Valentine's Day, Schmalentine's Day

I'm back. I'm blogging. And it's about effing time.

I won't harp on about the fact that even at week five, I am still really enjoying my new job. I won't go on for ages about the fact that I am slap bang in the heart of Soho with all the homos. I won't even mention that I am finally working in 'the media' and that when I have six months' experience behind me, I will be in a position to apply for jobs on the magazines that matter - you know, like heat, Closer and Reveal; really ground-breaking journalism.

What I will say is that I am so hung over right now, even my hair hurts. I doused myself in Doormouse's Lacoste aftershave this morning to disguise the stench of vodka that was seeping out of every pore on my body.

You see, Doormouse and I are like the only single people in the entire city of London, and so we had an Anti-Valentine'sDay party at his place last night. I say 'party', but I simply mean a session where we necked a whole two-litre bottle of Smirnoff and didn't end up going to bed until 3:45am.

During the debauchery, we remembered how, at the start of the year, we had claimed that 2007 was going to be the year of The Cock. We were supposed to be putting the 'sex' back into homosexual. Well, it's halfway through the second month of the year and neither one of us has seen even a sniff of action.

We went to Fiction a couple of weeks ago for an evening of substance-fuelled Friday night joy, and while Doormouse flirted with his dealer, I found myself telling everyone that I really loved them and I really loved the music and I was having such a good buzz. Yes, I danced on tables with boys, but sadly, did not go home with any of them.

To remedy the sorry state of affairs, we have pencilled in some fun evenings, one at The Ghetto for Doormouse's birthday (he'll be 29, but we're telling everyone he's turning 27 - it just sounds better), and the other at Popstarz to try and bag us some Indie boys.

So, basically, in all the weeks I have been away from the world of The Blog (and they have been hard - I can't send any personal emails or go on any fun sites at my new job. How much time did I waste at my old one? I'm starting to understand why they got rid of me), nothing has changed. I had hoped that Mr Right, or at least someone who knew Mr Right, would be waiting for me in my new company. Turns out they're mainly straight, married people with little or no fun in them.

And as if all that wasn't bad enough, Doormouse decided he was too unwell to go to work this morning, so I had to brave the underground on my own. This in itself is harrowing enough after a night on the lash, but I was lucky enough to be standing near a young girl who puked her guts up, covering her shoes and her mum's jacket.

This was exactly what I wanted.



In case you're wondering, I am blogging on my lunch break at an internet cafe just round the corner from my office.