Born to Dunce

My status update from Facebook, Friday 20th March 2015 (yesterday night):

Dramatically tripped over my own feet in the car park this evening (after dance class, no less). A lady walked pass and, clearly convinced that I was drunk and about to drive legless, tutted and gave me the evils. Nope, not drunk, lady- I just have a constantly faulty internal gyroscope.

Just Say Yes

A weird thing happened to me at work today.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"... So Tash, we were wondering if you'd be able to pick up where the last blogger left off. How do you feel about taking it on?"

"...Er..."

"It's okay if you don't feel comfortable writing about that topic, I just wanted to know what you think?"

"I really don't think I'd be able to write about that topic with much authority. Sorry, it's a no on this one."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Why is this weird? It's weird because I pretty much agree to do everything, all the time.

It's a combination of several things, the main one being the loose 'just say yes' policy I adopted a couple of years ago to open myself up to new experiences. Not wanting to disappoint others is a part of it I'll admit, but it's equally about me getting as much out of life as I possibly can during my brief time on this planet.

There are a few downsides to the 'just say yes' policy. The first obviously being that I barely have enough time to myself anymore because I'm always Doing Things, leaving little time to just 'be' and leaving me often quite tired- at work and just as much at home. The second main downside is that sometimes adopting this policy is a bit expensive when it comes to social activities. Just hopping on the train, driving around, taking a bus already costs money to get to the place before you've even paid for a ticket for anything: and of course this is London, so few things are cheap.

The upsides, however, greatly outweigh the downsides. I have had so much fun these past couple of years, and I have so much lined up for the future, still. I've visited some pretty cool places, experienced ridiculous things, made some new friends, re-connected with old friends, and spent time brushing up my creative skills in the kitchen and through blogging. One of the things I'm most proud of is doing some writing work for Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium (soon to be London's first cat cafe), helping with mailers, SEO, blogging and the like.

So I may be a little tired, at times even a little frantic to pack everything into a day- but I'm living rather than simply thinking about living, and that's the most important thing for me.

Still, even though today was a surprise break in my track record of willingness to do everything, it also reminded me that I can still stick to my guns if I need to, and say no occasionally.

Even if I only ever say 'no' once every few months.

Short Stories: How I Ran into my 'Oppoganger'

Or, more precisely, how she almost ran into me.

I just managed to run a steady 2 miles (2.07 to be exact), for the first time ever, this time last year being the first time I ran a mile in my life (I know it's not fast progress, but I didn't run during autumn, winter or our very crappy UK spring). My new route also has a beastly hill that I defeated. Go me!

At the end of my run I always have a brisk walk around the block as my cooldown exercise. I still had my music on really loud so I didn't hear the other runner coming up from behind me, so my heart jumped a little bit when they brushed past me and (literally) jogged on.

As I glanced up, I swear everything went in slow motion for a few seconds.

Because, readers, running ahead of me was what I can only accurately describe as my 'oppoganger': (opposite doppelganger).

She and I were both of the same height, both had very long, wavy hair, and both had our hair tied up in a regular 3-strand braid, running all the way down to our waists and tailing behind us in the wind like streamers.

However, my figure is of the 1940s hourglass kind, hers was the Nordic slender kind; my skin is porcelain pale, while hers was beach-bronzed; my hair is a very dark brown, whereas hers was a peroxide white blonde. Finally, I was wearing a modest but sleek black jogging outfit, while she was wearing neon hotpants and a crop top.

Huh.

I shook myself out of my reverie and suddenly felt defensive, because I was only walking while she was running on. 'I just ran two miles!!' I silently shouted after her.

~Fin~

Making an Utter Arse of Myself: Finding Narnia

Show me a mysterious door slightly ajar, an unknown corridor discovered, a hidden and romantic-but-not-too-creepy alleyway, and I'll be in it faster than a cat in a cardboard box.

I've always loved the idea of secret tunnels and passageways, of portals to alternate realities and different dimensions. Once, as a child, my dad found me sitting on the stairs with my ear pressed to the wall, knocking on it and listening intently. When my dad asked me what I was doing, I replied that I was listening for hollow spaces, in case there was a secret door somewhere.

At work yesterday, on my way out of the toilets, I noticed that the wall opposite the entrance/ exit was at a funny angle. Not a wall: a door. I'd never noticed a door being there before, but there it was, slightly and tantalisingly cracked open. "Maybe this time it'll finally be Narnia!", a small, irrational part of my brain thought.

I crept up to the door, reached for the handle slowly, waited and... flung it open: 'Aha!'.

Alas, no Narnia, no Diagon Alley- not even a secret stash of toilet roll. Just a small space filled with pipes and cobwebs.

Not satisfied, and having a habitually scientific way of approaching things, I squeezed past the door and into the room, which was perhaps big enough to fit two people in with the door fully closed. I closed the door a little, experimentally. Nope, nothing: literally just a pipe room.

Trying to smother the faint sense of disappointment the irrational part of my brain was feeling, I poked my head out of the door to check that the coast was clear- just as someone walked into the toilets.

I froze, still with just my head sticking out. She stared at me, taking in the cobwebs in my hair, smiled nervously, and darted quickly into a cubicle. I hastily hopped out, dusted myself off, and walked very quickly back to the office.

(As a testament to how well my team member know me now, one of my colleagues noticed my flustered expression when I got back to my desk and asked "Oh Tash, what did you do?")

~Fin~

The Biscuit Button

What happens when you place a small child right next to a big red button?

So I was on the train (as a large proportion of my entries seem to begin) on my way to see some friends in Birmingham this weekend. I was feeling a tiny bit annoyed at my seating arrangements: I'd booked my tickets well in advance, requesting forward-facing window seats. I'd been allocated a small, cramped backwards-facing seat right at the end of a carriage facing a wall with no windows at all, like the naughty corner in a classroom. I was also seated right next to the broken, stinking toilets, which didn't improve my mood.

Thankfully about halfway through my journey I was given some on-board entertainment to cheer me up.

A few stops along the way a harassed-looking couple walked on, pushing along a four or five-year-old in a stroller. The kid was asking lots and lots of questions, as only a child can do. You probably know the sort of questions: the kind where the child isn't interested in the answer, only in asking even more questions. In any case, I'd already brightened up- I love it when children do this, and love it even more to hear how their parents deal with it.

The only space on the train left was the corner right next to me on the other side of the aisle, which happened to be the place for wheelchair users- complete with a great big tempting red button marked 'EMERGENCY' installed low down for easy access. By the time the couple and their toddler had made their way over, the train had already pulled off from the station.

Now, either the dad, who was pushing the stroller, just didn't see it, or he didn't make the connection between children and buttons in his head- but for whatever reason, he parked the pushchair so that the child was sitting right next to the emergency button.

To my glee, the first thing the little rascal did was press the button. A worried female voice sounded over the intercom.

"Hello to the passenger who pressed the emergency button- are you alright?"

There was a brief pause. Then, with the careful, clear and political pronunciation of a child who has been taught to be polite, the kid replied:

"Have you got any biscuits?"

There was a muffled mass guffaw as the surrounding passengers who had overheard (myself included) tried to stifle their laughter. The father snapped to attention, pulling the child in his stroller away and hastily apologising at the speaker as the lady laughed down the microphone "No love sorry, no biscuits!"

I quite agree with the kid though- I'm all for biscuit buttons on public transport.

~Fin~

Fail Breakfast

Save the biscuits first! 

Put too much milk in my coffee, balanced the tray perfectly to the table, set it down on a wobbly table, and heard the people next to me go 'ooooh...' as I spilled everything. Great start to the morning!

Short Stories: Wolf Whistle Interrupted

I had another one of those moments that could only ever happen to me.

Today, I made a conscious effort to improve my appearance- that is to say, I never don't put any effort into my appearance (unless I'm ill with a stinking cold, but then there's no hope for any of us, is there?), but lately I've been feeling a bit 'blah' and decided to go that extra mile to perk myself up in the morning: use a special eyeliner, don a spring coloured blush, force my flyaway babyhairs to submit with a pretty bobby pin, wear a dress... simple but effective tricks.

Later on today I was walking up the street towards the office, having gone out for a walk at lunch time. It was freezing cold and windy, and when it's freezing cold and windy, my nose streams like a tap. The bin men were doing their rounds, and they were burly blokey-blokes and rather a lot of them: but I didn't want to cross the road in case it looked like I was intimidated by them.

So I strode past in my heels, head held high, dress fluttering and waist-length hair flowing in streams in the wind. I heard the wolf-whistles begin.

Literally *just* as the first few whistling notes sounded, my nose gushed suddenly, and I broke all composure to scrabble for a tissue up my sleeve to blow my nose: and proceeded to make a wretched extended noise like an elephant trying to blow out a cork lodged in one of it's nostrils.

As I ended with a final violent snort, staggering at the effort, I glanced up to see the blokes staring at me, aghast that this small woman could have made such a noise. Then of course I made myself look like a complete loon by doing what I always do in an awkward situation: laugh like a drain.

I carried on laughing as I walked by- I didn't hear the clattering of bins for quite a few moments, so I assume they just carried on staring at me in disbelief.

~Fin~

Cooking Up a Storm

My status update from Facebook, 16th February 2013 (late this afternoon):

Covered in jam, banana slime, fish scales and guts. Seems about right...

Today was one of those rare completely free Saturdays. Usually I have someone to see or somewhere to go or both, but today was supposed to be a day to recharge my batteries. Too bad I had too much energy to burn and too many ideas in my head.

And when I have a lot of energy, a lot of ideas and even the slightest amount of free time, I can usually be found in the kitchen.

The morning saw the creation of jam sandwich biscuits, followed by a loaf of banana bread. Then I scaled and cleaned out some trout for dinner. However because I had rather a lot of energy and knew I was being a little ambitious in my culinary adventures time-wise, I sort of whirlwind-ed through the kitchen in a cloud of flour and goo... resulting in the above Facebook status.

Damn though, scaling fish is some serious business.

Moments with Friends- Part 1

I wish I could write down every single special (in every sense of the word) moment I share with each of my friends to keep for ever and ever- it's possibly a bit late to start now, since so many have already been all but forgotten.

Like the time Ruthie and I bought some snacks and were deciding who's bag to put them in, and a total stranger (a guy, for the record) walking past quipped to Ruth 'Put it in yours, totally.'

Or another time when Siu Yen, Josh and I were attempting a trio self-photo when a guy suddenly jumped over the fence behind us, exclaiming 'Yeeeah picture time guys, this is great!', got his phone out and self-photo-ed himself with the three of us before disappearing. (All three of us assumed that the other two of us knew this guy. No-one knew this guy.)

Or the time Toria and I were at Sidmouth folk music festival and she pulled me out of being run into when I blindly walked into a circle of Morris men weilding sticks about to start dancing.

Or even the time Lucia and I spent a good amount of time hand-making dryad costumes for a 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe' costume party, painting on our faces and putting streamers in our hair and everything, when everyone else turned up looking normal (save for one rather half-arsed Lion and one guy who wore a box marked 'Wardrobe').

 I think I need to start capturing more of these, starting from now.

Today, Siu Yen and I went on an afternoon tea cruise on the Thames. (Tea and cake on a boat- what's not to like?) We had about half an hour of a guided tour down the river just before food was served, and although a lot of other people were just talking through it, Siu Yen and I were paying attention. Mostly, anyway.

"Where's the dog?" Asked my friend.

"What dog?" I asked, frowning.

"He (the tour guide) just said: 'And on the right you'll see a wet dog.'"

"Siu Yen, I think he said 'wet dock'."

"Ohh! I did think that was a weird thing to point out."

Later on, we were trying to decide who wanted which macaron (there was a chocolate one, a vanilla one and a strawberry one): I find this sort of uneven rationing of food slightly irritating, and usually solve it with a game, wager or a song depending on the situation. Since neither of us particularly wanted one over the other, I went for a song. I pointed my finger at the closest morsel, and sang under my breath 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean', jabbing at each macaron with each syllable until the song had finished and I landed on the one that I'd end up eating.

As I landed on the final one ('Oh bring back my bonnie to ME') and plucked it from the tray, I caught my friend staring warily at me.

"Er... what?"

"What on Earth was that?" Asked my friend.

"What?" I asked again, macaron still hovering in mid-air halfway to my mouth.

"That song, what was it? It was a little creepy!"

"You've never heard of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean? Old folk song, men going off to war, the women sing about it and the like?"

"Nope. But I'm glad it's 'Bonnie'. I thought you said 'Body'."

~Fin~

Ring Ring, Bananaphone!

Today, I used a banana as a phone for the sake of the Alpro Deskfest competition.

I bet my phone is more ap-PEELING than yours.

Many thanks to my colleagues Anna and Kim, who helped me take the photo! As I was trying to prod the packet of cereal into place with my banana whilst taking a sip of my mega coffee before it got cold, Kim told me, 'Tash, you're quite possibly the most bonkers person I have ever met.'

Funnily enough, this isn't the first time someone's told me this.

Karma for the Adulterous

Today, I cheated on one of my favourite stores.

I'll give you a brief bit of background: it's no secret that I'm a Lush enthusiast, and I've even worked for them before. They have amazing-smelling stuff that works and great environmental ethics. The Body Shop used to be my go-to place for things like that, but I went off them ages ago when they stopped being colourful and funky and when they were bought by the more soulless L'Oreal. Yesterday I ran out of Lush's Dream Cream, which I've been using for years to keep my idiotically sensitive skin happy.

Yesterday also saw the country get a whole load of snow, making it a good idea to not drive out further than you have to: so no driving to Lush for me. 'No big deal', I hear you say, 'just wait until next week.' Well, I would- but when I say my skin is idiotically sensitive, I mean that if I don't take care of it, it turns my life into a living hell. So today I ventured into a nearby TBS, feeling weirdly like I was being unfaithful.

I've decided that what happened next was either pure karma for straying, or that I've actually been subconsciously programmed by Lush to sabotage any TBS store that I enter (sort of like how River from Firefly is programmed to go berserk when she hears a certain song).

The very first bottle I picked up, something like this happened:

Only instead of it being neat, it was noisy and chaotic and ended with me looking very sheepish, surrounded by a rainbow of bottles rolling around my feet. To add insult to injury, a sale placard landed squarely on my head as the two sales assistants doubled up with laughter.

I'm sorry Lush, I'll never stray again.

~Fin~

Short Stories: What Makes You Get Up in the Morning?

Everyone talks to themselves in their heads now and then. Don't tell me you never have- I'm onto you.

I'm not talking about full-blown conversations all day every day, or constant internal monologues: I'm talking about those moments when you do something (or don't), and a voice deep in the recesses of your mind- your voice- says something to you like 'oh, stop being so stupid.' Or something of the like. It depends on the situation. You might even mutter it under your breath to yourself.

I tend to find myself doing it most often when I'm exercising. 'Just do another five minutes and you've reached your target.' 'Don't forget to breath, idiot!' 'What are you, some kind of weakling? I said SKIP.' (I use a skipping rope to keep fit; it's a lot more hardcore than it sounds, trust me). This morning, however, I caught myself doing it to get myself out of bed when my alarm went off.

I don't usually have problems getting out of bed- it's getting fully conscious that's the issue- but the previous evening I'd done some calculations and research to find that it'll be quite a lot longer than I thought to get my own place, so I was a bit down because of that; I'd been worrying about a bunch of other things at the same time so I was down about those worries too; I dreamed about three people from my past whom I haven't thought about in a long time and will either probably or definitely never see again, which reminded me that I miss them... and to ice the cake, it was a bloody freezing morning and my bed was all nice and warm. So when the alarm went off, I mashed the off button with my first and lay there in a self-pitying stupor.

'Get up,' my brain instructed.

'No,' I said.

'Now, or you won't get any parking spaces at work,' said my brain.

'No,' I said.

'Quit being pathetic, your problems aren't problems. Get up!'

'No.'

And then my subconscious seemed to remember something crucial about me.

'You have that new apple crumble and custard cereal to try today.'

'Ooh, yum!' I got up straight away.

I could give you several answers to the question 'what makes you get up in the morning?' Apparently, this morning, it was breakfast.

~Fin~

Afterword: Seriously, this cereal has freeze-dried custard in it. Like how an astronaut might eat it. Space. Custard. How cool is that?

Short Stories: Dancing In Front of Strangers

'I don't dance.' A common phrase of mine, say, five odd years ago. Fast forward five years on and my friend Lucia shows me her wedding DVD, which at one point features me gleefully doing the robot on the dance floor.

I've posted about the zumba classes in this blog before, which should already say something about the class' blogworthyness. Tonight, after most of the years of my life spent telling people I don't dance, I volunteered to be a demonstrator for one of the dances. This involved a lot of solo-samba-ing, air-boxing and, more mortifyingly, wiggling my hips at the rest of the class.

Me, dancing around and shaking my tush in front of about twenty other people.

Haaaahahahahaha.

I feel like I have a great big '1' drawn on the invisible scoreboard of my life, somewhere.

Short Stories: Weird Taxi Drivers

A few years ago in my last job in Birmingham, before I had a car handy, I would sometimes share a taxi with my colleague Warren instead of walking to the train station after work. On one occasion, I made the mistake of going ahead and getting into the taxi whilst my colleague finished locking up.

"Aaaah, you must be a friend of Warren!" Chirped the driver (who I shall call Mr. Taxi Man) as I closed the door after me.

"Yes- I work with him. He's just locking up, he'll be here in a bit."

"Riiiight, riiiiight," he drawled, "Good man, that Warren, good man. Do you have a boyfriend?"

What.

"Er- yes?" I replied warily, a bit thrown by the sudden direct question.

"Riiiight, riiiight, nice girl like you should have a boyfriend. Is he good-looking?"

I adopted my best poker face, sensing there'd be more personal questions to follow.

"I'd say so."

"And he looks after you, yes? A man should always look after his woman."

For some reason I bristled at this. "Well, yes, but we both look after each other, really."

"Such a nice pretty girl. What does he do for you?" Mr Taxi Man persisted.

Not liking where this was going, I decided not to hear and peered out of the window. "Oh look, Warren's just coming over- he heads off to Harborne, but if you could drop me off at the station first I'd be grateful."

"Where do you live?"

At this point Warren got in the car, saving me of having to give an evasive answer. Warren peered at the driver, a spark of recognition on his face, smiled politely and said to the driver "I see you've been talking to my friend here?"

And in the creepiest voice I've ever heard, Mr Taxi Man said:

"She's my friend too, now."

~Fin~

Afterword: I learned the next day, once Warren and I had stopped laughing about it and out of earshot of Mr Taxi Man, that Warren has had dealings with this driver before, and he's not really a creepy taxi driver in the sense that he's dangerous but always a bit, well, weird. I hope this is true, anyway. In any case, if ever I noticed him behind the wheel after that, I'd politely decline a lift and walk.

Also, if you're a fan of the BBC series the League of Gentleman, you'll appreciate why "She's my friend too, now" was both hilarious and terrifying at the same time. If not, watch this and skip to 2:40: You're My Wife Now...

Short Stories: A Potentially Very Unattractive Death

Last night, I found out what happens when you take a laxative about twenty minutes before you realise you have food poisoning.

I'll let that set the scene without going into graphic detail, shall I?

I spent about an hour and a half in the bathroom, with a fierce fever and struggling to keep breathing, trying not to completely pass out, and being vaguely astounded that I still had a sense of humour (I was contemplating how typical it would be for me to go out like Elvis Presley, and how if it were up to me I'd have chosen a more dignified parting). Even after all that time in there and once I started to at very least not feel like I may be about to die, it took every last ounce of strength I had to sort myself out, force some water down to rehydrate myself and get into bed (of course even this couldn't happen normally- as my right leg had gone to sleep I had to stumble-hop the whole way- which is not a nice thing to have to do when you still feel sick to your stomach).

I can only put the whole incident down to very, very bad timing and quite bad luck. Thankfully I'm a lot better today, but my stomach is still making some very forbidding sounds.

Short Stories: A Bit of Schadenfreude

Today, I was on a set of descending escalators in a shopping centre. I heard the thundering of running footsteps behind me, and was very suddenly crashed into by some guy with a load of bags, who, apparently lacking any sense of personal space, decided not to back off and instead to stand literally pressed up against me. I turned to give him an icy stare whilst standing my ground, muscles coiled up like snakes about to strike if he turned out to be the sort of guy to try any funny stuff.

He didn't notice my glare though, because it turned out he wasn't paying attention to me at all- he was gazing back up the escalators. Suddenly he spun around (nearly knocking me over all over again), and darted up the escalator. I watched in an almost hypnotised state of amazement as he dashed upwards against the downwards movement of the staircase, at first only matching the speed and seemingly running in one spot, and then gradually succeeding at picking up speed. I had reached the ground by now, but I couldn't stop watching.

Just as he was almost at the top, tiring out fast and beginning to slow down again, he made one last almighty leap to the finish line- only to trip heavily, bags flying and limbs flailing, and he finished his race to the top by scrambling on all fours.

(I turned away very quickly to hide my laughter).

~Fin~

Short Stories: Awkward Conversations with Strangers (Part 1)

Awkward Conversations with Strangers, like Making an Utter Arse of Myself, is going to be a series in itself, since it also seems to happen to me frequently.

I've recently started exercising a whole lot more (that is to say, for the past year I have been exercising a lot, but I've upped my game recently), and decided today that I'm fed up of having to wash my one sports bra over and over again when I'm basically Exercising with a capital E almost every day- so that's how I found myself in the lingerie section of M&S today.

There was only one other person in front of me in the queue and one person serving at the tills. Once that customer had gone, I went up to take my turn. Just as I got to the till, the SA behind it started trying to re-fit one of those stretchy girdle granny pants things onto its hanger, and told me she'd be with me in a moment. I smiled and told her that was fine.

Some moments passed as she struggled to stretch the thing enough to snap the clippy hanger on, only to have it ping back. I offered to give her a hand, but she declined. I could see she was getting a bit frustrated, so to break the tension I started talking (of course).

"You know, I got stuck in one of those, once," I laughed. The SA glanced up at me, then without a word went back to her task. I decided to continue, because leaving that statement hanging in the air felt a lot more awkward.

"Well, it wasn't exactly that style, it was a full-body one. I tried one on in the changing rooms just for the hell of it once, and I got stuck with it jammed over my head with my arms sticking out from the top. I was stuck in there for so long an assistant actually knocked on the door and asked if I was alright- I was too embarrassed to admit I was stuck, so I just said 'I'm fine, thanks!' Luckily I managed to get it off myself, after a bit more of a struggle."

The SA twanged the girdle successfully onto its hanger and looked up at me like I was some kind of an idiot. "You know, you're supposed to try on the size according to your dress size. For example... " She looked me up and down appraising. "You'd be a size 14 I suppose, so you'd have to try on a size 14. Or if you're a size 16, you'd try on a size 16."

I suddenly lost all of my friendly feels. "I did try on my size. And actually I'm a size 8 to 10."

I'd say we completed the transaction in silence, had the SA not said my bra size aloud quite loudly as she scanned it in- by which time a larger queue had built up.

~Fin~

A Missed Opportunity/ A Confidence Boost

Have you ever had the feeling that you might have been able to connect with someone, but you only realise when the chance has passed you by?

I was on the tube this evening on my way home from a day out in Camden Town and King's Cross with Anna, a friend who I haven't seen face-to-face in something like four years (which is unbelieveable and disgraceful and I promise I won't let it happen again) when I noticed a guy snoozing to my opposite right in the carriage. I smiled to myself- he was quite good-looking in my books, and I found the hunched, dishevelled way he was snoozing in (the same form most travellers take when they fall asleep on the tube, in fact), sweet. Not being one to be a Miss Stare-y Stare-ason though (and remembering one creepy incident on the train once when a lady watched me doze very intently for seemingly the entire journey), I turned my attention to the various posters in the carriage.

A few stops later, with my internal monologue asking when it's the appropriate time to wake someone up in case they miss their stop even if you don't know what their stop is (and I'll admit with my curiosity getting the better of me), I looked back at Mr Sleepy*.

He was wide awake and staring right at me.

I looked away quickly, trying not to laugh- it's always awkward when you catch someone's eye on public transport, because this is London and you're supposed to avoid any interaction with your fellow commuter at all costs. All the same though I acknowledge that this is quite a tragic social state to be in, and I find it quite entertaining. I quickly put it out of my mind.

A little down the line though I got the heebie-jeebie feeling out of the corner of my eyes that I was being watched again. I quite firmly chose to ignore it; it's really easy to get into a glance-towards-glance-away match with someone on public transport, where one person wonders why the other is staring at them, whilst the other is thinking the exact same thing.

I forgot about it for a bit, but happened to look in Mr Sleepy's direction again (this time by accident- I promise). He was looking in my direction again, but quickly diverted his gaze as mine crossed his.

What was it this time? Did I have something in my teeth? Fluff in my hair? Had I smeared something on my face but not realised it or had my eyeliner melted halfway down my face in the humidity? (All of these have happened to me on the tube before, of course). I surreptitiouly flicked my phone out to check my reflection on the blank screen (because I didn't want to appear vain and actually get my compact mirror out). Nope, nothing. What was this guy's problem?

A bit later on in the journey after a bit more ignoring I cautiously, suspiciously looked around in his direction again, to find him almost pointedly staring at the door to the next carriage, away from me. Good, I thought, now I can continue my personal journey in peace.

Finally Mr Sleepy's stop came and it was time for him to step off. Instead of just getting up and exiting the door right next to him though, he crossed the carriage to go through the doors just past me. I didn't think much of it as he did- I do stupid things like that all the time- but I avoided looking up because I was feeling a little bit embarrassed by now (like a real Londoner, rather than the social semi-freak that I am).

As the doors closed behind him I allowed myself to look up one last time at Mr Sleepy- who I still conceded was good-looking- and found him watching me right back as he headed up the stairs and my train pulled away.

The penny dropped. Oh. Damn. If only I'd just smiled.

At least I can add this to the growing list of incidents involving the Y chromosome (since my ex knocking the confidence-stuffing out of me four times over, that is) that assure me that I'm not an utter troll. And to Mr Sleepy- in the unlikely event that you're reading this- I was the girl on the Northern Line to Edgware in the Totoro T-shirt with the long brown hair. Sorry I didn't twig- I'm smiling now to make up for it.

~Fin~

*Sometimes to pass the time I temporarily name my fellow passengers- the guy next to Mr Sleepy was Brighteyes because he had really striking eyes, the girl next to him Wondergirl Assassin because she was stunning, had really sleek black hair and looked like she could be a glamorous assassin, and the guy next to me was Mr I-Got-No-Strings because he'd fallen asleep in a completely slumped position also popular with train snoozers, like a puppet with all the strings cut.

Short Stories: A Real-Life Golden Snitch

It's my mum's birthday on Friday, and she requested a croquembouche instead of a birthday cake this year (which is fair enough, since I made a pretty massive Chinese-style birthday cake for my dad's birthday only about three weeks ago). Since I work 9-5, practise the piano and do the odd fitness class/ make myself skip almost every day if I'm not at a fitness class, I've been preparing it since this Monday (it's Wednesday night now).

This evening I've been making the vanilla crème patissière filling, finishing off the white chocolate roses I've been crafting which I'll be decorating the croquembouche with, along with some milk chocolate leaves (which are evil to make, by the way), and then spraying them with edible gold lustre. There's also been great big fat bluebottle flying around whilst I worked.

Whilst I was spraying my chocolate flora (and I SWEAR this didn't happen on purpose), the bluebottle managed to fly straight into the stream of the spray.

So there's now a very bling bluebottle flying around. Every so often I catch it glinting in the corner of my eye- it makes me laugh because it's just like a tiny golden snitch.

Maybe I should craft a little golden white chocolate fly in its honour?

Friday edit: here's the finished article, incidentally:

Vanilla bean crème patissière- filled profiteroles with muscavado ganache, milk chocolate leaves and white chocolate roses. All hand-made from scratch by yours truly.

Short Stories: Making an Utter Arse of Myself- Part 1

You know you were doomed to having one of those days from the start when it takes you the entire day to realise that the reason why your T-shirt is so uncomfortable is because you have it on backwards.

(I've put 'Part 1' because I make an utter arse of myself way too often, so there will surely be more to come.)

I do seem to have a bit of a track record with public toilets. Until today the one that sticks most in my mind is the time I walked very bodily into a full-length mirror in the Birmingham Bullring ladies' loos during my student days, and apologised quite loudly to what I thought was another person (but what was actually, of course, my reflection), to much pitying laughter of the general public. In my defense the mirror reached right down to the floor and was the exact size of a doorway... it's not a very strong defence, is it?

Today doesn't quite top it, but I think it's worthy enough to be up there in my public toilet Experiences.

Today at work whilst walking to the loos I was a bit preoccupied with my unusually uncomfortable T-shirt (I still hadn't cottoned on I had it on backwards, yet), so I was trying to tug it into submission with both hands.

Unfortunately I still wasn't paying attention when I got to the toilets, because as I reached out to push the door open with my right hand (imagine the door of the loos are to my right), I was still looking down at my T-shirt.

I completely missed the door and pushed quite heavily against solid doorframe, which in turn caused me to pivot backwards into the door itself. As I pitched over in reverse, totally out of control, both arms and the one leg that wasn't connected to the floor flailing akimbo in all directions, I had enough time to see the small group of managers staring at me before I completely disappeared head-first and backwards behind the swinging door.

~Fin~