subjects to look forward to, not least of these...no, I take it back, the least of these being A-level maths. A-level maths! It was all I could do to pass GCSE. But it'll be a nice insight, I expect. And very sweet of Mr Z's colleagues to have their arms twisted so easily in the name of "frivolous requests from people just flirting with the idea of entering an over-stretched profession" (poke out tongue).

Adieu, January in Portsmouth. May there never be another one. For me, I mean, not at all.

One more thing. A Wall Street Journal Reporter just happening to purchase an Al Qaid lap top in Afghanistan with 17,000 sensitive files on it? A tape with Bin Laden admitting his guilt just happening to fall into the press's hands? Don't the Americans ever get the feeling they are being led by the nose?