CONGRATULATIONS!

My lovely friends Sharon and Ian got engaged at the weekend, and I think that's just smashing. They are two of my favourite people and totally made for each other.

The fiancing is not exactly the surprise of the century. We all knew it was only a matter of time, and Ian finally puffed on the starter's whistle in the great race to the wedding cake when he whisked young Sharon off to the Ritz, frog-marched her up Primrose Hill in the dark and went down on one knee.

Obviously I am very excited for them both, but quite frankly I am more excited about the fact that I am going to be a bridesmaid. Finalleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I have NEVER been a bridesmaid before. Never. I've never even worn a poncy frock - never been to a ball, never been a flower girl, NOTHING. Obviously the lack of bridesmaiding offers made me question my looks, my personality, the very fabric of my relationships with betrothed friends and family members. Over the years, a big fringe, gappy buck teeth, knobbly knees, jaundiced complexion, Deidre Barlow specs, an inability to walk in heels, a flaky personality (I mean to call back, I just forget!) and mousy hair have obviously relegated me to the flower girl/bridesmaid bench.

Yes, I accept that it is not practical to have seven bridesmaids. But I am looking forward to sitting on the top table with my glowing chums for once, rather than by the drafty flap at the back of the marquee on the 'young persons' table, sadly picking over a smoked tofu salad because their aren't enough salmon terrines. God I'm an ungrateful beyatch.

So hurrah for Sharon, who has embraced my corned beef bingo wings, my dull barnet and agreed to stick me in a frock for what will probably be my one and only march down a church aisle. I am chuffed.

Accident & Errrmergency?

I visited an NHS accident & emergency department in central(ish) London last night.

I've started reacting really badly to insect bites, and have had a real badass muthafucka on my right forearm for a week now. I reckoned I could control it with TCP, germolene and melolene, but was ordered to St Thomas' when my home-botched bandage slipped and my co-workers saw for themselves the gaping volcano of seething horror that lay beneath.

It's a good job I was given my marching orders, because my hand had started to go a bit fat and strange, and it did occur to me that it could fall off. Then I'd be buggered - respect to the drummer from Def Leppard and all that, but I don't fancy trying to churn out copy with one hand.

Anticipating an evening of hack-coughing old people, screaming green babies, lunging tramps, sweaty plastic chairs, fluro-lighting and MRSA, I thought it would be wise to get some supplies in. Heat magazine, the Indy, chocolate raisins, chocolate peanuts, Jelly Babies, Smarties, cheese and onion crisps, sausage and egg wedge and a bottle of water. Medical emergency, you see - calories do not apply. I didn't intend to eat all of it, but ooh, there's nothing worse than bringing a packed lunch, getting stuck somewhere, and realising you hate everything you've brought. Suddenly your mozzarella and rocket ciabatta on sundried tomato foccacia, freshly-squeezed pear zest smoothie and hand-dusted chocolate truffles gently imprinted with gold leaf look about as appealing as a soggy cheese and sweetcorn relish sarnie, a carton of Um Bongo and a fun-sized Topic. Also, it occurred to me that I could use the sweets as small bribes to keep the MRSA babies away from my slowly-peeling plaster. I was so ready for the long-haul. I was clinic fit, and ready to sit in the same place for like, ages.

So it was a bit of a shock to walk into A&E and find a bank of empty chairs and a wide-screen telly showing Hollyoaks. I peered around, looking for the real waiting room, but there were just a few grey-looking people in pyjamas and shoes leant gently against walls. The triage nurse stuck a thingie in my ear, the registration nurse registered me, and I'd hardly had time to polish off the wedge, the Smarties and the first few paged of Heat before I was called in.

The nurse was brilliant, even though she poked the hole in my arm with a pointy stick. I opted for a blood sugar level test not because I thought I really could be diabetic, but because surely you can't go to A&E and not have someone stick a needle in you? The blood sugar was clearly off the chart, as I'd just been stuffing my face with Smarties and ketchup.

I had called for waiting room back-up, who arrived as I was leaving, all bandaged up with a box of antibiotics in my bag.

I've never been to A&E before - I was a cautious child and had thought that you'd get a bollocking from the nurses if you turned up with anything less than a severed limb. I haven't developed MRSA yet, and the whole experience was quite pleasant. I'm going back tomorrow!

Cryptic cabbage

"Hi, it's me."

"Hello! How's your day been?"

"Oh, you know. You like cabbage, don't you."

"I'm... reasonably fond of cabbage, yes."

"I mean, you like cabbagey things."

"Well, that depends on what aspects of 'cabbagey' you mean."

"It's just, I've seen the pan that I want."

"Right."

"But I can't get it until tomorrow."

"Right."

"So, meet me in Holborn at 7, and we'll go to a Polish restaurant."

"So, what you're saying is, you can't cook tonight"

"Right!"

"And you want to go to a Polish restaurant instead..."

"Right..."

"... and eat cabbage?"

"Right!"

"Right..."

Word up... or off

I just opened the cursed horror that is Microsoft Word for the first time in years in order to compose a letter.

That fucking paperclip thingy popped up, and reminded me of this:



Titter.

Ooh la la, ole, oi oi!

Jo, Paul and Matilda
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

"I'm off to Madrid for a long weekend with eleven of my nearest and dearest..."

"I'm off to Paris for the weekend today with my friend, Helen..."

Yeah? Really? Well, I'm off to Drayton Green with my friend Annabel, so bite me! And we're going to drink Cava with Jo and Paul, then eat vegetable lasagne, and then we're going to see if we can wake Matilda up without Jo noticing because please, what use is a sleeping baby? Well, unless you are two hard-working new parents who have slaved over a hot stove to cook a delicious meal for your two adult friends so you can enjoy a sophisticated grown-up evening.

This photo is from the last time I saw Jo, Paul and Matilda. I hear Matilda is considerably larger these days.

Kittens?

(Just can't stop) When my spark gets hot

It's not cop-out Tuesday....

It's not cop-out Thursday....

So it must be cop-out Wednesday, and time for the next thrilling installment of 'Cop-out Wednesday Google image search post'!

*cue rapturous applause*

This is what you get when you search for 'disco inferno'.

Burn, baby, BURN!

Two geeks (nearly)

"Yeah, well, I have a secret blog."

"No way! I have a secret blog too! What's your secret blog called?"

"I can't tell you that. If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret blog anymore."

"Oh go on, what's your secret blog?"

"I can't tell you. But it gets more traffic than my regular blog."

"Oh. I don't think anyone's read my secret blog."

*smug*

"Tell me what it's called or I'll blog on my blog about your secret blog."

"Not if I blog on my blog about your secret blog first!"

"I'm going to go home right now and blog about your secret blog. And I'm going to link to your blog, so everyone knows."

"Yeah, well, don't even bother, because I'm going to blog about it on my Blueberry."

"Blueberry?"

"Yeah, my Blueberry."

"Do you mean Blackberry?"

"Whatever. Fancy another pint?"

For the attention of the chap performing '(Can Anybody Find Me) Somebody To Love' by Queen outside the window at 1am.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for serenading me from the street as I slumbered last night. Your all-guns-blazing rendition of Queen's hit Somebody To Love certainly got my attention.

However. There are a few areas that I feel we should address before your next drunken lunge down my road.

First of all, have you considered singing lessons? You certainly have a mighty pair of lungs on you, but you lack control. I'm afraid that simply bellowing will not summon the enviable power of Freddie Mercury's vocal from beyond the pop/rock grave. If I were Simon Cowell, Louis Walsh or even the lovely Sharon Osbourne, it's likely I would comment that the song didn't really show off your talents. And to be honest, as I have not worked closely with you in a mentoring capacity in my LA mansion, Spanish villa or Dublin flat, I am not entirely sure where exactly your talents lie.

The second point is the time you chose for your performance. 1am is a pretty big slot to fill. Shit-faced street warblers are ten a penny, but in my opinion, if you're going to wreck somebody's kip, it's only fair to put on a right f*cking corker of a show. Tuneless yelling and yelping is far more endearing at around 11.30pm, when folk are scrubbing teeth and will peer down from behind their blinds, affectionately muttering 'tosser' before reaching for the Listerine. Also, the day. I could forgive your uncontrolled and frankly shoddy rendition on a Friday or Saturday - hopefully I wouldn't even be in. But Sunday night/Monday morning? Come on, mister. Waking up and realising it's Monday is heartbreaking enough, without the added misery of having only dropped off three hours previously because some pissed-up arse elected to 'hilariously' shriek out a classic pop chart release during a critical stage of the REM cycle, condemning everyone in the street to several distressing hours listening to the bastard central heating GURGLING, why does it gurgle like that for pity's sake?

So yeah, maybe a Friday would be better.

My third point... what was my third point. Yes. It is my choice to rest my head in the vicinity of bars. But I don't mind a bit of good-natured bawdy banter from the streets below. In fact, I feel it lends a certain carnival atmosphere. However, you, you and that bloke who repeatedly shouted "Oi-oi! Oi-oi! Oi-oi! Oi-oi! Oi, Darren! Oi-oi!" on Saturday night, you people really should just SIMMER DOWN and piss of back to Kent. Losers.

Thank you,
Lizzie

Oh, for f*ck's sake

I accept that shoving up stupid pictures every now and then is no substitute for proper blogging, but all I do at the moment is write, write, write, and it's just no fun anymore.

This, on the other hand, this is fun. Well, ridiculous. It's so saccharine it has solidified my blood into stripy candy cane.

I would very much like to know what happened next. I am imaging some kind of fluffy, bloody massacre. That kitten looks like one bad-ass mutha. Come to mention it, the rabbit looks a little fucked off. I wouldn't mess with that rabbit.