17 March 2004

This afternoon I found myself on my hands and knees, scrubbing away at curry ingrained in the kitchen floor. Whilst in that slightly interesting of positions, I found myself looking up at the fridge, and reading the messages that have been left for me. And realising their importance.

Yup, Fridge Poetry. One of my finer investments. It's always lovely to skulk into the kitchen before you're fully awake, searching for caffeine whilst semi-conscious, only to find "I am a shaven slut" written on your fridge as you reach towards it for milk.

And on the subject of milk... "careless breast milk and pea stew" was one of the more abstract phrases on the fridge. Is it marketed at children or adults? Would it be some kind of jarred baby food? And how is it careless? Was there a spillage of breast milk and pea stew? Or was it meant to be simply pea stew, until there was a spillage?

For a while, I used to leave collections of three words on the fridge, for people to make into sentences. "soup, pubic, eye" was one such selection. It was decided that "pubic eye soup" was sufficiently entertaining as a sentence of it's own without the need for any other linguistic ingredients to be added. Is it some kind of bean?

"mistress spider offer expensive temptation to virile Harry Potter"

Mistress Spider. I'm sure that most people seek for their dominatrixes to be slightly frightening, but really. There was a spider in our hallway last night. It had an arse as big as mine, and when it moved me and my flatmate both ran away screaming (oddly enough, both into the wrong persons bedroom)... and she's the one that usually "frees" the spiders when I run out the house screaming. I couldn't even lure the cat in to come in and eat it. Not that he would. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do with a moth when he's actually got it under his paw. I was struck with a moments inspiration while at the window, shouting for the cat... his scratching post is heavy, with a large, flat bottom (a bit like me) and a post-like bit, meaning I could drop it on the spider from quite a distance. So I did. My flatmate then hoovered up the corpse. Which was quite impressive given the size of it. Before being reduced to only two dimensions by a feline accessory I thought we'd need to construct a coffin to get it out the door. It was huge.

And, surely, Harry Potter would be the least sensible of all teenage boys on the planet to attempt to seduce, given how little interest he's showing in sex as he plods through his teenage years. He turned 11 near the start of the first book. By that age I was halfway through the longest lasting relationship I've ever had (two years)(isn't that just fucking tragic?), and I was on a mission to be as slutty as possible (insecure? Moi?). I suspect Mistress Spider isn't the greatest of earners in her chosen profession.

"never bugger wild mice"

Useful piece of advice. "Never bugger wild cats" I think would be more fitting for this house. My flatmates cat keeps trying to bring his boyfriends home. The one on Monday night resulted in me getting locked in the flat on Tuesday morning, after I was trying to get him out of the house, and managed to leave my keys on the outside of our flat door in the entrance hall. The flat door between me and the keys which my flatmate locks on her way to work in the mornings. That was fun.

"she put a toothbrush up his bottom with a rubber hand"

A dentists surgery I wish to steer clear of.

"saucy slave Howard has a whopper in his trousers"

Burger King's new ad campaign. Just don't ask for mayonnaise.

And, a slogan to go with Burger King's new side order: "enjoy pickled vagina you kinky brunette tart"

"experience hairless crumpet"

An invitation from the shaven slut? Or just a reminder to stop shaving my legs next to the bread bin?

13 March 2004

Days like today are incredibly bad, and incredibly wrong.

When I get up before dawn (I'm not referring to my imaginary girlfriend) you know something dreadful is going on. Like the time I was very bored with life, going slightly mad, and took to going to be in the audience for live breakfast television on a regular basis because it was something to do for a couple of hours, and involved getting a free breakfast.

This morning I left my bed unneccessarily early under duress. Sadly, not by anyone present at the time. I had received previous instructions that today, there was something I must do.

The way things go in the first hour or so of the day is usually indicative of what the day will be like on the whole. This morning, 20 minutes after leaving the house, I had a woman with bad teeth come up to me in Belsize Park. Initially I couldn't understand what she was saying, but then I caught "when you get your finger caught in it or have to blow your nose?" I figured she was talking about my facial piercings - after all, what else could I get my finger caught in that could be affected by me blowing my nose?

This was the second time in two days my facial piercings have attracted attention. On Thursday, a boy of about 3 was in the queue behind me in the Post Office. Usually, if small children want to pose questions about me to their guardians, they will ask either "what is wrong with that lady's legs?" or, of course, "why is that lady in a wheelchair?". Once or twice "why is that lady so fat?"... but the piercings seem to go unnoticed. This boy was persistant.

"What's in that lady's nose? What is that in the lady's nose? What's that? Answer in English. What is that in that lady's nose in English?"

As my friend said, it was like hearing the boring half of a phone conversation as I couldn't undetand what the father was answering. The most odd thing about this for me is that we were only a couple of miles north of Camden Town. Surely by this point in his life, and living in this area, the boy must've seen people with more facial piercings than my measly 10. And why was he only remarking on my nasal accoutrements? I think the fact that I've had a needle shoved into my mouth is far more interesting.

But, yes. Back to Belsize Park. Which seems to serve as a hangout for a lot of London's more colourful characters. The other day I was at a bus stop in Belsize Park and an elderly bloke came up to me and said with a Cornish accent "Are you alright? It's just that my wife, well, she's just like you."

I so desperately wanted to reply "What, a raving lesbian? That must be so hard for you to live with that knowledge," - curse these manners of mine for preventing me from saying that.

10 minutes later, I was still sitting, waiting, and I had another bloke say "Are you waiting to cross the road?" This time I was a bit more plucky. I accompanied my "no, I'm waiting for a bus" with evil eyes and a slightly impatient tone.

None of these people beat the tiny, frail old woman who came up to me and asked me if I wanted help. When I said "no, I'm fine", her reply was

"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to force myself upon you. I've helped people like you who were stuck before, see."

I was still cringing by the time I got to Golders Green at the mental images flooding my brain, following her suggestion that she forced herself upon me. Bad and wrong. Call me ageist - but she just wasn't my type.

I've wandered down tangent lane with these Belsize Parkian characters. Forgive me.

Yes, today, started off oddly. By the time I'd gotten as far as E16 (just one short of a boy band. A bit like Westlife now) I could sense that I would really of been better off had I stayed home and slept.

The queue of people hoping to audition for Big Brother stretched right along the side of the ExCel building. It was such a bleak morning. I was there because I'm constantly being harrassed and told that I should be on Big Brother, that I'm fascinating and would be an asset. Clearly, I spend most of my time with slightly crazy people (perhaps they secretly live in Belsize Park?), and I was not offered the option of not going. Well, I could've not gone I suppose - but I'd never hear the end of it. I'm sure, had I not gone today it would even be mentioned in my epitaph:

"Lisy lived a full and brave life, despite her 'problems'. She achieved many things during her 104 years - even if she didn't audition for Big Brother in 2004."

After about 5 minutes of sitting in the queue I found myself rolling my eyes with boredom, every time I heard someone near me speak. I have never before met so many people who are so dull and tedious, and will never get on telly due to their lack of charisma and personality (well, I say that, they could, I suppose, of all been contestants on last years Big Brother). I sat in this queue for 3 hours. By the time I got to the front I was too bored to think of anything else other than how much I was looking forward to going home.

Upon reaching the front of the queue, it was truly special to see all these people who had been so cocky about how wonderful/beautiful/experienced at these things they are just freeze and have nothing to say other than "um, yeah. You should pick me, cos, I'm, err... fun."

They were not selected.

Despite my wit, I was not selected to enter the building either. Funny that.

Embarking upon my journey home, someone who had also been rejected started speaking to me as I rounded the corner towards the DLR station. When he said to me "You used to go to Brunel, didn't you?" I realised he was someone I once had a conversation with on the long night bus journey to Uxbridge. As the train bound for Lewisham arrived at platform 4, he said that he might return tomorrow to audition again, this time with cum stains on his shirt, following tonights excursion to G-A-Y. I wished him luck with that.

Of course, the recruitment process is pointless. They're only going to attract people like me with as much charisma as Tipp Ex. And not even the pink Tipp Ex for pink paper... just normal, boring Tipp Ex. What they should do is send a Big Brother recruitment unit to Belsize Park and just wait.

That would be a TV show worth watching.

12 March 2004

I'm sorry, but I have to rant.

The bloody Moron5 (or whatever they're called) song just came on the radio again.

You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate that song. I find it more distressing than anything Westlife ever released (which is really something. And isn't it great news that they're falling apart?).

It's not the song per se I find distressing (though it is truly dreadful) - it's how the song has been received.

Your generic Backpassage Boys type band will usually only get played on radio stations like Capital, and stations like Virgin won't touch it with a bargepole. But, for some reason, Moron5 have got the music industry all flustered and people don't seem to be able to recognise that they sound like a cross between a boy band and a pervy phonecall (you know a song is pure class when they need to put sound effects of heavy breathing over it).

I'm sorry Mr Moron - but if you're finding it harder and harder to breathe, you're clearly having an attack of either asthma or panic. Whichever, you really should seek medical help, and not catharsis through shite pop music.

11 March 2004

This brought a little ray of sunshine to my life.

Firstly, it served to remind me that the Disability Rights movement hasn't died, as they've been much quieter over the last few years. Possibly a good thing, as if they'd been as vocal during my student days as they were when I was in my early teens and stuck in Cambridge... I'd almost certainly have been charged with a string of civil disobedience offences by now. Yes, it would make me seem "interesting", but, it's not like I need a criminal record to hamper my chances of getting a job, after all... I'm already five times as likely to be out of work than the majority of the population, and that's without taking into account how ugly I am, my facial piercings, or my refusal to dress smartly for anyone.

Secondly, and mainly, the following extract from that article entertained me:

At around 8:30am, an accessible police van drove the protestors to nearby Charing Cross police station where they are currently being held on a number of charges after repeatedly failing to unblock the road when requested by police.

Why is that funny you may be wondering?

Well, two days before Christmas last year, my friend had her bag stolen from under the table in a pub in the West End. There were three of us, and we suspect it must've been while the "crime victim" was drunkenly demanding a hug from someone off the telly, as that was the only time all afternoon we were all looking away from the table.

Charing Cross was the police station we were directed to to report the crime, so to Charing Cross police station we went.

At Charing Cross police station we were immediately greeted by a flight of steps. There was the universal "wheelchair symbol" with an ambiguous arrow on it at the bottom of the steps... god knows where it was pointing to. This is where I sniff irony in the article - especially as it stipulates that the police van was accessible.

I somehow managed to climb the steps, despite there not even being a handrail (alcohol is remarkably good for the confidence, taking the pain away, and for making you forget that when you fall you'll end up in A&E), and one of my friends carried my chair in.

Something I'm very glad about. Once inside the reception area, there was no going through any doors to anywhere. They wouldn't even let us pee, despite the length of time they made us wait while the computer generated a crime reference number.

The article on DAN infers that Charing Cross, surely, has access for Crippled Criminals (wouldn't that be an excellent name for a rap group?). Maybe that's where the ambiguous sign was pointing? Straight to the cells?

"No, I don't need a lawyer, I haven't done anything. No, please don't strip search me. There are no drugs up my bum. No, really... I only wanted to report that my cashcard was stolen. No, please......"

10 March 2004

Last night I participated in one of those things which are one of the sadder parts of living in our current age - The Focus Group. By this I do not mean I was involved in some staring contest, and neither am I referring to FOCUS the charity.

On Sunday afternoon, I was participating in my weekly(ish) shop at my local supermarket. Whilst picking up some vegetarian faux-bacon in the freezer section I was accosted by a middle-aged gentleman, brandishing a clipboard.

"Are you a vegetarian?"


"Would you like to go to a Cutomer Question Time on Tuesday at the hotel around the corner to talk to bigwigs from [insert non-specific name of supermarket here] about vegetarian frozen food in this store. You get £15 in store vouchers for turning up, free tea, coffee and biscuits throughout the session and either a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates at the end for participating"


"Can I take your address and telephone number please?"

Now, call me naive and slightly innocent... but I figured this was a safe thing to do. After all, if he was a dodgy man with a fetish for vegetarians trying to lure women back to his hotel room, surely security would've noticed? And his clipboard looked well used and a bit tatty. This could either indicate it had been well used by the supermarket in attracting customers to question times before, or he was very experienced in his seduction of vegetarians.

Either way, I divulged my details.

I had planned to go to Comedy Camp last night, but I was offered a choice: spend £7 plus drinks on a night out, or earn £15 plus caffeine and alcohol. Being terminally financially challenged with a caffeine problem and a propensity towards vast alcohol consumption, I chose the latter.

After all - if he had been trying to get me back to his hotel room for seduction purposes... I might of still gotten a free cup of tea from his hotel rooms courtesy stash - and I'm sure if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could've convinced myself he was Sharleen Spiteri wearing a strap on.

I have not yet noticed anyone stalking me (after all, why would anyone want to?) and when I arrived at the hotel yesterday evening, a man in a supermarket uniform ticked my name off a list, and handed me my £15 in store vouchers.

All was well.

I'd never really given much of a thought to the type of person with a tendency to say "yes" to attending focus groups. The closest I've ever come before is attending a test screening of About A Boy about a year before it was released, and having to fill in a form afterwards saying "yes, I didn't think the ending was too happy/sad" etc. I think those things are quite horrible as films should be ablout art, not pleasing audiences. But, then, I was pleased to get to see a film for free, and I've still not actually seen the film in it's completed state.

It was quite interesting to note that I was almost certainly the youngest person in the room. Vegetarianism is something you tend to associate with twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians, so it was quite shocking that I was the only person to fulfill all those criteria (I remember once, many, many years ago my swimming coach saying to me "I think you're a closet hippie" which took all the self-restraint I had to not blurb "that's not the only thing I'm closeted about"). I was sitting next to a strange, dull middle aged man who might qualify as a hippie, but, apart from that, the room was full of middle-aged women who all looked and talked like they needed to fill a void in their life with vegetarian sausages (make of that what you will, there was a woman at my table with an actual obsession).

Do you have to be older and slightly bored with life to attend a focus group? Or do all the other twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians have better places to be on a Tuesday night? What does this say about me as a person?

We were asked questions about the kind of products we'd like to see in the vegetarian frozen food ranges, and what kind of promotions we'd like to see.

"Would you like to see promotions linking vegetarian frozen food to other ranges?"

"Yes, 'buy a pack of vegetarian sausages, get a free rack of lamb.'" (is that how lamb is sold? I wouldn't know, I've never bought it.)

I was being honest with my comments like "well, [this supermarket] does much nicer vegetarian curries", and "[that supermarket] does a really nice vegetarian carbonara", which I think most of the other attendees thought made me really rude, as they all seemed to of been programmed to say nothing but "yes".

This has me paranoid. Was I not part of a focus group at all? Was I part of the updating of psychological research? Was I being tested to see if I'd say "yes" just to follow everyone else in a group?

Either way. I don't care. I had 5 cups of tea in 2 hours, I have my wine and I have £15 to spend in store.

To this I say: "Sixty Marlboro Lights, please."

08 March 2004

Today a letter came to my house, addressed to:

Miss C. Litt

Why do I bother going out when I can have comedy literally land on my doormat?

I wonder if it was an International Women's Day joke...

04 March 2004

If I had a hammer....

Ellen DeGeneres mocks the song in her Here and Now DVD (which, if you haven't seen it, you must), but it was something I found myself wondering last night.

I decided a while ago that I wanted a shelf above my bed. And last night I purchased one on an excursion to Ikea. A very nice shelf too. For the miniscule price of three English pounds. I wanted to put on this shelf candles, plants and books. I have books and candles, but I found myself buying plants to complete my fantasy shelf. I am taking bets on how long they will last before I kill them. I have never successfully owned plants before (I once tried to own a basil plant. They never need watering and I still managed to kill it through neglect), so this is something of a personal test. A cat will meow at you when it wants food or water. A plant will not. This is where the test lies. Can I take care of something that won't remind me it exists? Or will the big, green, curly thing become posessed by the spirit of all the horror movies I've got on DVD and grow down and strangle me just to draw my attention to it's presence?

I also found myself buying a stool. Of the seating variety, rather than the type a medical professional might ask for a sample of. I bought it so I have something to sit on while cooking and/or washing up. Today I've managed to get away with doing neither, so I'm still very excited about my unused stool.

I enjoy Ikea. Especially the kids section. I always want to bring home the bright purple chest of drawers that looks like it's a fugitive from some fairy tale that was written under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. And, even if you don't find that bit of furniture you were looking for - you can stock up on your pencils.

I came home from Ikea, and searched the whole house. I couldn't find my hammer. I bought it while I was at university and wanted to put a flat-packed bedside table together. I also found it to be useful for periodically banging bits back onto my wheelchair that had fallen off. I also think I inadvertently used it to scare people as I would wander through university clutching it looking pissed off, muttering under my breath, angered about how another bit had fallen off my wheelchair.

The day I bought my hammer, I bought it in Homebase, and then went into Sainsbury's next door to pick up a few things. Between stores I'd put the hammer in my car. Big mistake. In Sainsbury's, the cashier refused to accept my signature as matching the one on my debit card. We waited ages, while the queue steadily grew and people at the back started muttering "I think the woman at the front is trying to use a stolen credit card", for the cashiers supervisor to come and check my signature. She came, she looked, she laughed at the cashier as the signatures quite blatantly matched. Oh, if I'd had a hammer on me.

But last night it was missing. Nowhere.

If I had a hammer - I would have a shelf on my wall, I thought.

If I'd had a hammer last night, I'd probably have a wonky shelf on my wall, as, last night, I was not the owner of a spirit level.

If I had a hammer, I might not of gone to Homebase today, to purchase yet another Homebase Essentials (the Tesco's Value range of the DIY world - a bit like a basic bullet vibrator. Plain, simple, undecorated, and makes DIY easier) hammer and spirit level.

What could I of done with that spare time If I had a hammer? I might of spent it in a cafe, looking sophisticated, reading a book and drinking a coffee. I might of met my dream lady. The conversation might of begun by her asking me if the book was any good as she'd considered reading it, and might of ended up with us making beautiful love, on my bed, beneath the very interesting shelf with books, plants and candles on it. Oh yes, that shelf is going to lure people into my bed. It makes me look trendy and interesting. People will want to be with me. Oh yes. OK, maybe not.

If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been asleep, rather than being in Homebase. But I might of dreamt of a story so brilliant that I'd have to write it down. It might of been such a brilliant story that the writing of it may of been more than a few words on a post-it note on my bedside table - I may of awoken inspired to write a novel in one day. A novel so brilliant that it would make me a world famous author. A novel that would make me so much money that I'd never have to wonder "If I had a hammer" again, because I'd be able to hire people to erect my shelves for me.

If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been sleeping and dreaming of shopping in Sainsbury's with Sharleen Spiteri, discussing whether we should get skimmed or semi-skimmed. Or dreaming that all the bus routes have been changed around Belsize Park, so the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team can't find which bus they want, and George Michael won't let me sing in the music video with the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team because I'm a woman (the feminist in me was so angry when I woke up from that one).

Despite Ellen claiming that when you've got a hammer, you don't hammer as much as you'd think you would - just think about how different your life could be... if only you had a hammer.

01 March 2004

I'm not quite sure why my last blog post appeared twice, or why one of them wouldn't actually go away when I deleted it (deleting it is no longer an option apparently. Something in cyberspace thinks it's already gone). Repetition can be entertaining. Not in this case, and I apologise for it.

A friend of mine has a very vicious pussy, as I discovered this afternoon. In fact, I'm fortunate that human's have a blinking instinct, or I may of ended up spending the best part of today in the A&E at Moorfields Eye Hospital. She was perfectly content with being stroked and cooed over, until I said her name. At which point she turned around and saw my face. A sight, clearly so hideous, that she was unable to bear it and so sank her claws into the area around my left eye as punishment for looking so monstrous.

Last night my friend and I went out for dinner. We had Mexican which excited me immensly, as I adore Mexican food, but it's really hard to find over here... and even harder to find Mexican food worth eating. It was actually nice. In fact, I'd go so far to say that it was the nicest Mexican food I've ever had in the UK. Shame about the cutlery though. It was cheap and nasty (a little bit like me) and you could taste the metal, which can actually really ruin a meal.

We had an orgasm fight in the restaurant. Quite normal behaviour for a Saturday night in Clapham, clearly, as no-one batted an eyelid. I even managed to get orgasm in her eye which I thought was a quite impressive aim.

Perhaps we'd be safe if we all went through life wearing swimming goggles? Perhaps not a suitable option for those with eyebrow piercings. When I swim I do like like I have an aerial sticking out of my head.

If I don't tell them, they will never know it is really an aerial

Which reminds me, I really should phone home...