Monday Morning Misery

The laughs, the gossip and the tequila of Friday night have been replaced with the tiredness, the drudgery and the small talk of Monday morning and I am not happy about any of it.

Meeting up with Doormouse and Snow was hilarious and we all had such fun. We gayed it forward and spent the night bar hopping round Soho. There was no trip to the Hell pub of the previous week, so we were all safe from stabbings and flashers and we got so drunk we didn't notice the rain was hammering down and we were all soaked through. Highlights of the evening for me would have to include the big-breasted barmaid in the Admiral Duncan from Bognor Regis - poor girl - telling me and Doormouse that we were the most interesting people to ever walk into the pub. "I believe you," I said. "Look around - the place is full of cunts."

Then of course there was the paparazzi man who couldn't stop taking pictures of Snow in the same pub. He said he was a professional tabloid photographer, but we weren't sure whether or not to believe that coming from a man holding a simple digital camera not much bigger than a mobile phone.

Cider got drunk, shots were downed and men were talked about. The night was brilliant and ended with me and Snow on the last train home from Kings Cross while Doormouse tried to score some naughty white stuff.

Saturday was a blur, as was yesterday. But now I am back at the office for another week of looking for a new job when I should be finishing up all of my work. The pity looks have already started from people who've heard of my fate. They try not to look you in the eye and usually bite their bottom lip and just say, "you alright?"

I had two this morning: one in the lift on the way up and one at the water cooler. My reply tends to be along the lines of: "Yeah, I'm fine, I just wanna get the fuck out of this place now." Which I think is the best way to deal with it.

Why is small talk with a co-worker so painful?

Thank Crunchie It's Friday

At last the weekend is here and I can get away from the sour mood in the office. Admittedly, the mood in question has been created by me and my "I've been made redundant, so I don't care much for that" attitude, but it's still there and it's still draining.

I am out of these doors as soon as the hand strikes 5:30 as I have a date with Doormouse and Snow. We are heading off for an evening of deliciously gay delights in Soho. I'm not really sure how any of us have got any money left at this late stage in the month, but they don't know each other that well and we keep saying we'll go out and something always comes up.

As is usually the case, I will be buying my drinks with help from my lovely overdraft. Technically at this point I should be staying at home with tap water and wholemeal pitta breads, but that just ain't going to wash, so drinking into debt is my chosen course of action.

With no dinner in our bellies and a rendezvous at 6pm, it is going to be a 'tired and emotional' evening for all concerned.

Selling your friends

I'm not going to mention the dreaded R word today, but the upcoming situation has made me take stock of all aspects of my life, not just my job - or lack of it.

Thinking back to a few weeks ago, I was all excited about the Speed Dating event and the unlikely hope that it might bring a bit of Man Candy into my otherwise super exciting* life. That resulted in NO DATES WHATSOEVER and with the only other hunk on the horizon being Mr Sexy Delicious - who is clearly uptight about his 'seshuality' - I am still single and still actively looking.

But the point is, I'm not actually looking at all.

To remedy this, I have spoken with my friend Lady Eliza - the girl who wears pearls and brooches - and she might have solved my problem. She knows of a dating website where instead of writing a profile about yourself telling everyone that you have a 'GSH' and that you're looking for 'possible 121' - not that I've ever used one myself, you understand - you put a profile on there about a single and fabulous friend to try and get them a date.

It sounds genius to me. Rather than having to try to sum myself up in 100 words and ending up coming across like a prize twat, she gets to do it for me. And thinking about it, it's always much easier to compliment your friends than it is to point out your own good qualities, so this could be something quite brilliant.

I practically bit her finger off when she mentioned it, so now I am just waiting for her to put on a glittering critique, telling all the lovely Mo's out there what a great catch I am.

And she'd better make it good. Lady Eliza, if you're reading this, remember all the help** I gave you when you were doing your finals?

Make it good, baby - I need to get me a man!



* super exiting life = mediocre existence
** help = rewriting all of her essays

Back on the Merry Go Round

This whole redundancy thing is a mother fucker. There's a possibility it could turn out to be a good thing. If I can get another (better) job during these next 8 weeks, then I can leave, take my cheque and buy all the things I want. (I should be paying off my overdraft that still hangs over my head from university and I'm sure my mum would appreciate getting back some of the thousands of pounds I owe her, but my iPod Shuffle is looking a bit sorry for itself and could do with updating to an actual iPod, there are many, many suits out there screaming for me to rescue them from the shops and I only own Series 5 of Will & Grace on DVD, so there are 7 other box sets with my name all over them.)

It's just I really hadn't expected to be on the job hunting trail again so soon. I was only promoted to my current position in June and I thought that would give me at least 18 months' grace before I had to start thinking about the horror that is The Job Interview.

I've been looking online for jobs and there are some out there, but updating the old CV, adapting the cover letter and getting myself into 'job search' mode is too taxing for words.

In an ideal world, the BBC would be doing auditions at the moment for the next series of Strictly Dance Fever; I would apply, get on the show, win, steal the hearts of the nation and then be offered a starring role in a new West End dance production. Then I'd probably take it to Broadway and make the transition from musicals to Hollywood.

I might have a quick look on the BBC website to see when they start the next series. Graham Norton, here I come.

Common sense approach

Question: What is the best way to handle redundancy?

Answer: Forget tightening the purse strings, drawing up a budget and making sure you've got enough money to pay rent for Christmas and the New Year. Instead, pop to the shops after work and buy yourself a gorgeous new blue military-style jacket with big silver buttons, three new jumpers - all of them blue and exquisite - a green and black stripy scarf, a new black umbrella and six pairs of socks. And a copy of Esquire magazine.

I might end up being homeless as well as jobless over the festive period, but I'll be the best dressed tramp in town.

Hard men and harder decisions

I decided that the best way to celebrate my pending redundancy was to go for a few swift ones after work with Doormouse on Friday. We met up at the Retro Bar and discussed my future. He knows only too well what it's like being made redundant from my company as he met the same fate in July. It's been a good thing for him as he now has a much better job, so it's given me some hope that this could be a positive thing. We were going to head home after that - we felt like the odd ones out, being the only two people in the pub not wearing black thick-rimmed glasses - but he mentioned that there was a pub close by that he'd always wanted to go to, but had been too frightened. Intrigued, I agreed.

We trotted off to the pub in question and as soon as we walked in, I understood why he'd been so scared. It was called Halfway to Heaven - I assume it's called this because if you're walking from Trafalgar Square, it's halfway to Heaven the night club - but I think a more appropriate name might have been Halfway to Hell. Crossing the threshold, I felt like I'd signed a deal with the Devil himself as the assembled congregation was a veritable who's who of the murky underbelly of gay London.

The bar was full of scallies of every age in varying degrees of sportswear and more old men in vests than I've ever seen. It might have had a WC2 postcode, but we could've been forgiven for thinking we were in Canning Town - or worse still, Harlow. We carefully ordered two drinks from the pox-ridden barman and headed off downstairs. Descending into the basement was like entering a Jake Arnott novel - gay gangsters in expensive suits and gold jewellery, their tattooed hands strategically placed on their boyfriends' arses wearing a 'stare at my man and I'll cut your tongue out with a rusty blade' look on their faces.

Too frightened to say anything in case we were given Chelsea smiles, we sat in near silence, trying not to laugh at the poster advertising Saturday night 'cabaret' with Titty La Camp. Nipping to the toilet turned out to be the worst part of the outing as it was cruisier than George Michael on a cruise ship cruising round Mykonos. While I was in there, a gent in his late 60s and wearing a yellow vest came in and simply got his knob out and started waving it around. "Sorry, that's what happens when you've got a piercing," he explained. No, that's what happens when you're a pervert. We left shortly after.

I'm in the office now and away from criminal homos and I have to discuss the redundancy with my publisher. She wants to know whether I'm going to accept the second-rate replacement job she's offered me, or whether I want to take the pay-off and run. Saying it like that, there's no real contest.

But despite the rather unsavoury taste that was left in my mouth, all I can think about is how much fun I had in the Hell pub on Friday.

I think I might take my redundancy cheque, head down there and wait for my very own Ronnie Kray. I could definitely hang with being a gay gangster's moll.

Jobless... but still fabulous?

Well, yesterday didn't exactly go quite as I'd planned. There I was sitting at my desk expecting an email from William telling me he was really digging my aftershave, but instead I got one from the Pregnant Boss asking me and Little Lou if we could have a 'sit down' at 2:30pm.

I thought the meeting would involve her asking us to take on lots more work due to all the people who've left recently. I was going to become something of a publishing martyr and agree to the hefty workload all for the love of the job.

However, she actually said that due to the 'management restructure', our jobs would cease to exist by the end of the year. Therefore as of Christmas we will officially be redundant.

I think we were both as shocked as each other, because with all the staff leaving, there's quite a lot of work that needs doing and no one here to do it. (I think the true motivation might simply be that our faces don't fit and they want rid.)

After our discussion, there was a bigger meeting for all editorial staff where the future of the company was discussed and then we closed the office at 4pm so we could all go to the pub to 'debrief'.

As a 'gesture of goodwill', they put a tab behind the bar, so I gladly sank my first beer with ease. But I noticed that there was an undercurrent of aggression bubbling away just under my surface, so I did a 'tabloid journalist' and made my excuses and left.

I could just see me having one too many and then telling a few people what I really think of them. Obviously, I would have told William we were going to get married, but I also saw me tapping the Pregnant Boss on the shoulder and telling her that since she became the head honcho, the company had rapidly 'gone down the shitter'. And then there's the Jagged Toothed Back-Stabbing Office Snide. I would probably have asked him what his wife and kids think of the 'friendships' he has with all the homos in the office.

My dignity in tact, I can focus all my energy on applying for new jobs. Any work that is brought to my desk today - and for the next 8 weeks - will be met with the following response: "Well, that doesn't really apply to me as I'm being made redundant."

Merry Christmas everyone!

Smelling Fresh and Ready for Action

Another day, another step closer to the restraining order.

Arrived at work this morning wearing new jumper and shirt and new pants and socks - no one can see the undies, but new ones always make you feel more confident (especially snug lycra ones). On top of the clothes, I also have on my new fragrance. I've been trying to find a 'signature' scent for years and nothing ever seemed worthy of that label. I felt like I was doing myself an injustice for not having a fragrance that always made people think of me and it had been causing me grief for ages. I stumbled across the new one from Hermes and fell in love with it instantly. So, now I douse myself in it every day and it is scrumptious and I can relax that I have a signature.

The autumn sun was shining and made the walk from Moorgate to the office a little bit less harrowing. The new playlist on my iPod was choc-full of songs I haven't heard for months and I was enjoying the walk.

When I got to work, I popped into the kitchen to fill up my bottle of water at the cooler and, as is the case most mornings due to the fact we only have one cooler, I had to join a queue. And which co-worker did I have to stand behind? Mr Sexy Delicious himself, of course. Today he is wearing a white shirt and brown fitted trousers with some yummy brown brogues.

This was fine until everyone else left the kitchen and it was just me standing next to him waiting for him to fill his bottle. As I was studying his trousers snugly fitting his arse, his manly hands grasping his bottle and his messy hair framing his chiselled face, he looked up and said, "sorry".

Yanked from my fantasy, I said, "oh, don't worry - we need more than one of these... water... err... things".

"Torturous wait, isn't it?" he replied and walked off.

What does this mean? Does he even know I exist? Did my new aftershave make him realise that he does love men and he wants to whisk me off for a dirty weekend? This surely must be confirmation that he feels the same way about me as I do about him.

Hmm, or was he just thinking, "who is that weirdo that keeps appearing behind me, wearing too much cheap aftershave?"

No, that can't be right. It cost £45 a bottle. It must be that he loves me too.

I will await his email confirming his undying love for me with breath that is bated.

How was it for you?

Aside from the calendar of the year, what else did I get up to at the weekend? Well, the trip to the theatre was as good as I could've expected. Ashlee Simpson was playing Roxie Hart, but more importantly, Brenda from X Factor was playing Mama Morton and she brought the house down. Everyone screamed when she sang and she got the most applause at the end. Read it and weep, Simpson.

The most exciting thing after that was my cinema trip on Saturday afternoon. I went to see Step Up with Snow and we both fell in love with the main star. It's a typically cheesey story about a break dancing boy from the wrong side of town who falls for a middle class girl at dance school. Will he help her inject some tough street moves into her classical showcase? Will she get her big break? Will he inject something else into her? Who cares - so long as he gets that defined torso out and parades around the screen once every five minutes in nothing more than a tight pair of shorts, I couldn't care less what happens in the story. Thank the Lord for Channing Tatum and all of his muscles - each and every one of them.

To top it all off, we went dancing on Sunday. I'm not sure what's happened to us, but since we moved from being 'early-to-mid-twenties' to 'mid-to-late-twenties', we seem to have lost all traces of rhythm. Back in the day when we were 19, Snow was a podium dancer in clubs up and down London and I was a passionate clubber, busting it and attending street dance classes. We hit 27 and POOF! Neither of us can dance anymore. I think it might have had something to do with my long, grey winkle pickers, but rather than cut a dashing shape across the dance floor, I ended up looking rather like my dad. But slimmer. And not as drunk.

Still, everyone else was pretty wasted, so I can't imagine anyone even knew we were there. Let's hope not.

I now plan on spending the rest of the afternoon thinking up different combinations of me, Philip Olivier and Channing Tatum in various states of undress. Yum.

August is going to be HOT!

Bought myself a little treat at the weekend. Just in time for Christmas, Philip Olivier has brought out a calendar for 2007. I got it at the weekend and leafed through - August has a shot of him pulling himself out of a swimming pool, muscles rippling, droplets of water running down his sculpted body.

I think I may need to go out and get me some action before I find myself climbing on top of it.

West End Boy

It's quite unusual for me to be so happy at work, but I have loads to be excited about. First, it's pay day and that means I can get some new Terre aftershave from Hermes. Also, I have a half day holiday today. And then I also have Monday off, so I have one more hour at work and then I'm not back until Tuesday.

I'm off this afternoon because my sister Emmy Lou wanted to come and meet me for a night out in London town. We were going to just go for lunch and cocktails, but she called me this morning and told me that she'd actually booked tickets for the matinee performance of Chicago. I think Ashlee Simpson is in it, so that'll be worth seeing.

And then once I've woken up and dusted myself off tomorrow, I am going raving with Snow. We haven't been out dancing all night for weeks and it's high time we got our dancing shoes back on.

I'd quite like to make the most of not having work on Monday by going out on Sunday night too. I always want to go to DTPM at Fabric or Detox at Ghetto, but having a full time job makes that hard.

This could end up being a very messy weekend indeed.

Midweek Debauchery

Hmm, it's unusual to be this hung over on a Thursday, but I am currently suffering at my desk. Again!

On Tuesday evening I met up with Law Girl, an old school friend who's training to be a lawyer. We hadn't actually seen each other for about 5 years, so we had quite a lot of catching up to do. She had lots of stories to tell: going to Africa to help build a hospital; returning back to University to train to become a lawyer; landing a job getting paid an obscene amount of money. And what did I have to tell her? That I'd discovered the limited edition cappuccino doughnut at Krispy Kreme. Well, half the proceeds do go to charity.

The situation was remedied by us sinking two bottles of wine each, and then it all got a bit messy. Yes, she's a lawyer who wears smart suits and has a Mulberry bag, but she still ended up on her hands and knees outside the pub on Stamford Street, puking her guts up. I'm such a good friend for pulling her hair out of her face and rubbing her back.

With the mother of all hang overs, I went out with Doormouse after work last night as I couldn't face getting on the tube to go home. Another two bottles of wine later and we were back at his flat dancing to Baby D 'Let me be your fantasy'.

It's now 10:51am and I am yet to utter a word to anyone in the office. I'm not sure how I'm going to survive till 5pm. I keep receiving emails from co-workers asking me questions and so far I've ignored all of them. If I stay quiet all day, maybe they won't even know I'm here.

I am definitely NOT going out tonight. Although, a Bloody Mary does sound quite appealing right now...

Mixing up your cakes and your cocks

I wanted to send a link to some friends about a fabulous cake maker based in London, called Peggy Porschen. She makes these amazing sweet little cup cakes and she's always featured in glossy mags.

The problem was, I couldn't remember her name. I thought she was called Penny Porsche, so I Googled that name instead. It turns out that the latter is actually a porn star in her 40s who 'acts' in films like 'Older and Anal' and 'I Wanna Cum Inside your Mom'.

Not quite what I was looking for.

End of the Line

It's the second day of the week, but my first one of feeling normal. We had work drinks on Friday, even though no one was leaving. It didn't seem right to be at the end of the week and not have to crowd round someone's desk to listen to a painfully embarrassing leaving speech.

We had the top floor of a pub on the river closed off and we all got drunkety, drunk, drunk. I've discovered Magners and declare that it's my new favourite drink. I wouldn't normally touch cider as it brings back memories of being 14 years old with a dodgy centre parting and sitting at train stations downing bottles of Diamond White and puking on my jeans. But Magners is different. It's over ice and it's all very grown up. After downing a few of those (I haven't learnt!), I was in full swearing and dancing mode.

I left the pub at half ten with Little Lou and The Hungarian and we went to Soho to sniff out a dance floor. Now, I might not know a lot of things, but I do know about dance floors. And yet for some reason, I allowed us to end up in Madame Jo Jo's. I am not a tourist and I am not a student, so I didn't really fit in. The music was OK, but it was a bit too 'deep funk' for my liking and there were some rude boy break dancers busting some shapes on the dance floor. Which was the size of a shoe box. Hmm, all very entertaining if you're watching them on You Tube during your lunch break, but when I'm drunk and ready to dance, I don't want to share the dance floor with people who are actually better than me.

The weekend carried on in much the same fashion and yesterday I was dead on my feet at work. Which is to be expected, really.

So, today I am fresh as a daisy and ready to pretend I'm interested in everything my co-workers have to say. Roll on 5pm so I can pop on my iPod and sleep on the train!

Oh, and I got a reply from my Nigerian conman, Solomon.

He replied with: "Na u sabi?"

I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure he's on to me. Looks like my scam baiting days are over.

Now what am I going to do when I should be working??

Keep 'em Coming

This scam baiting thing is really keeping me occupied at lunch. I say 'at lunch', but obviously I am dealing with it during work hours when I should be keeping to my deadlines. Still, it's Friday and I don't wanna work! Here was the latest email from my good friend Solomon:

"How are you today and thanks for your email.

"You sound very serious in your write-up but unfortunately you are not matching your word with action in my last email I attached a text of application for you to send to the bank for onward processing of your fund and this I expected you to have done if you are really serious and aggrieved over your missing fund, and now the opportunity is here for you to retrieve it, I feel you should not leave any stone unturned but to swing into action.

Please I want to hear from you that you have submitted the application as directed to the bank we do not have time on our side."

I get the impression he isn't going to take much more without me actually doing something, so here is what I sent back:

"I am sorry that you feel I am not backing up my words with my actions. I feel that I have offended you and that is not what I wanted to do.

"I am still very much interested in this project and if you could tell me what I need to do now for you, I will gladly do it straight away.

"I do not want to annoy you and I pray that you are still OK with me. Are you, Solomon? I must also tell you upfront that I would not be giving any of this money to charity. I do drink a fair amount of alcohol and I like to go to nightclubs and dance with hunky young men. Sometimes I even spend my money on illegal substances, but only on birthdays and 'special occasions'.

"Would you still be willing to give me the money if you knew that it was going to be used for immoral purposes? I am only telling you my intentions as a one-off act of honesty.

"Please get back to me Solomon, and then we can get this show on the road, as we say here in the UK."

I'd be upset if this is the last contact I have with Mr Solomon Toure or Ecobank.

Trying to Kid a Kidder

Logged on to my Hotmail this morning and lo and behold, a reply from my new friend. It read:

"Is my delight contacting you? Thank you for your swift and prompt response. I am sorry I do not know if Mr Andrew Shoemaker had a mark. So I need reliable individual to assist me in this matter. Are you able? If you accept this offer to work with me, I need the following:

1) Your full name
2) Your bank address and referral number
3) Your age occupation and position

"Let this be confidential to only both of us because I am still serving in government, as soon as the fund get to you account I would retire from office and join you for sharing proceedings.

"Kindly indicate your interest by sending an email to me so that I can give you the Solomon Toure."

Bless that funny little Nigerian fraudster. Here's how I replied:

"Dear Solomon,

"Your delight has definitely contacted me. I am 72 years old and a retired sergeant in the British armed forces. I have worked with many actors and popstars doing secret missions they do not want the Queen or Prime Minister to know about. I would like to help you out, despite what appears to be a very limited grasp of the English language.

"PLEASE give me the Solomon Toure!"

I await his response again. I hope he doesn't get suspicious though.

I am now a Scam Baiter

The world of publishing is a frantic one and my office is a constant hive of activity; writers panicking over deadlines; editors dashing around the office barking orders and phones ringing every second of the day. Somehow in amongst all this noise and commotion, I have embarked on a new and rather time consuming hobby: Scam Baiting.

It started when I logged on to an old Hotmail address I no longer use and there was an unread email from someone calling himself Solomon Toure, and this is what he said:

"...I work with the Accounts Department of Ecobank, here in Abijan, Republic of Cote d'Ivoire... this business is in respect of the sum of $4,410,000) only deposited in my bank account which belonged to an American businessman, Mr Andrew Shoemaker, who unfortunately lost his life in an auto accident which happened ob January 19 2004, including his wife and only daughter..."

He goes on to ask me to do the following:

"...I am contacting you to act as next of kin to Mr Andrew Shoemaker. With your permission this fund will be transferred to your private account abroad... If you find this proposal acceptable, I expect your urgent response and on receipt of that, we shall deliberate on the sharing ratio... Please keep this confidential for security reasons..."

This is clearly a scam whereby they dupe me into receiving a forged cheque of greater value than they promised, asking me to wire over the difference. Then a couple of days later I find the cheque has bounced and I am out of pocket to the tune of hundreds or thousands of pounds. I'm not stupid enough to fall for that, so I thought I might have a little bit of fun with Mr Toure. Here's my reply:

"Dear Mr Solomon Toure, Accounts Department, Ecobank, Abijan, Republic of Cote d'Ivoire,

This is going to surprise you, but I am actually related to a Mr Andrew Shoemaker. He is my cousin and he moved to America years ago. He married and has a daughter, Sally, and they all enjoyed going to Disneyland and EuroDisney, amongst other things.

"I lost contact with my cousin Mr Andrew Shoemaker well over three years ago and for the last nine months, I've been trying to get in touch with him - he owed me some money.

"Do you think it's likely that this is the same Mr Andrew Shoemaker? I am not sure how I feel about this: I am very sad if this is my cousin and he, his wife and their daughter, Sally, are all now dead and buried; but if it is him, I would very much like to claim back the money he stole from me all those years ago as a result of our failed cocktail umbrella business.

"Please, Mr Solomon, can you tell me if this Mr Andrew Shoemaker had any distinguishing marks on his body? My cousin had a birthmark on his right cheek that looked something like a 4-leaf clover. If this is the same man, I am very lucky, don't you think?

"Please get back to me and we can discuss the 'sharing ratio' as you so intriguingly put it.

"Yours etc etc..."

I hope Solomon replies. I'd like this to go on for a while.

Suits You

"Nice whistle."

That's what they'll all be saying. Why? Because I bought myself a new suit yesterday. I have a pending interview and I desperately needed to get some new threads.

I do have a suit that I use for interviews, but it's truly awful. I bought it with my mum a couple of years ago and it was a panic purchase at the end of a very long day. I'm sure some people wouldn't even mind it, but for me, it just ain't good enough - baggy jacket, trousers that are high-waisted, thick wool mix - the list goes on.

Interviews are my biggest nightmare and there's no way to erase the bad first impression made by a baggy suit. So last night after work, I headed off to Topman Oxford Circus and got myself a new whistle.

I steered clear of the run-of-the-mill offerings and headed over to the Skinny Fit suits. I found a grey Mod suit with narrow lapels and slim fit trousers, but they didn't have any trousers in my size. I asked a petite Italian girl if they had other sizes and she scurried off to the stockroom. 25 minutes I waited by the door to the service lift. It would've been a rum old do if it hadn't been for all the glorious men wandering around, checking out the clothes. Seriously, they were fine.

She finally came back with the right size, I headed off into the changing room and then fell in love with myself a little bit. Conceited it may be, but I really did look the nuts in that suit. So, I parted with 150 big ones (cheap really, for a decent suit) and that was that. Naturally, I spent a good hour looking at myself in the mirror when I got in.

And now I'm actually really looking forward to the interview - just so I can mooch around town looking like a City highflier!

But more importantly, I'll be back down Oxford Circus before you can say 'hunky men love the high street'. Forget Soho Square or Shadow Lounge - Topman is where all the hotties hang out.

It's all about the Men

It's Monday again and for once, I'm not nursing a hang over at my desk. I had a relatively quiet weekend and it makes a nice change to be completely 'with it' at the start of the week.

There was a bit of drinking at the weekend - another member of staff left on Friday of last week (rats leaving a sinking ship?), and so I popped along and had a couple of cheeky ciders. But the rest of the weekend remained sober.

I met up with my number one Lady Friend Snow at the weekend and we went for a drive around the City. We often drive around Central London and yesterday we felt it was the right time to cruise around town with MJ Cole pumping and the sun shining. The music wasn't exactly pumping - Snow's sound system in her Vauxhall Corsa is on its last legs and we could barely hear the tunes over our own breathing - but the sun was definitely shining and the E1 area was full of arty and rockstar types mooching around the markets and vintage stores.

As is usually the case with our jaunts around town, we spent most of the day looking for sexy men and yesterday didn't disappoint. There were plenty of hunks wandering around, sadly most of them hand in hand with equally attractive girlfriends, but window shopping's not a crime.

On the subject of men, Snow has gone against her better judgment and she's signed herself up for a date with the teen hunk who messed her around in the Play Bar. She's decided that he was chiselled enough to ignore the fact that he's only 19.

I mean, good luck to her and everything, but when he replied to her text, he said that money was a bit tight as he's just paid his tuition fees.

Oh Snow, I just hope he doesn't cancel on you to do his homework.

I Feel Inferior

Are some people put on this earth just to make us feel bad about ourselves? It doesn't matter how well you're dressed or how much fun you're having, there are some people who make you feel inadequate.

After work yesterday I went for a bite to eat with a couple of Lady Friends and the evening was ruined by a couple of devilishly dashing men.

I'd met up with Saskia and Sophia for some nibbles in cafe Emm, on Frith Street. The food was great - I had bangers and mash followed by a chocolate pot; the wine was flowing and we all had super fun. Perhaps to the outside world we might have looked like we were pretty decent. Saskia works in fashion and was wearing her key look for the season - all grey with pink accessories; Sophia has just got back from her travels around South East Asia and her glorious tan was accompanied with a great 50s tea dress and some black beads; and I was head-to-toe in a brand new outfit, including my new vintage jeans and belt.

We were laughing and chatting and enjoying ourselves, but as we went to leave, I saw a couple of guys sitting by the door, gazing into each other's eyes. And they were both so cool and gorgeous and totally lost in what each other was saying. Their hair was immaculately groomed, their skin was freshly tanned from the sunbed and they were both very stylish indeed. Either guy on his own would have made me sick with envy, but seeing them together was too much to handle.

Why were they so perfect and so happy? And why am I so single and so miserable? No matter how well things were going, or how nice my jeans were, seeing those two sickeningly chiselled and loved up boys was enough to make me want to throw myself under the first train on the Northern Line.

I hope they choked on their falafels.

I Wanna be a WAGAB

WAGs. Wives and Girlfriends. Or more to the point, Footballers' Wives and Girlfriends.

They're not a new thing, but the tabloids seem to have fallen in love with them again now that some genius has come up with the title of WAGs.

Well, I want to be a part of that elite gang of tanned, glossy, immaculately turned out lovers of football players. But they'd have to change the name of the gang to WAGABs - Wives and Girlfriends and Boyfriends.

Premiership stars are the epitome of manliness and I want to bag one for myself. Looking at the ultra-heterosexual world of professional football, you'd be forgiven for thinking gay soccer stars don't actually exist; but I think they must do.

There was the tabloid frenzy recently when a couple of players were named as being involved in some boy-on-boy action, but now those stories have been quashed and we 'know' the players mentioned are 'definitely' straight.

Even if those boys do in fact love the girls they are linked to, I reckon the law of averages must mean there are a few benders floating around the pitch. And I'd do anything to be on the arm of one of them.

I don't watch football for a love of the game. But I do watch it for a love of the men; the thighs, the lingering hugs, the possibility of a shirt-swap. I don't know how I'd go about bagging one of these uber men for myself, but I know I'd fit right in with the lady WAGABs.

Of course, I wouldn't be just any old WAGAB though. My man would play for a high profile team - probably Arsenal as their 2006/2007 away kit has some great grey socks with yellow accents - and he'd also play for his country. Then I would hob nob with other A List WAGABs like Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Tweedy.

And we'd make fun of the lesser other halves and laugh at them for signing up to that new reality show where they have to compete to run a clothes shop.

Arsenal are playing Watford at home this weekend, so I think I'll jump on the train to Finsbury Park to hang around outside the stadium. When the players go by, I'll give a little wave and a wink and see who takes the bait.

Sandwich Wars

On a 'shops are full of bastards'-related theme, what exactly is it with people when they're buying food?

Apparently there's only one Pret a Manger in the whole SE1 postcode area and so every day when I buy my lunch, there's a million other hungry people trying to do the same thing.

The problem is, people queue up right behind you, with their feet almost touching yours. You finally get to the front of the queue, pay the miserable so-and-so behind the counter for your duck wrap and brownie, and then you turn around to leave, but you can't. The people behind you in the queue are so far up your jacksie, you can't move.

And there's hundreds of them. And they all stare at you like trying to get past them is the rudest thing anyone could ever attempt to do.

"If you don't let me out, you won't be able to get served!" I want to scream.

Instead I apologise and smile at everyone. And then moan about it afterwards.

Retail Whores

The people who are employed to work in clothes shops are a curious breed. Despite the fact that all they do is WORK in a SHOP (and they probably don't even get the minimum wage), they seem to think they are better than us mere mortals who choose to buy clothes from their establishments (which are owned by their bosses, not them).

I was unfortunate enough to come into contact with a couple of these beasts yesterday on my after-work mission to locate some new (vintage) jeans. I left the office early at 5:10 so I could race through the streets of the City to get to Beyond Retro before they shut. I arrived at the store (it's more a lock-up than an actual shop) just before 6pm with red cheeks and half my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat.

A painfully cool stick insect with thick-rimmed glasses, dressed head-to-toe in mismatched 'quirky' pieces sloped over and stood in front of me. She looked me up and down, sneered and then stated in her you-don't-belong-here drawl, "Closing in two minutes!"

Her plan worked because I turned into a self-conscious, inadequate wreck who couldn't even remember what size he was looking for, let alone whether he liked anything they stocked. I downed tools and bailed out without really looking at anything, stopping only to thank the creature as I walked out. She sneered again.

Deflated and without a purchase, I thought my shopping trip was over, but luckily, one of the smaller boutiques along Brick Lane was still open. I sauntered in and was greeted by an even cooler boy-with-a-knitted-tie. And of course, the pre-requisite thick-rimmed glasses. He looked at me and then looked away. I needed some jeans though, so I started to look around despite the frosty welcome. I saw some vintage Levi's in soft-feel denim with a straight leg and scuttled into the changing 'area' (i stood behind a screen). They were the perfect fit, so I took them over and said I'd like them. While he stared right through me, I asked if they took cards as I had no cash on me. He said they did not. He obviously spent too much time rolling joints to bother installing a Chip and Pin machine.

I asked him if there was a cash machine nearby. He said there was, but added that he was, "Closing in two minutes!" Is this some kind of mantra all shop workers in the Brick Lane area are instructed to yell at anyone they deem not cool enough? I ran up the road, got the money out and returned to pay.

He made me feel so unwelcome that I ended up buying a vintage leather belt as well.

Plan of Action

It's day one of five in the office and the only thing that makes sitting in front of my computer screen ploughing through stacks of work even remotely bearable, is the knowledge that if I turn my head to the left about 100 degrees and peer over the filing cabinet, I can see Mr Sexy Delicious sitting at his desk. Today his suit is black and it fits very snugly.

I was speaking to my Lady Friend at the weekend and she is falling more and more in lust with him based merely on my description and the grainy images on my mobile. I insisted that she needs to just 'turn up' to my next work function as my guest and then when he sees her, he will fall for her too and then they can run off together. Obviously, in my ideal fantasy, it's me he runs off with, but I am a realist and I really don't think he enjoys Man Love, no matter how many Red Stripes he's had. The way I see it is, if Snow can bag him, then at least I'll get to enjoy him through her.

We came up with a fool proof plan: my office is in need of a new event organiser as our current one has left, so I think I will put my name forward and then the next time we have a party, I will be the point of contact for anyone with questions.

Then I can slip the following line into any conversation I have with the gorgeous William:

"Yes, William, we are having the party at Bar 242 on Blackfriars Road. By the way, my friend Snow is very interested in meeting you - would you approve of a blind date? She is 5'10" with luscious brown locks, she's stunningly attractive with a body to die for - and she's as witty as she is street smart. She's interested in you because I've been telling her for months how handsome you are and as you don't bat for my team, I thought...what's that...you DO bat for my team? You'd like to take me out for a meal, you say? Well, then forget that bitch, she's a nobody - let's go."

I think that'll work.

Define Stalking...

Another member of staff left our office yesterday and this brought about the customary 'leaving drinks'. We all bundled into a quaint little Thai bar tucked behind Southwark station and saw him off in style.

The gathering was particularly good for me as Mr Sexy Delicious was there - this time in jeans rather than his usual dapper suits. It turns out that he is that rarest of animals: a man who carries off casual wear as well as he wears smart. He had a simple of combination of jeans, trainers and a t shirt, added to which he donned a vintage leather bomber jacket, making him the best dressed chap in the vicinity.

I've mentioned him various times to my Lady Friend, Snow, and based on my extremely detailed description of him, she feels that she could fall in love with William. She asked me to get a photo of him so she could see just how handsome he is.

Modern technology being what it is, this was made easier by the camera built in to my mobile phone. I waited until I'd had a couple of Magners so that I had the courage, and then I spent the rest of the evening trying to catch photos and videos of William drinking his bottle of beer; William talking to colleagues; William laughing; William looking at me filming him.

Yes, he caught me. We don't even know each other and there I am filming him on my phone in a crowded pub. I didn't think he'd appreciate me doing it for my friend who's yet to see him, so I made a hasty retreat and left.

Still, doesn't matter - I've got him as my screensaver now.

8 out of 9 Lives Lost

Here's a little piece of advice from me to you: When a friend asks you to stay at their flat to look after their cat while they go on holiday, politely decline.

I failed to take my own advice and have been staying at Doormouse's Docklands flat since the weekend to make sure his cat, Bobby, doesn't go without food.

What makes this a bad story is that the poor cat is under house-arrest. Doormouse lives in a 1st floor flat and there's no cat flap for Bobby to come and go as he pleases. There is however a balcony which the cat is supposedly happy to sit on.

Well, last night Snow stayed with me (purely to look at Canary Wharf all lit up at night) and that was when the feline decided to have a spot of fun. We took our eyes off him for just one minute (too busy looking at Danny Dyer in last month's Attitude magazine), and before we knew it, he'd made his escape. We dashed to the balcony and there he was, bold as brass, on the roof of the porch, smirking back at us.

We were then caught in a 'what do we do?' situation; should we leave him to come in of his own accord or try and get him down? The problem was, as a cat that never ventures into the outside world, and being stuck on a roof with an angle that made jumping back in virtually impossible, we both felt that he was going to be stuck out there forever.

What ensued was almost two hours of us standing under the roof calling 'Bobby', snapping our fingers and trying to get him to jump down. At 11pm, the neighbours loved it. We had a chair from kitchen down there, attempting to reach up and grab him - all the while he merely looked at us like we were idiots. Then we changed our approach and went back into the flat and tried spraying water at him to make him jump down. He just looked at us with a 'you think that's going to work?' look on his face.

By midnight we'd agreed there wasn't much we could do and decided we'd have to leave him out there to fend for himself, and then we heard a crash and a bang and there was his head poking up through the rails on the balcony. It took about 20 seconds for him to get his balance and pull himself through, but all by himself he'd managed to get back in.

He's clearly nothing more than an Attention Whore and didn't like us doing anything other than watch him. Needless to say I'll be keeping the balcony doors shut for the rest of my stay. And I'll have to finish the article on Danny Dyer tonight.

Hag's Fag

It's Monday morning and I'm finding it hard to function. I had too much fun at the weekend and now I'm paying the price.

I went out with my number one Lady Friend, Snow, on Saturday in the hope of meeting men. She's only recently come out of a long-term relationship, so she needed to be reminded of how gorgeous and in demand she is.

We went to a club called The Playbar on Old Street and we both had our eyes peeled for hotties. I'd always thought that it should be the Gay Boy flirting with all and sundry and the Lady Friend just stands around feeling raw and exposed. It was other way round for us.

All the boys there wanted a piece of Snow and she was lapping up the attention. The best looking bloke in the club was a six foot strapping hunk - broad shoulders, clearly well-built and with cheekbones you could hang your jacket on. They had eye contact on the dancefloor and got chatting and Snow was clearly able to ignore the fact he was wearing Gucci loafers and had on a bit too much Joop aftershave.

Cut to half an hour later and I'm still dancing on my own, throwing myself around the dancefloor while she enjoyed snog after snog.

At the end of the night, she couldn't find The Hunk, so we went on a bit of a mission to look for him. He was down the back, sitting by the toilets, all over some other (much less attractive) girl.

We laughed as we left the club and Snow took it all in good spirits.

"How does it feel to be snubbed for a fat munter?" I asked.
"I wouldn't mind," she said. "But he was only 19!"

Rejected by a teenager. Humiliating!!

Lucky Number 7

It turns out that I was much more bothered about the outcome of the Speed Dating fiasco than I'd given myself credit for. I wasn't interested in any one of the guys I met, but once the time came to rate people, I suddenly wanted them all to find me attractive. Conceited? Possibly. I wouldn't have even contemplated going on a date with them, I just didn't want to be rejected by people I wasn't interested in.

Did I get any ticks? Well, yes, I did. You have the option to tick for friendship, for dating or for both. Of the 21 other guys that were there, 5 of them ticked me for friendship and 2 for dating. In order for me to find out who had ticked me for what, I had to also tick them, so I played a bit of a detective game by ticking some just to see if they ticked me. For the ones that didn't, they'll now think I was interested in them, but at least I know which ones were into me.

I spent the best part of the day checking back in to see if anyone else had ticked me. All this for a bunch of blokes I didn't even fancy. But still, I wanted them to fancy me, though!!

What was most baffling was, despite his rancid drunken behaviour, Doormouse managed to get 9 ticks in total, 3 of which were for dating. But he called those men c*nts! Maybe that's what I should've done.

Next Step? If any of them email me, I'll email them back, but I'm certainly not going to instigate any contact myself.

Conclusion? It was fun (I think), but I wouldn't sink to that level again. Back to the drawing board, I think.

And no, the skin cancer man didn't tick me. And neither did the Yank.

How Many Ticks?

So, I am still alive after the Speed Dating event. I say 'alive'; I mean 'painfully hung over'.

Me and Doormouse got to the club just before 7pm - having stopped off at the pub for a bottle of wine between us - and we ran to the bar to get a couple of drinks. I knew at this point how the night was going to progress. We were given stickers with a number and a letter on - I was the first so I got 1A. Within about 20 minutes, everyone had arrived and so we had to sit at our allotted tables. This was when it dawned on me that I was about to sit and chat to 20 other guys I didn't know. I was glad to have a drink in my hand.

My first date was an American chap who was over here on business. He was so boring that I can't remember anything else that he said. After three minutes - although I wouldn't be surprised if it was actually three hours - a whistle was blown and we had to move on.

You do 7 dates, have a break, 7 more and another break and then the final 7 followed by more drinks if you want to stay. In between dates, you're supposed to jot down their name and a brief comment so you can remember them the next day when you go online and tick which ones you're interested in. For my first date, I called him 'The Yank' and the comment was 'Boring'.

Of the 21 guys I spoke to, I'd say I was not in the least bit interested in any of them. Some of them were OK, but others not so.

One guy obviously felt that I was also boring as halfway through our date, he got his phone out and started to send a text to his friend. Another guy sat down at the start of the date and then asked if he could move on to someone else before the time had even started. But my favourite has to be the lovely and jovial Keith who, when I asked him what he had done that day, said that just before he'd come along, he'd found out that his flatmate had skin cancer. Not sure that's the kind of information you want to hear on a date.

As for Doormouse - he got so drunk, I had to hold him up during the second break. He was falling all over the place and shouting "C*nt!" at everyone who would listen. Towards the end, we ended up having a date together too and when I asked him what he'd been putting on his card about the others, he realised that he'd not actually written a thing.

So, today is the day of reckoning. I'm just about to log onto their website to see if anyone's ticked me for friendship/dating or both.

I wonder whether Doormouse will get any ticks????

Nervous Much?

Hmm, I am very much on edge this morning. As usual, I've managed to sign myself up for something that I didn't want to do and now the hour of reckoning is approaching, I want to throw myself out of the window.

Doormouse has been trying to get me to go to a Gay Speed Dating event for months and foolishly, I finally gave in. Why? I really don't know.

He says that it'll be 'funny' and 'hilarious' and 'it'll give us something to talk about for ages'. I think it'll be 'horrific' and 'uncomfortable' and 'it'll make me want to peel my own skin off'.

He also reckons that aside from 'having a laugh', there's the possibility that we might actually meet some decent guys. I can only shudder at the kind of men who are going to attend a gay speed dating event at Turnmills on a Tuesday evening.

In my head, I'm hoping that Will Young and Jeremy Sheffield will be there and they'll fight over me and I'll end up taking them both home.

Of course, the reality is it'll be a room full of sad, lonely old mincers with acne and breath issues.

I hope I make it out alive!