Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market (tilt to the right)

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Sorry, the rotate button on flickr isn't having any of it.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Berwick Street market

Berwick Street market
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

If it ain't broke...

Guess what I ended up doing yesterday? See last Monday's post for a clue.

Kit Kat Editions - update

In the interest of fairness, I thought I should try all the available Kit Kat Editions. And I have to say, I was hasty in my judgement, and I was wrong. They are not all mini Kit Kat Chunkies with jam in.

The Kit Kat Edition 'Seville Orange' actually has marmalade in it. Mmm. And the one I bought had leaked (gooey wrapper pictured in the bin) , so rather than featuring on the inside of the confectionery, the filling created a sticky marmalade moat inside the wrapper. Posh indeed.

Tomorrow - watch in amazement as I road test the last Edition in the series, which I believe is purple flavoured.

It wasn't like this when I was a gal

Kit Kat editions are the poshest Kit Kat ever? Bollocks. They're mini Kit Kat Chunkies with jam in. Wasn't anything that posh about jam, last time I checked.

I am also concerned by the disappearance of the four and two-finger variety of Kit Kat. It was bad enough when Nestle got their twisted mitts on Kit Kats and removed the Rowntree logo from the chocolate, destroying in one fell swoop the traditional foil-rubbing, logo revealing foreplay. I believe they come in foil-fresh packaging now. Gah.



I mean, Kit Kat Chunkies are amazing and everything, especially with two-sugar tea in an emergency. They made the skinny fingers look pretty twig-like, for a while. But the lack of proper Kit Kats is yet another confection travesty, joining the horrors of taking the cardboard out of Bounties, the red 'fire' off of candy cigarettes, and whatever the hell it was they did to Curly Wurlies.

Lick/neck/bite/shudder

I enjoyed a very pleasant Sunday afternoon in Brixton, in the company of two lovely ladies. We drew marker pen glasses and moustaches on models in the Sunday papers, there was a little illicit smoking (urgh), there was wine, there was tequila, and there were limes.

Which, according to M, count as at least one of the five recommended daily portions of fruit and veg.

I can't get the damn marker pen off my fingers, though.

Take that damn trap off

Biggest sink plunger the people at Robert Dyas could dig out of the stockroom?

Check.

Box of bone-liquefyingly extra-strong Drain Magic (the plumbers' choice!)?

Check.

Rubber gloves?

Check.

Goggles?

Um... will sun glasses do?

I am going to unblock that bloody bath if it's the last thing I do. That Drain Magic's got an hour, and if it that bath ain't suckin' down water like ya granny blowin' an egg, I'm getting a screwdriver, taking the side panel off, and I'm taking the damn trap off.

"Taking the damn trap off." It almost sounds like I know what I'm doing.

A rather pleasant afternoon

I have spent all afternoon utterly immersed in and captivated by the wonderful world of David LaChapelle.

The site has got millions of his celebrity portraits, music videos, ads, photos, the whole lot. If your computer is whizz-bang enough, you can play clips of everything from J-Lo to Xtina to Britney to, um, the Nokia ads. I'm not even halfway through the celeb portraits yet. It's like diamond-peppered melted vanilla chocolate pouring straight out of the screen and into your eyeballs. And it beats the hell out of looking at my co-workers.

I don't really get the milk thing, though. And David, it's kind of nasty.

Um... what's your favourite colour?

My colleague is having to suffer the geeky indignity of internet speed dating this evening. It is all in the name of work (no, she isn't on the game), and she is in need of questions to ask her selection of cyber-beaus (that just doesn't work, does it).

In my opinion, it's hard enough avoiding the f*ckwits one encounters in the wild, and I certainly wouldn't entertain the notion of deliberately laying myself open myself to several three-minute, quick-fire barrages of pre-meditated f*ckwittery of the highest order.



My very unhelpful question suggestions:

1) Would your ex-girlfriends describe you as any or all of the following:
a) Clingy
b) Possessive
c) Flatulent
d) Gay
e) Dim-witted
f) Emotionally retarded
g) Sexually dismal
h) Hygienically sub-normal
i) Incompetent/pathetic
j) Riddled with STDs

2) Are you interested in me as a person, or are you just hoping to cop off with a bird from speed dating in order to become the office/pub braggart for a few days?

3) Could you please desist from glancing at my bosom?

4) Why can't you get a girlfriend like a normal man?

Hers, at the moment, are limited to:

1) How much do you earn?
2) What is your perfect date?

(The answer to question 2 is 'dinner at Le Caprice'. Her answer to question 2 is 'being taken for dinner at Le Caprice'.)

Any further suggestions would be appreciated.

Oops, part II

...she accidentally sent this lovely snap of one of my goldfish, Cod Lad - who shall henceforth be referred to as Cod Lad The Transglobal Goldfish.

Possibly.

Oops, part I

My flatmate is a busy girl. She works long hours, often away from home, getting up at the crack of dawn to drive big vans up and down the country, rigging sets, shouting at people who haven't paid their bills, dropping heavy things on her feet, doing her bit for the peanut M&M, Coca-Cola and Jack Daniels industries, balancing the books, lugging body bags through customs, pressing the space bar, designing Power Point presentations, editing videos, dealing with an office full of boys, and occasionally tending a small flock of children.

So I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising that when she was supposed to send this photo to a client in India...

Right hand side malfunction

Two of the key accessories I employ to keep the right hand side of my body ticking over have malfunctioned.

My right boot has split at the sole, and my right contact lens decided this morning to become truculent and unwearable. It is currently floating in disgrace in a pot, while I squint, cover my sore eye, and attempt to fashion my fringe into some kind of patch until I can hop home and put my glasses on.

Tomorrow, I'm going to have to go to the opticians to collect an emergency pair of lenses, and to the shoe shop to try and get an emergency pair of boots. Which means I am going to have to try really hard to convince the manager of Office that it is not normal for soles to split on £85 boots after five poxy months, without:

Bursting into tears
Swearing
Storming off

Begone red mist, I heed not your call to unreasonableness, even in the face of great injustice and sudden absence of work footwear.

I think this says it all, really

Thank Crunchie

Thank Crunchie
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

I was a feeling a little jaded after all those sketchy tube pics, so in the name of good cheer, I have just consumed 190 calories, 28.6g of carbs and 7.4g of fat to bring you this image.

Thank Crunchie it's Friday! May your weekend be filled with the satisfyingly sweet crunch of a thousand chocolate-coated honeycomb bubbles. Or something.

Misery

...and more...

Northbound

Northbound
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

...same night...

Lightstrip

Lightstrip
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

Yeah, um, this is a lightstrip at Tottenham Court Road tube station. There are actually quite a lot of pictures from Tottenham Court Road, most from the same night. Yes, I was pissed, alone, and also I had to wait a reeeeeeally long time for the train. I find alcohol, boredom, solitude, pretty patterns and a camera phone to be a rather heady and compelling cocktail.

It's also possible that I could have been distracting myself from the fact that ideally, I should have visited the powder room before I left the restaurant.

I've just figured out that my pictures have not gone mysteriously dark in transit, I've just got my screen on dingy. Durrr.

Stripped

Stripped

This photo was taken, I think, in Angel station. I took it because I really, really wanted to grab my imaginary digital camera of the future and head down into Kennington station when it was half refurbished.

Kennington station looked really rather fetching and photogenic a while back - it was brightly lit, there was lots of smooth, fresh plaster with shiny bits of metal showing through, and all the posters had been ripped off so they looked like the particularly impractical neon camouflage that is often found swathed around the pasty bodies of spotty Northern cyberkids.

But my imaginary digital camera of the future was, and still is, in the future, and the semi-refurbished Kennington station is in the past, so unless I get myself whacked out on some pretty serious meds, that picture ain't never gonna happen.

So this was my poor man's version, which I think is too dark and a bit bleak. It also shows up just how shit the camera on my phone is - you can see the shape of the lens! Pfft.

Piccadilly Line

I thought I'd start off with this one, as I took it last night. I was only marginally inebriated at the time, having quaffed a mere three quarters of a bottle of rather nice white wine. In fact, if you counter what I drunk with the family bag of Walkers Sensations Thai Sweet Chilli crisps and the pistachio nuts, I don't think it actually counts.

I was on my way home from Ealing - a most disagreeable journey made heart-stoppingly difficult by the fact that London transport does not seem to acknowledge that people in southwest London may wish to travel to the west of London, and vice versa. So there is mind-numbing amount of dicking about in and out of London on:

1) Overgrounds that only turn up every thirty minutes (if you're lucky)

2) The District Line, which is the tube equivalent of a confused old dear wandering down the high street in her draylon nightie and rollers at three O'clock in the afternoon

3) The deluded western stretch of the Piccadilly Line, which hurtles between far-flung stops at a breakneck pace, hoping you won't notice the staggering distances between each station as your breath is pounded out of your chest and your teeth crash together, all so people who live in west London can carry on convincing themselves that they live 25 minutes from central (note to west Londoners - YOU DON'T! YOU LIVE NEAR READING!)

Slideshow

I am so very excited by the prospect of sharing all the boring, grubby-lensed, low grade photos in my phone with the world. I've already spent half an hour texting pictures that could loosely be collated under the heading 'Public Transport (Pissed)' to my email, then to flickr to blog (I think I am supposed to be able to just send them straight to here, but so far no joy).

So, expect a steady stream of uninteresting photographs over the next few days. It will be just like those stifling summer days when you and your bare legs were buckled into the molten plastic passenger seat of your parents' Maxi, and driven over to Uncle Harold's to sit in a curtained room, ploughing through endless slides of him and a calamine smeared, ruddy-armed Auntie Carole looking slightly uncomfortable in seventies towelling holidaywear in a selection of clammy, mosquito-ridden tourist trap hell-holes in Crete. But without the detailed descriptions of the stomach mishaps that followed a frozen swordfish steak and a few shots of grappa. Or the havoc that was wrecked with Uncle Harold's nobby stiles when a pushy foreigner called Stelios forced him to ride a straw-hatted donkey.

Perfumed ponce? What fucker said that?

I was checking how to spell poncy on google this morning, came across this online dictionary definition, and now can't stop laughing.

ponce (MAN)
noun {C} UK INFORMAL DISAPPROVING

a man who does not behave, dress or speak in a traditionally male way, especially one who behaves in a very careful way:

- Don't be such a ponce! Pick the spider up - it won't hurt you!

poncy
adjective UK INFORMAL DISAPPROVING

- a poncy flowery shirt


picture added by me

Not enough blogs in the blog

.

Cor bloody hell, I've been well busy over the last couple of days. Everyone's life is in a crisis, and I am frantically ignoring the steady stream of ping blip flash flash whatever of text, calls and voicemails as I will my curs'ed fingers to fly faster - faster, damn you! and get all the words in the right order, in right place, by the right time, with no (glaring) inaccuracies or speeling mistakes.

So, as I have no time to ponder my work, attend my friends, or blog on my blog, I thought I would share with you the charming vista that has been my muse today.

Tres jolie, non?

Ha! Success. Of a sort

.

I'm not sure how I did it, and yes, I am sideways, but here is my haircut. Hurrah.

Bloody Flickr

Oh. None of the other photos I sent to Flickr from my phone turned up.

Anyone know what I'm doing wrong? I used the special email address that they gave me (twice), but the one that actually did turn up was just sent to myusername@flickr.com. And I've tried that again too, but it hasn't worked either.

I would put up a picture of how forlorn I look, but I can't. Boo hoo.

The wonders of Flickr

.

Flushed with success from the photo html, I've set up a flickr account and am experiementing with pictures from my phone.

This is a picture of my mum's spare fridge at Christmas time. Mmm, Christmas frige.

Caption competition

I'm practicing html code for putting pics up. Not sure if this will work.

If it does, the person who comes up with the funniest caption is the winner. If I check tomorrow and there are no comments, I will cry and cry all day.

Vote yourself silly

Due to some kind of clerical error, I didn't actually vote in the actual constituency I actually live in. Somehow, I seem to still be registered at my parents' address. I have no idea how that happened (translation: I'm a fuckwit).

Ever eager to exercise my rights - and pay tribute to the millions of sacrificial suffragettes who were kicked like tiny, brave, dress-coat wearing ragdolls into roaring crowds of savages by the pan-lid sized, glinting, galloping hooves of blood-eyed, hot-breathed royal racing horses - I tore at breakneck speed to my designated polling station.

Voting Lib Dem in Spelthorne has about as much effect on the local Tory MP as putting GAH DAVID WILSHIRE IS A BIG FAT TORY TOSSER on the internet, but off I toddled, determined to wave my flaccid lefty ballot paper in his smug Tory face. Even as the delayed train trundled slowly South West from Waterloo, the thought that I wouldn't make it on time and he could get in by just that one vote sickened me to my very middle bits.

Of course, this morning, I woke up to this:

David Wilshire, Conservative, 21,620
Keith Dibble, Labour, 11,684
Simon James, Liberal Democrat, 7,318
Chris Browne, UK Independence Party, 1,968
Caroline Schwark, UK Community Issues Party, 239
Majority: 9,936  

A majority of 9,936? That's some crazy number. Even if the Labour people and the Lib Dem people ganged up on smug fattie Wilshire, he'd still win.

Fortunately, I live here:

Edward Davey, Liberal Democrat, 25,397
Kevin Davis, Conservative, 16,431
Nick Parrott, Labour, 6,553
Barry Thornton, UK Independence Party, 657
John Hayball, Socialist Labour Party, 366
David Henson, Veritas, 200
George Weiss, Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket, 146
Majority: 8,966

Hurrah.

Could I just take this opportunity to send out a big boo hiss to the UKIP, and a big up to the Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket posse. George, I wouldn't have voted for you, but your manifesto is on my fridge.

...

I can't think of anything to write today.

Maybe some randomness....

... I am utterly in love with Jean Christophe Novelli....

... I had soup and rice for lunch (which is pretty random in itself)...

... Today I have been - yet again - wrangling over an old argument with someone who I used to think I would be friends with forever....

... I worked from 10am to 11.30pm on yesterday's bank holiday, but got paid pretty good...

... This morning I felt like my eyes had been welded to my face...

... I seem to have too much money in my account. I bet those tw*ts at Lloyds TSB have f*cked up my rent again...

... I am wearing contact lenses with an old prescription, and am huddled up to my flatscreen like that shortsighted mole man out of The Simpsons...

... I am so tired I can hardly even be bothered to go home....

... My ex boyfriend has broken his ankle....

... I went to see Kylie on Saturday, and, appropriately enough, can't get Better The Devil You Know out of my head...