Chocolate Tranquillizer

I’m feeling a bit calmer now, largely because I bought a large slice of chocolate fudge cake and a pot of fromage frais to act as a sort of tranquilliser.
I got hold of J today and asked her what she thought she was doing, giving Glenn my address, which I had SPECIFICALLY withheld from him. (Despite him asking every time I’ve seen him.) She said she didn’t give it to him: he must have found it in her Filofax. And she said she was pretty angry herself to come back and find her flat stinky from another of his fish stews and then not even HAVE the fish stew to eat because he’d left it outside my door. (So that was what it was: Glenn’s signature dish. All I can say is that it looked like snot. Hate to think what his non-signature dishes are like.)
She said not to worry, she’ll tick him off and tell him never to bother me again. It’s just (she thinks) that he was so disappointed when the picnic was cancelled.
She says there’s another thing Michael is going to be at soon, did I want to go, as a sort of consolation prize for Glenn calling round? I said yes, of course, though the rate I’m going I soon won’t be able to fit into ANY of my clothes.

Two Sinister Males

Got back very late last night because Rachel wanted me to go over to hers and help with some Oskar-training. But Oskar didn't turn up. At all. We saw where he'd been: dirty patch on the sofa cushions where he'd slept; small pile of vomit in corner of kitchen. But though we heard cat yowls out in the gardens and saw dark cat-shapes flitting about, he remained obstinately absent.
And then I got home and found someone had left some strange rubbish on my doorstep: a scuffed Tesco bag with, inside it, a dirty old ice-cream carton. I took it indoors and Mirabelle was VERY interested. The carton contained a grey jellified thing with lumps in it that smelled bad. I put it in the rubbish, but during the night Mirabelle got it out and ate most of it.
And then this morning as I was leaving for work one of the Japanese students that lives upstairs - she's called something like 'Teg' said: 'Your boyfriend gave you a nice present? He waited a long long time for you!'
'Boyfriend?'
'Long hair man?'
Glenn!
I got back early this evening and i've just been sitting here, clutching Mirabelle and thinking: 'What do I do if he comes back?'

Oskar

While Rachel was here she told me something disturbing. She said that five years ago, when she moved in with her ex, he bought a kitten. Oskar. She never much liked Oskar (something about his expression, and the way he looked at her). Anyhoo, they installed a catflap in their garden flat and Oskar settled in, and she got the feeling that he was aware she wasn’t sure about her because whenever she was a little unfriendly or rowed with Jason (her ex) Oskar’d poo on the duvet. When Jase left, he went to America, so there was no chance of him taking Oskar, and she says it’s like being in a sinister marriage with an abusive man now. Oskar actually pees on the fruit in the fruit bowl. He jumps on her bed suddenly in the night…he stares at her through the windows when she’s watching TV…he tears rats apart on the sofa… he winds round her legs when she goes down into the basement, like he’s thinking of tripping her up. She says she couldn’t take him to the RSPCA, that would be too unkind. She’s just very uncomfortable in his company, and does everything she can to spend time away from the flat.
It made me look at Mirabelle Chanelle differently, when Rachel had left…

Moping, Cheesecake and Old Trousers

Feeling a bit flat, because the picnic with Glenn was rained off (sigh of relief) and I've found it strange coming down from the excitement of Saturday. Michael didn't seem that interested in me. He said Hello and then very quickly was whisked away by some pin-thin woman. Not that I was that interested in him, mind, but I always find it really unsettling seeing that wealthy world - I want to be part of it and know I can't. Ate some cheesecake, just out of general gloom.

Luckily Rachel dropped in to see me at lunchtime, and insisted we toddled off through the rain to watch Indiana Jones. What is it with elderly guy's trousers? They always do this weird thing at the front. You could just show me a guy's trousers and I could tell you whether he was 70+ or not.

Does Money Make All the Difference?

Wow! Went off to Michael’s house last night with J. He was hosting a Eurovision party in his London house. It’s one of those Chelsea houses that looks like a beautifully iced wedding-cake. J had been invited because she met Michael through some thing the firm organised.
Anyhoo, we got there, and the place was incredible. Waiters handing round Cristal champagne and delicious nibbles, three vast flatscreens showing the contest, place stuffed with rich men and the sort of thin women that make you want to run to the toilet and slit your throat. And I hadn’t been able to wear my favouritest dress because I couldn’t get the zip up. So it was a black Prada standby. But I did have some terrific shoes.
Really peculiar watching Eurovision as there’s something strangely SEXY about the entries, isn’t there? Even though they are nearly all so silly and naff. It’s like going on holiday and getting this thing for one of the waiters…
I really wanted to see Michael, because I was so so impressed by his house, and his friends. I kept saying to J, where IS he? (Eurovision party a very good idea if you don’t know anyone as you can just smile knowingly at the screen while drinking bubbles and you don’t look like a no-friend loser.) And then, around 9, she dug me in the ribs.
She’s right about the peculiar-shaped head. And he’s bald. And at least three inches shorter than me (but I was wearing Laboutins). And he’s one of those fat, sweatyish men that makes you think of cheese. Damp Caerphilly. He hadn’t got a jacket on, and you could see wet patches. And when I took his hand it was damp, too. But he had a nice smile.
You know, he’s the sort of man I’d never even look at. But his being so rich makes a scary difference…

Battenburg - Not

Just can't stand Battenburg. Not even a tablespoonful of it. Will have to be coleslaw instead. With kiwi fruit (which I also hate) for vitamins. And minerals etc. Actually, that seems quite a good diet. Another reason for not having Battenburg: everyone here at work has been giggling about it.

Battenburgs and Glenn

I was eating my potato salad and rye bread sandwich at my desk yesterday when J came up and said she wanted to talk. (Oh, by the way, I am so fed up with potato salad now. The Woo said you shouldn’t have stuff you like to eat at home, and I’ve always hated Batteburg cake – too sugary, fake almond taste – so I’m going to substitute Battenburg for potato salad from now on.)
J sat on the edge of my desk and said that she really wanted me to give Glenn another chance. She said he was her cousin and had been going through a really serious depression since he split up from his girlfriend. (It wasn’t a marriage – just a long relationship. She said, surely it was good, that he was capable of a long relationship?) He normally lives in the country, in Cornwall, but he came to stay with J because he was so desperate and her family were worried about him, and he’s been in her flat for two weeks now. She says he’s so depressed he sleeps all day, and she comes back to find he’s boiled up smelly fish stews and ponged the place up. Anyhoo, turns out he was so excited about meeting me that he washed his hair for the first time in about three months and went to lots of trouble, and he’s sort of in decline, now. Oh, and he used up all his money on the pink champagne so it would have to be a cheap date, like a picnic in the park.
I really wasn’t at all sure about this, but she said if I agree to see him over the bank holiday she’ll set up for me to meet Michael on Saturday, when he’s giving a party at his house in Chelsea. And after all, it’s not like I have to REALLY go out with Glenn, just sort of be friendly and let him down gently.

The Woo Diet Begins...

Right. I’ve just got details of the Woo’s diet, and I’m going to follow it. The essentials are: ‘Don’t keep food in the house’ ‘Don’t buy anything interesting for yourself to eat’. The Woo says that, for instance, last night she had a tablespoonful of potato salad and some rye bread.
Possibly I could just eat cat-food. Old people do that, don’t they? And they’re thin.
Am just going to buy potato salad and rye bread from now on.
The truly excellent thing about the Woo Diet is that you can eat anything you like while you’re out. So I shall be going out. A lot.

Pink bubbles with Glenn

Hmm. Met Glenn last night in the Cadogan Arms. He was wearing a T-shirt again, under his jacket. It said:’ You Look Like I Need a Drink’. He didn’t smell of alcohol as much as before. There was a cheap aftershave in there somewhere. And chips. And he’d tied his hair back with an elastic band. So I almost didn’t feel embarrassed to be with him.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said, as we sat down. (He’d ordered a tonic water for himself.I had pink bubbles.) He propped his cheek on his hand and stared steadily at me. I got the eerie feeling J had told him exactly how to behave and he was following orders.
It was OK, but I got the feeling his attention was elsewhere. I kept catching him either staring at my tits or winking at one of the barmen. And he got annoyingly restless when I told him about Mirabelle Chanelle. But he must have listened because at the end he said he was dying to see ‘my dear little pussy’. And felt my thigh under the table. I really wasn’t sure Mirabelle would want anything to do with him. I acted on impulse., and as we came out into Sloane Square I saw a taxi and managed to stop it and leap in. He mouthed something as I drove off. It looked rude. He even ran after the taxi.
J is being offish, today, too. She pretended not to see me when I was getting coffee. Don’t know what that’s about.

Decisions, decisions

It’s very hard making decisions, especially when you get no sleep, because a kitten is biting your face all night, or burrowing under the duvet to claw at your feet.
J just will not stop telling me that I made a mistake about Glenn.
‘You’ve got him wrong,’ she said in the Ladies this morning. ‘He only drank that night because he was so stressed out about meeting you. And he thought you were great. Gorgeous, he said.’
‘Why would he wear that shirt if he wasn’t an alkie?’
‘What shirt?’
‘The one about cognac ergo sum. I drink therefore I am.’
‘Someone gave it him for Christmas. It’s a joke for Chist’s sake. And incidentally, are you OK?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Sue in Personnel wondered if you were self-harming.’
Bloody kitten. So I’ve agreed to see Glenn again. Hope I don’t regret it.

The World is Full of Horrid Men

The Friday night date was disappointing. I was late, as Mirabelle had covered me in red scratches, so it took a long time choosing the right outfit. (Suffocatingly hot night, every inch of skin covered.) Even so the first thing Glenn did was ask me if I’d been in a fight with Amy Winehouse, and then laugh for far too long. He looked OK: thin, long dark hair, rock-star face, but smelled as if he’d been embalmed in whiskey - and was wearing a T-shirt with ‘Cognac, Ergo Sum’ on it.
It was a barbecue on J’s balcony, with charred prawns. We had some bubbles, and Glenn got easier to talk to but some things worried me about him. He wept about how great the prawns were, he had this very weathered skin - and when you got close, actual dirt on his neck, and I couldn’t help wondering how unemployed he was and whether he lived in a flat – or just on a park bench somewhere. He kept saying he wanted to walk me home, but as he was slurring and stumbling around like a zombie by then I’m afraid I tottered off. Where have all the good men gone?

What Would The Woo Do?

Had been fretting about the Michael or Glenn thing and decided to use my new mantra ‘what would The Woo do?’ I’m sure she’d choose sexiness rather than money (and a peculiar-shaped head). So it’s Glenn. It’s too hard to work out which one Carrie Bradshaw would go for. I don’t think the Sex in The City gals ever even met unemployed men.
And Carrie never had a kitten that peed on her Manolos, either. I put the cat-litter tray in the hall, as it was the only suitable place that wouldn’t badly affect my feng shui. (I am NOT putting it in my relationship corner.) And Mirabelle seems to have decided my shoe cupboard is her en suite.

Michael or Glenn?

J, at work, tells me she has two lovely men I ought to meet. The first one, Michael, has a very good job (lots of money, and the sort where you don’t really know what the person does, even after you have been told, e.g. hedge fund manager). But he is a teensy bit overweight, she says, really sweet, and had a head that looks an odd shape from some angles. The other man is currently between jobs, and more exciting (she thinks). He has a ponytail and is divorced. His name is Glenn. Which one was I most interested in, because she will invite him to dinner at her place on Friday? Not sure which one I should choose.

sleepy head

Tottered out for a few bubbles with M. and then thought I'd better have an early night with the kitten. It was asleep in my shoe cupboard when I got in and then spent the whole night being an eejit. It burrowed under the duvet and bit me, slept on my face...

Mirabelle Chanelle

Had a terrible day when it was so hard to be truly cakey and happy and pink. And then I passed the pet shop just as they were about to close.... and I bought the kitten. It's a she. I'm going to call her Mirabelle Chanelle. It was difficult getting her back as I needed so many things for her - a pink tray, and perfumed cat-litter, and a silk ribbon, and special cat milk and food (had to get adult food as useless 24-hour supermarket didn't have kitten. Hope Mr S doesn't tell my landlord ... ) Anyhoo, my post is late because i've been sitting here in my satin sheets cuddling her ever since. She keeps opening her mouth and giving me a little soundless miaow. I don't know what that means.

Fur and Feltz

Ok I know I keep going on about this kitten, but I just have to have it. I think I deserve it especially after Mr Q at work said I look like Vanessa Feltz on acid.

Fudging bald men

Fudging hell! Bang goes the diet, yet again I have eaten far too much cake. In fact lunch was just cake. Anyway I deserved it after last night. It started off well, my shoes and nail varnish matched to perfection. It was downhill after then, Ms D and Ms N were supposed to meet me at the Bluebird bar but never turned up. I am sure we got our wires crossed. I sat on my own for a while slowly drinking a rather lovely petite chablis. After about thirty minutes of trying to look like I had intended to go out drinking on my own, a very friendly man with a bald head approached me. He was very kind and sat very close to me, touching my leg in a 'I will be your friend kind of way'. He offered to buy me a bottle of bubbles which was terribly generous of him. He then suggested that we go to his and that perhaps I would feel a little more comfortable if I took my knickers off. I don't know what gave him that idea anyway it sort of turned sour after I said I jolly well wasn't going to take my satin la perla panties off. He then said that I was an old fat cow and was lucky to get any attention at all. Too top it all off he said that I was wearing 'Fxxk me shoes', not on. Anyhoo I decided that I wouldn't let such a negative man ruin my evening and tottered off to another bar down the road, unfortunately by then I was a little worse for the wear and the burly chaps on the door wouldn't let me in.

Ms L (who sits opposite me) keeps on going on and on about her new scotty dog, I mean it is rather insensitive as she knows how much I want a kitten....