My First Post

Perhaps, one day, this blog will be the most famous blog in the world and I'll be earning millions and have the male cast of Hollyoaks as my bitches.

Or not.

Chances are, in two weeks time I will've forgotten all about this and be drunk in a gutter somewhere bemoaning the fact that I have no creative outlet and I'm suffocating, just suffocating, in admin.

So. I'd best start as I mean to go on for the next two weeks.

Howabout I do it like Bridget:

Cigarettes: 1. It was foul. But I couldn't resist its tarry love.
Units of alcohol: Who knows? And more importantly whoever does will NEVER be on my team.
Food: I've been to my gastro aunts for lunch so, as usual, I've consumed the cheese aisle in Basingstoke's Waitrose.
Weight: More than a bag of potatoes but less than a car.

Oo, I think this thing works.

I went to Basingstoke on the train which I loved. Train journies are ace. It's the only time you can just sit and stare at nothing without people asking you if everything's okay at home. I always feel compelled, though, to booty myself up with all kinds of activities to pass the time. None of which I even glance at. Still, I pack books, magazines, notebook, my pod, make-up and a mirror so that I can track the progress of age underneath my eyes. One thing I don't take, though, are those puzzle books - bumper editions full of wordsearches and crosswords and 'Mary lives on the third street away from Brenda, Brenda lives on Duck Street, Dawn lives exactly as many roads up from Mary as does Dave. What street has the most porn?'. I also absolutely hate Sudoku in that it features two of my least favourite things: numbers and being an anal fucking nob. Those people who do the really hard ones on the ten minute tube journey - that's right, expand your brain as you practically pop with despair because you can't get the last square and that means that something else is wrong and it's all just so awful. Or make a big old show of finishing it by flapping your paper and sighing with the satisfaction of a new mother. If completeing a Sudoku makes you feel like that then my guess is you think that James Blunt is the best singer-songwriter of 2005. It's pointless, it's fucking irritating and it's completely unoriginal. Try counting the fibres on the seat infront. Far more satisfying and infinitely more productive.

Anyway, back to the train.

I was told off by a terribly aggressive woman who had more than a little whiff of lesbos about her when I left my bag on my seat to talk to my boyfriend on the phone in the bit that separates the carriages. Apparently a small, burgandy LK Bennett bag is the perfect vehicle for bombs - I think it was the decorative bow on the front that tipped her off.

I went to see Rufus Wainwright this week. I wish he were straight. It annoys me that he'd rather sleep with my boyfriend than me, especially as Nick's not even up for it.

The gayness of Rufus is up there with American foreign policy when it comes to injustice. (Get me. I'm political AND blonde. the queue starts here, boys.)

But still, if Rufus weren't gay he'd probably be James Blunt.

Maybe life is fair after all.