Being good and staying home

Ive been rather TOO well behaved of late. That, and I really cannot be bothered leaving my room when its just wet, and suddenly freezing, and miserable. Productive Saturdays have all but blown out of the window.  Instead I am starting to enter hibernation mode, stay home, get straight into bed, and watch Netflix. This, understandably, does not make for particularly thrilling blog entries.

But thats to say I have thrown all hope of a social life away entirely. Of course I have still been going out for ' just one drink' and five hours later passing out fully clothed on my bed.

There has been fierce debates by the dudes and wearing out my tastecard at Pizza Express. And if fifty per cent wasnt enough, Dean put half the tableware in my bag. Naughty.

I started to get a little socially fatigued at Gem this past Friday. Bruce and I sat nursing out free drinks like spoilt kids, bored shitless. Every Friday at work we listen to Kiss FM which essentially plays a megamix that I can pretty much time my watch to. They play So Solid Crew, and then Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and then Kriss Kross. You get the drift. I started to feel like I was trapped in Groundhog Day; it could have been any Friday in the past year. And then I would end up in Gem, listening to the same songs, drinking the same pink wine. URGH. Thank god my friends are at least interesting to talk to eh?

On Sunday me Erica and Rebecca had a little mooch around Spitilfields and Petticoat Lane, where you can essentially buy clothes from Primark, Topshop and Newlook for cheaps. Oh, and apparently, Tesco, where I brought my coat from last year

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We were only out or a few hours (read: broke as, and it was cold) but its nice to break up a day that would have otherwise been spent in bed with eyes on a screen to get out, get a coffee and a cupcake and do what girls do best: bitch about people we know.

That said, I did come home, eat a pizza and drink cider watching tv. Well....it WAS a Sunday.

So a product of me being at home is actually applying myself to a creative project. I have been bending Alastairs ear for some time, getting him to read my work and give his (brutally honest) opinion when he told me of a site he and his friend have set up called Black Milk - they take new and interesting writers, illustrators, photographers, you name it, and publish their work. Well, apparently I am both new and interesting as Al said he would publish a story if I wrote one. CUE/; MELTDOWN.

I have written on and off for years, but never finished anything, and certainly never showed anyone. Putting my pride to one side, I knocked out a story thats been in my head for some time. Well, chapter 1 at least. The Irish, Erica and Al all helped and encouraged me and it went up on the site last wednesday. its pretty scary having a piece of fiction up - its feels different from crappy blog writing. People will judge you more. Anyway, I since got over that fear. Judge away by clicking here

 If the Carnaby Street christmas decorations dedicated to the Rolling Stones new album wasnt enough, I have just clocked that Oxford Street is sponsored by Marmite. Christmas just died.

Last night I went out with The Irish in Shoreditch where I stupidly matched him beer for beer. What an amateur mistake. I woke up this morning still drunk and couldnt get up for a few hours without my head spinning. Still, excellent night, even if there are huge gaps in my memory- how did I get home again?

Im not sure why he thought he could hide behind a lampost.

The next few weeks look set to be busy: two events on Friday, pub quiz, two sets of christmas drinks with the solicitors, something called bongo bingo, birthday party, christmas parties...yikes. I best detox my liver in preparation!

Sometimes you just need to go home

Ive had one of those weeks that just makes me realise how much I love living in London. Its strange; I lived here before as a student and despised it to the point i pretty much went home every single weekend without fail. I always said no whenever friends suggested I moved back.. I didnt want to, I loved living in Southend, leaving my job behind at 5pm and travelling out of the city.  Moving back into town was a literal spur of the minute decision when Felicity found a flat in here and offered me the chance to move in. I was planning on spending the summer with my aunt and uncle before getting my own (probably shithole) place in Essex and for some reason I went against the grain of my very being and was impulsive and came back. And it was the greatest thing I have ever done. So much so that when Michelle asked if I would get a flat back in Essex with her, I told her in no uncertain terms that I was staying put in London.

On wednesday I bummed about Primark with Erica to witness her shopping skills first hand ( terrifyingly efficient) before meeting Dean and Liz at the Banana Tree in Soho. I slurped mango and peach bellini and gobbled thai street food until I hit the food wall halfway through and left erica to finish my plate. two courses and a started, £15. Thanks tastecard!

On the walk down to Embankment I remarked: ' I dont know who I am today. I am not finishing meals, I am wearing pastels, and there are no holes in my tights. I dont recognise myself!' to which Erica blurted ' Its Halloween!'

Speaking of holey tights, they started a rather interesting conversation with my manager and H.R this week. Confused? You should be. Apparently laddered tights are a sign of a mental health breakdown. The less said about that the better.

I enjoyed a wonderous walk home that Halloween under the pale moonlight of East London and felt rather self satisfied and smug.

On Thursday I dragged EV and DD to Whitechapel for a sale at the East London Thrift Store. A quick bite to eat before we faced the throngs of aggressive hipsters grabbing £1 dresses. I made the amateur mistake of taking a free glass of wine which did not leave me with the two hands I desperaty needed to pull through the rails, so I downed it and shoved the \( not entirely empty) glass into my bag before grabbing as much as I could carry before running past the EV edit ' yes no, no, no, yes, no, no' and came away with two new thrift store bargs,

Ive always had a rather complicated and occasionally violent relationship with fashion. I dont read fashion magazines or have a clue whats in style. I have always been influenced by peers, scenes and music and film. Over the last few years my looks have varied - I had the Liza Minelli in Cabaret stage, the stage I only dressed in red white and black in homage to the white stripes, the hipster goth look for Interpol - corsets and pencil skirts and fitted jackets, the victoriana goth look, the karen o/ electroclash look ( plastic earings, drawing on my eyes with fluorescent marker pen, bowl cut fringe). These looks have always been aided by the fact I detest spending what little money I have on clothing. Ive wondered slightly directionless for a while, but I guess you could say my latest look is Warpaint (above). a 90s victorian I guess. And the discovery of the thrift store and dresses on the cheap has definitely opened my horizon of things i wouldnt normally try.

On Friday I took my tired ass home to Basildon as Mum was going away for the weekend. There I did nothing but lay with my dog in bed on the sofa watching shit on Sky and eating too much food that I need.It was so relaxing! The rain came hard onto the windows, and there i stayed snuggled 

with this ridiculous animal. I love her.

I also did have some time to drink a ridiculous amount of labrini and kir royal with my sister and indulge in a little posey shoot which we used to do pretty much every weekend a few years ago. If anything its quite interesting to see how and if time has changed out faces

this is us in 2006

and this is us a whole six years later.

We danced around the living room to the best of the 80s classics and woke up with sore heads and a hangover only junk and chinese food could fix.

I came back to London fully relaxed, refreshed, about half a stone heavier AND with fudge that my mum brought back from devon. Total wins!

My beautiful neighbourhood

Tonight the pub I live above had a ' fireworks party'. By this I mean six of the local blokes brought a huge box of fireworks, the pub put some packet sausage rolls on the bar and we were witness to some shocking fragant disregard for health and safety. Felicity Lois and I made some sausages and hot rolls and curly fries, and downed our respective drinks ready to enjoy the fireworks from our decking. What we got was our eyebrows almost singed off, our stairwell almost set on fire and a new healthy respect for the power of explosives. The men were letting the fireworks off from the picnic tables in out tiny beer garden out of empty bottles.

Then this happened

EXPLOSION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then those bright sparks ( pun intended) nailed a catherine wheel to our stairwell and much like apes in a zoo, kept hitting it with an inlot rocket when it did nothing but smoke rather than spin. Thats ok guys. Its just my stairwell. The thing I need to use to get in and out of my flat.

My nerves were shot to shit after this and I made haste to Bow to meet the Irish to drink wine and watch him write shit for his new play.

 we debated hard about technology in music before retreating to his for tea, bakewell tarts, politics and then staring up at the constellations that are somehow burning their way through the London street light pollution.

And now I have realised I need to get up for work in four hours.

Bye!