Smokin'

Bill shambles back into the office after a week's skiing. His short, stocky frame is enveloped in a long winter coat which he shrugs off to reveal a sloppily-knotted tie and a frayed white shirt with a missing button. His balding head and face are red, still radiating the snow-reflected Alpine glare.
In his hand, he clutches his first - or maybe second - Nero's cappuccino of the day. Milk froth flecks his lips, or is it leftover sunblock? Sunburned skin? Impossible to tell.
He smiles into his scarf.
"Morning," he mumbles.
"Look what I just found in my coat."
He reaches into his pocket and produces a round and battered seventies-style ashtray, along with a strong stench of stale smoke.
It's still full of ash.
"Where did that come from?" I ask.
He smiles again, bemused.
"I dunno!" he says, plonking it on the desk.

Five minutes later, the smoky smell is muted.
"I got rid of that ashtray for you," he says.
I like sitting next to Bill.

Excused

I overslept
My alarm didn't go off - I must have accidentally turned it off in the night
My alarm didn't go off - the battery died in the night
My alarm didn't go off - it is broken
My flatmate took my shower slot
My flatmate took my phone
Our boiler broke and we had no hot water
The washing machine flooded the kitchen
The tumble dryer wouldn't open and all my clothes were inside
I dropped my contact lens
I couldn't find my keys
I couldn't find my travel pass
My boyfriend locked me in his flat
I had to go back for my travel pass
The train was delayed
The train was cancelled
I have to go to the doctor
I have to go to the optician
I have to see a priest
Why oh why do you make me come here every day, I just want to stay in bed

(use in rotation for authenticity)

And don't even get me STARTED on the people who talk through the movie

Last week, I saw Brokeback Mountain.

This is not going to be a post about sweeping scenery, moving performances or stunning cinematography.

I also do not wish to discuss the relative merits of Heath Ledger's surprisingly gravelly voice and Jake Gyllenhaal's dreamy eyes.

I don't want to talk about Jake's moustache, or how good he looks dressed as a cowboy (oh OK, he looks so damn good dressed as a cowboy).

In fact, I don't even want to bring up the incident at dinner when my mum mentioned that it was a bit of a shame the film had a gay message and did the gays really need cowboys? - despite the fact she has friends who are in the gays and a daughter who is an occasional cheerleader for homosexuality (festival and parade days only).

What I REALLY want to talk about is OHMYGOD HOW EXPENSIVE IS IT TO GO TO THE CINEMA THESE DAYS, REALLY?

And what is with those... those... nacho... things you get in the plastic tray? With the knat's paddling pool of watery tinned tomatoes? And the ghastly, ghastly, horrible, offensive floury "cheeze' sauce? Just what the fuck is that exactly? It is not good when the best thing about a 'snack' is the jalapeno peppers. I have not been so repulsed since my four-year-old brother flushed the loo while I was cleaning my teeth and a droplet of possibly toilet water landed in my seven-year-old mouth.

The drinks are as bad as the 'food'. Well, not as bad, but they're still pretty fucking pisspoor. I gave up ordering drinks at the cinema years ago as I am not partial to £3.50 buckets of watered-down syrup. But my film-going companion decided to purchase a coca-cola (probably something to do with being hit and told not to buy the water because it is a rip-off) and thought they had given him soda water by mistake. An investigative peek under the lid revealed that the liquid in question was in fact brown - sort of the reverse of Tab Clear.

I have to say, the popcorn was alright. Well, half of it. I'm a salt-and-sugar mixed together girl - the salted was good, the sugared was substandard. And as I'm handing over several pounds for a container of exploded cereal, it would be kind of nice if they could actually mix it together for me. Shaking it into my bloody lap is not actually a treasured part of the whole movie-going experience.

All in all, the tickets and snacks came to nearly £30. Is it worth £30 quid to trudge over grotty carpet to consume offensive snacks on a sticky chair, just to enjoy the luscious sight of Jake Gyllenhaal's eyelashes on the silver screen? I think not. Film audiences are plummeting as people stay at home to watch the DVDs that come out ooh, a week after the cinema release date - can anyone possibly be surprised? For the privilege of seeing a great movie in a cinema, one is mugged to the tune of £17.50 per couple, while any poor fucker who didn't get a chance to eat beforehand must also hand over their firstborn child and sit there pressing a family-sized bag of Revels and powdered, reconstituted food substitutes into their closing, protesting throat as a single tear reflects the action on the big screen.

So, in conclusion - Vue Cinemas, you can shove it up your soda pipe with a popcorn shovel.

Oh, go on then.

How do you spell stoopid?

I've been puzzling over a Virgin Atlantic ad on the tube for a couple of weeks now.

There's a red background, the company's name and some blurb about online check-in. The only illustration is two computer keys - a Y, and a Q.

It's part of a series of adverts and I totally got all the others straight away. I like to think of myself as reasonably bright and concluded that there must have been some kind of fuck-up at the ad agency because the advert was beyond me, therefore surely wrong/not funny.

I even mulled over whether or not there had been a market research group and how the hell they had passed something so nonsensical.

Last night, I went out for dinner with Andrew, otherwise known as Good Enough To Eat. After a delightfully cheap (he paid) and healthy veggie meal of pulses, sprouting stuff and dribbly honey, we boarded the tube clutching fresh cream chocolate eclairs (he paid).

"I don't get that advert," I mumbled through a mouthful of choux pastry.
"Do you?"

And he glanced at it, then at me, and did that slight-tippy-head-quizzical-eyebrows thing that means "Yes you fuckwit, of course I do - and why, prey tell, don't you?"

Which was bad, because I'm pretty sure that he already thinks he's cleverer than me.

As soon as I saw the Mocking Eyebrows of Judgement, I knew in a second that it was an advert for online checking in asking "Why Queue?" in a fashion that was witty but not really all that difficult to comprehend.

It is not fun to embarrass yourself in front of friends, even friends who you know a good few pretty embarrassing stories about.

So let me just say this. Once, I saw Andrew wearing one red stripy sock and one navy one, and both of them had holes in.

Oh yeah, I feel better now.

Shortbread

It's very difficult to starve oneself when one is handed a shortbread biscuit when still in bed and half-asleep.

To be honest, I'm not even sure that it counts.

Fabulous new diet! Lost £6 in one day!

It's possible that I put on a few pounds over Christmas. I'm not sure why, I didn't eat any more than usual and the annual turkey-cheese-chocolate binge doesn't usually present a problem. Perhaps it has something to do with never-ending brook of amber nectar that gaily babbled its way down my throat throughout December. Anyway, it doesn't matter - the babbling brook has solidified into dripping lard, the calories have made the transition from fun to chunk and I feel like a girl-sized Buddha roughly hewn from plasticine by a particularly cack-handed four-year-old.

It's not enough to necessitate elasticised leisure slacks from the Innovations catalogue, but I have officially been told to "stop going on about it". I have to wait until February until my probation period is up at work and I can FINALLY join the damn gym (it's only bloody Fitness First for the love of jazzy headbands). I can't afford any unsubsidised yoga classes or blobby-flab purging yak milk 'n' cabbage body wraps - my colleagues had to have a whip-round for me the Friday before Christmas so I could have lunch.

After several days of staring hatefully at various chunks of pancetta-like flesh, I had an epiphany as I ascended a Northern line escalator this morning. Starvation! Why piss about cutting out carbs and banishing wheat when treacherous dairy, salt or some duplicitous type of artery-blocking lettuce will carry on gently swelling me like a water balloon anyway?

Although, of course, you have to top yourself up with teeny-tiny pieces of food as you starve, or the body will go into starvation mode and you don't burn off the right bits, or something.

I had a squashed grilled tomato on butterless brown toast for breakfast. So far, so good.

I did follow it up with a cup of sugared tea, but it's better to have skimmed milk, a tiny bit of sugar, caffeine and hot water swilling around my innards than loads of cake, surely?

Was quite hungry by lunch, so I had a jacket potato and beans to keep starvation mode at bay. I only had a Crunchie because Veronica was having a Kit Kat, and anyway, Crunchies are made mostly of bubbles and are therefore the perfect complement to not eating anything.

I have bravely sipped only water since lunchtime, despite being quite peckish. Perhaps I should eat something to prevent my body going into starvation mode and rendering the whole effort pointless. A nice bag of lettuce from Tesco? Although the 'washed and ready to eat bag' I bought the other day was caked in mud - very dangerous. Would a macaroon be better? I don't want to pass out at my desk. That would be highly unprofessional.

I think I am handling the whole thing very well, though. Feels good to have finally taken the first steps towards a healthier, happier me.