Sunday, September 30, 2007


I just spent an entire night too scared to go to the loo because I thought there was a slug in the bathroom. Considering my bladder is currently the size of a sultana - judging by the amount of time I spend scampering to and from the bathroom - this required some willpower to say the least.

My slug fears are not as weird as you might like to think. The Hubbo and I used to live in an enormous basement flat in Hammersmith, which was charming in every way apart from the builders' neglect to actually build a bathroom in it. Therefore the ablutions area was very much a damp afterthought, a below-freezing wet room stuck on the side of the house that the W6 slug population fell in love with. The amount of times I ran screaming from the bathroom because an orange invertebrate had wrapped it round my toothbrush is more than I care to think about. It was particularly humiliating the time when the Hubbo (whose marriage vows included a promise to always be on hand to dispose of house-based wildlife) was in Canada snowboarding and I had to summon the upstairs neighbour to rid the bath of a particularly vivd green specimen.

So, when I got up at 3am to visit the facilities I was somewhat alarmed to see what looked like a big black slug on the floor, especially as my Hackney bathroom is pleasingly free of damp and therefore not the most sensible habitat for gastropods. Unable to face waking the Hubbo, who was flat on his back snoring like only those who know that in five months their sleeping habits are to be disrupted for the next five years, and those who have been drinking in the West End for nine hours following a "quick trip to PC World" can, I instead flapped for ten minutes, contemplated shutting my eyes and getting on with it, disregarded this idea because then I would inevitably tread on the slug, cursed the fact that I am such a girl, and decided to wait it out until the Hubbo woke up and could do his duty of slinging the slimy bastard out of the window. Few experiences have been less entertaining.

Of course, I saw the funny side when the slug turned out to be a memory stick that had fallen out of the Hubbo's PC World bag when he staggered in at half past midnight needing a piss so desperately he hadn't even time to drop his bags outside the bathroom door. Hilarious.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Dang it!

This is infuriating. Four minutes spent racking my brains for that last bloody state. Goddamn you, Nebraska!

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Miss J. Alexander

Um, so I meant to do this last week. I had a great idea all ready to go, but then I couldn't find a picture to do the gent in question justice. One for another time. Still, I'm here this week and proud to finally join the ranks of Hackney's finest in celebrating all that is elegant on Wednesdays.

I love America's Next Top Model's J. Alexander. He's always so well turned out, especially in comparison to Janice Dickinson, who generally looks like she got dressed with the help of Pete Burns (actually, I'm not convinced she isn't Pete Burns); and Jay Manuel, whose orange face/yellow hair combo reminds me of a red brick house with a thatched roof. Even Tyra, with her penchant for massive orange hair, looks dishevelled in comparison to J's crisp attire. Just look at that matching shirt and headband!

J. manages to look quite sweet here, and rather as if he's on his way to big school wearing short trousers and a small smile of excitement. In reality, J. is not sweet, but a hardcore runway coach who would scare the crap out of me if I had to walk in the same room as him. Especially if he was wearing his school-marm outfit.

Quink - apologies if I've ruined the notion of EDW by being so thoroughly shallow. If so let me know and I'll make it up with something intelligent next week. If not, there's a treat for everyone in store.

Photo from

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Time for Trumpton

Two thirds of the way through E4's Top 100 Kid's TV Shows, I'm clocking in to make the point that Trumpton Council was a hell of a lot more lenient on flyposters than most nowadays. Putting ads for bands up on the side of the Town Hall? Hackney Council would have had Bill Sticker Nick bang to rights.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

That's no excuse

Well, that was a ridiculously long blogging break. I do hope that 'anonymous' doesn't think they've put me off blogging after my last post.

In fact I've been gallivanting about the country going to weddings - four in the last two weeks, including a terrific jaunt from Devon last Friday to Ipswich on Saturday - and when I've been back at the Hacksaw Chateau I haven't had the energy to write and have instead sat on my arse watching too much reality TV.

So, what's been going on? Um, nothing. Seriously. Apart from scampering from country house to converted barn toasting happy couples and staying in far too many Travelodges for anyone who isn't Alan Partridge, I have been going to work and then coming back home. Apart from the odd bit of baking, life consists of TV, bed and Gaviscon. How desperately unfortunate.

Still, I've managed to cobble together a few observations and queries over the past week or two - some of which I may develop into proper posts once my energy levels rise again.

1. Am I a bad person for being pleased when Jacqui and "Little Drummer Boy" Sam got booted unceremoniously off The Restaurant? They were so nice, and enthusiastic, and perky. However, I found myself unable to get past their reasons for choosing their restaurant's name - Ostrich: "I was cast as the ostrich in Peter Pan and I really became one with the ostrich." Be gone, dear. The Luvvies column in Private Eye calls.

2. Devon teenagers' grasp on what makes a relationship is a lesson for us all. Overheard last weekend:

Teenage girl, petulantly: "You never says you love me any more!"
Teenage boy, exasperatedly and in strongest Devon accent ever: "Look. I fucks yer, I buys yer chips. What more do you want?"

3. I really wish that contestants on the American versions of The Apprentice, Hell's Kitchen, America's Next Top Model et al would get a grasp on percentages and how they work. I am in no way a'math' expert (as proven by having to ask a work colleague last week how to work out on a calculator how much my pay rise will be once the unions stop dicking around with the offers) but even I know that 100% makes a whole, or however you care to phrase it. The contestants can't quite get the hang of this:

"I had a close shave with Mr Trump in last week's boardroom, so this week I gotta give a hundred and ten percent!"

"Tyra says I'm losing my enthusiasm, so I gotta start giving two hundred percent!"

"I've gotta start giving a hundred and fifty percent, or Chef Ramsay's gonna kick my arse."

Speaking of Hell's Kitchen, how much of a pussycat has MPW turned out to be? Bless him.

4. Over on EastEnders, I see that Peggy has started rivalling Pat for House Most Like a Tardis. Where on earth is everyone sleeping? I presume Ronnie and Roxy are bunking up on the banquettes down in the Vic, wonky boobs crushed up against each other and breathing vodka up each other's noses. It's a poor man's idea of porn. On the other hand, Phil Mitchell staggering about falling face down into cakes and stamping Airfix models to bits is rich televisual porn, especially now that someone's read this and sorted out his tipple of choice.

5. Now that we've hit 12 weeks (at long last), the Hubbo and I have broached the subject of names for Junior Hacksaw. And where else to find inspiration apart from lists of celebrity baby names? You will be pleased to know that so far we have cast aside the more wacky Poppy and Brooklyn in favour of the completely normal Satchel and Jermajesty.

As I said, not much has been going on over here. However, I'll be around a bit more often, specifically on Wednesdays as I'm taking a long overdue jump into Quink's EDW caper, having been inspired by this post. In the meantime, I'm off to start drinking water in preparation for tomorrow's scan, which I'm sure will result in a post all of its own regarding the madness of Homerton Hospital.