Staycations With Cats

Rache came round again last night (to get away from Oskarthe evil cat) and said she was very depressed because she can’t afford a holiday, and needs one. I’ve spent so much lately on shoes, dresses to impress Michael etc that I can’t really afford one either. So we’re going to have staycations. Rache says we should exactly replicate all the things we like best about going abroad.
1) The hotel experience:
We’d clean our flats and fill the bathroom with mini-soaps and shower gels, and put paper wrappers on the loo. Then we’d lay out a breakfast that included mini cereals in boxes, and possibly something completely unsuitable unappealing and peculiar, too, like dates in syrup or slices of boiled ham. (Rache thinks we ought to swap flats, too, as that would make it more like a hioliday, but I’m not keen on spending my whole holiday with Oskar.)
2) I like reading loads of chick-lit while lying on a lounger, being warm, and getting a tan. Rache likes getting completely bladdered, dancing on tables in clubs, and sleeping until teatime. Both of these can easily be done at home. I wondered if we should keep to one particular cuisine – say, Indian, for the whole two weeks, just to give the experience authenticity.
3) Rache says we ought to stick together (getting slightly annoyed with your friend is part of the holiday vibe) also meet new people, especially waiters and sports instructors (i.e. not the usual sort of man), so we might spend a lot of time in health clubs, maybe trying out free introductory days – in order to economize.
4) And of course we have to wear clothes we’d be embarrassed to wear at home: strange kaftans bought at discount markets, ultra-tight shorts etc.

It’s been quite cheering thinking up all this stuff. Maybe it’ll be OK after all. Actually, the bits I like most about holidaysare the flight out (esp the weird airline meal), and waking up in the motning knowing it’s going to be hot and hearing really unfamiliar sounds like cicadas, donkeys braying. Not sure how to replicate these.

Bad Cat, Rubbish Thoughts

Maybe it will all turn out OK and Michael won’t tell anyone about my imaginary inheritance. In the meantime there are no obvious signs this firm is in trouble. The client list has not shrunk. They’re refurbishing the upper offices. The MD was whistling in the toilets this morning. Could Michael be mistaken? Why would he lie to me about something like that?
Anyhoo, last night Rachel was ranting bitterly about male/female relationships, and how they are a scary meat-market. So if you are a woman over thirty-five, basically your market value has declined tragically, so you have to pick a man who is:
1) less attractive than you
2) less wealthy than you, or
3) less classy than you
Other things that cause a woman to have to lower her standards severely in the hope of getting laid are:
1) being larger than size 12
2) having a past (ie divorced and ranting about it)
3) being accompanied everywhere by nightmare small child called something like Max or Rupert.
So according to Rache if I was divorced and had a nightmare kid the only person who’d ever go out with me would be a hideously misshapen tramp. This can’t be right.
I think prolonged contact with her nightmare cat Oskar has depressed Rachel too much.

Date with Destiny - Aaagh!

http://www.williams-sonoma.com/wsimgs/rk/images/rcp-images/Recipe/Flourless-ChocolateTorte.jpgThe date with Michael was both worrying and blissful, in equal measures. We were meeting at Quo Vadis in Soho. I wore my best LBD (it’s always back to black if you feel fat) with a belt made of exciting satiny ribbon from VV Rouleaux. This is supposed to be a thrifty thing to do. (In all the broadsheets’ top tips for saving money in a slump.) But you should see the price of that ribbon! I have some great black stilettoes, too. (Did think of wearing flats cos of how short he is, but then most rich men go for taller ladies, don’t they?)
He was ten minutes late and on the phone when he arrived. But he had warned the staff and he had booked a brilliant table, and they opened a bottle of champagne just for me while I waited for him.) He smelled of Eau Sauvage, and was wearing a nicely-cut suit – so cunningly contrived it almost made him look fit.
It’sgorgeous in Quo Vadis – all frosted mirrors, polished silver and white linen. I had crab talgiatelle and fillet steak with béarnaise. The worrying bit was when we were all settled with our food and he said he felt so terrible because he’d never offered me the advice I’d asked for at the breakfast. And what had I wanted to consult him about?
So there was nothing for it but to fib and say I’d been thinking of setting up an agency on my own (with an imaginary inheritance from an aunt). He looked grave and said it was the worst possible time for a new venture, and I said how I’d heard recessions were times of opportunity too.(Thus looking like a lively, rich businesswoman, and perfect consort.) It all flowed along until he said it was lucky I had the inheritance to fall back on as he’d heard my firm was in trouble, and looking to lay people off Aaagh! The minute I heard that I got in a panic and the chocolate torte turned to ash in my mouth. And even hearing he’d seen me at the Private View and longed to speak to me,and that the tall blonde he was with was the artist (a client’s wife) – explains why the pics were so rubbish – did not make things better.
I was so distracted our goodbyes were rather brief. (Wet kiss alittle bit like terrier slobber on my cheek.) What do I do if he tells my boss (one of his best mates) I’m rolling in it and want to start up on my own?Aargh!

The Spell Comes Good!

The spell seems to be working! (Which is really amazing seeing as I did it so badly.) A workman wolf-whistled at me this morning. And didn’t shout abuse. (I was wearing my new turquoise tunic. I have discovered if you wear a belted tunic over trousers and high heels you look vastly thinner without having to diet. This was, actually discovered ages ago by Gok Wan et al., but has taken this long for me to implement it.) And the workman was quite decentish to look at, too, and when I glanced back at him he waved at me. (There was a finger or two raised in there, but he was smiling broadly so I don’t think he meant to be rude.)
And then when I got into work Daddy’s girl had moved off to another office, and Michael ACTUALLY RANG ME to ask if I wanted to go out to dinner with him on Friday! So I’m in the mood to celebrate, and Jo has brought in some shortbread. Which isn’t a very celebratory food really. In fact, it’s the sort of snack you have to mentally gather your strength for, even though it is nice. (Though it’s raspberry shortbread, so that might be different.)
Well, I never believed in witchcraft before, to be honest. I thought it was a load of poo. Sinister poo. But maybe it isn’t.

A Smoked Oyster Spell

Well, it has been incredibly difficult to write this blog recently because the boss’s daughter is here on work experience, at a desk near mine, and keeps spying on what I’m doing, and no doubt reporting back to darling Papa on how hard I work, how frequently I take cake-breaks etc. So I’m having to be a total saint, and I can only quickly look at other people’s blogs whenever she goes to the loo. But I’m working late tonight – to make a point about how totally indispensable I am - and she isn’t around.
Anyhoo: the special romantic spell. On Friday night I had everything ready: a range of aphrodisiacs – watermelon, tinned oysters (there isn’t an r in the month) and chocolate. I’d also found some dark blue candles and some red chalk. I waited until 11p.m., and then drew a circle on the floor of my sitting room, under the window, lit the candles, and sat there in my best underwear, trying to think romantic, erotic thoughts about the mystery new man I wanted in my life. The moon was clearly visible through my window, and the whole thing would have been quite shiveringly spooky, if the kitten hadn’t kept jumping on me and going on about how she wanted a snack. (But then, of course, a cat is an aoppropriately witchy thing to have around, if you happen to be doing a spell.)
Just before midnight I opened the oysters (getting cottonseed oil all over my new bra). They were disgusting. And didn’t go particularly well with the watermelon or the chocolate. They also made the kitten more bothersome and intrusive. It was almost impossible to actually think deeply about the spell etc. But I did my best, and tried to conjure up an attractive male face and so on, but, annoyingly, I kept seeing Glenn. Isn’t that weird? Particularly as I’m so relieved he isn’t pestering me any more.
I went to bed feeling disappointed and rather queasy, and woke suddenly in the night to find the kitten eating a smoked oyster (complete with oil) in my hair.

The Yoga Class of Doom

Decided that the best way to lose weight was to do exercise, so joined a small locallish evening yoga class. The teacher was fifty-plus, with a cake-eating frame. ( I say this kindly, as a cake-eater myself). Quite a lot of her drooped, too.(So maybe she had only just started teaching. Which probably explains why her class wasn’t popular.) And her hair was dyed a peculiar mottled orange and cut to resemble Friar Tuck’s.
Anyhoo, she was extremely welcoming, and smily. Present were: four pensioners, a man with strangely dark,greasy clothes, who hid himself away at the back, as if worried that he smelled - and an Asian girl in a tracksuit, who constantly nipped into the corridor to talk to her husband on her mobile. To begin with, I was glad that the place was not bulging with beautiful over-muscled people in Spandex (or whatever the yoga equivalent is), but then the melancholy setting began to get to me. The pensioners and Asian girl seemed despondent; the greasy man was clearly severely depressed, and the yoga teacher, though she kept smiling, was obviously finding it hard to be upbeat. And then I began to notice strange under-currents. The teacher reserved a note of gentle, but persistent criticism for the Asian girl, ‘No, try a little harder, Lavali’. ’Did you hear what I said, Lavali? You’re not very good at that, are you?’ And she began making offish remarks to me, under the guise of being helpful. So she’d say: ‘Is that all right for your back?’ And I’d say ‘Fine!’ back, brightly. And then she’d say something like: ‘No osteoporosis, then?’ or ‘This one is especially good if you are going through the menopause.’ And she definitely wasn’t looking at anyone else when she said that. After an hour or so I was feeling pretty dismayed. Also, I hadn’t brought a mat, and the floor smelled gym-shoey. And then my hair and hands did. In fact, by the end I felt so terrible that it was a shock to look in a mirror and NOT see a bent-over crone, glowing from one final, post-menstrual flush.

The Glass is Half-Empty

The Private View was disappointing. The things we were viewing were – predictably - terrible photographs taken by a talentless madman. But on the plus side, there was good champagne. I never saw the artist. He wasn’t standing around looking arty and tortured the way they usually do.
As advised by Topiary, I’d gone for the Rene Russo look. I was getting my highlights done anyway, so I’d asked them to put my hair up in a French pleat, and I nipped home after and changed into a split tweed skirt, brown boots, and a rollneck sweater. It felt nice in the cool, rain-washed streets on the way to the view, but when Jasmine and I got there it became unbearable, because the room was so hot. I started sweating, my neck prickled, and even wearing my special sausage-skin knickers my skirt rode up ridiculously. Also, when I caught sight of myself reflected in one of the stupid photos I realised the pleat wasn’t flattering. I looked the way Anonymous always sees me: like a porky dominatrix (quite topical, really, considering the Mosley trial). The place had filled up to crush-point by the time Michael arrived. AND he had one of those awful, thin, hyper-groomed, ultra-chic women with him. The sort that make any average woman just want to curl up and die. She had incredible teeth, and tits that couldn’t be real, and she was gripping his arm and leaning in to him. (Well, more like bending down – she was jolly tall. It created a bizarre effect, like a mummy seeing her child off on his first day at school.) I don’t know if he saw me. Jasmine wanted me to go up and introduce myself etc, but I couldn’t bear to. Instead we slunk out. And had cocktails in a bar. So I suppose my last hope with Michael, now, is the magic spell on the 18th. If that doesn’t work I’m giving up.

A Wordy Way to Slim

I read today (in the Telegraph, which I’ve been reading on and off since coming across it at Michael’s breakfast) that if you keep a food-diary and write down what you eat every day you lose twice as much as normal. So here’s yesterday’s food diary:
7.30, while hurrying to get dressed: black coffee, no milk as kitten wanted it.
8.20, Latte from Starbucks
9.0 disgusting non-coffee from office machine. Diet yoghourt I’d bought to work
10.0 Chocolate-time hazelnut meringues with double cream and strawberries. Strawberry smoothie.
I.pm Diet yoghourt
3.30 Chocolate - time ditto except had non-tea from machine (only the non-soup is worse) and no smoothie.
5.45 Reluctantly ate damp lettuce from sandwich box as had to work late. Squishy tomato also.
7.30. Faint and desperate with hunger. Came home to find nothing in fridge except catfood so had to go out shopping again. Whole supermarket suffused with smell of baking bread, also, warm, comforting odour of fresh pasties. Wolfed down pasty on bus.(This all made worse by supermarket till person handing me the pasty in its bag as I packed stuff, saying: ‘You’d better put this on top. You’ll be eating it on the way home.’ How did she know?) Got home and realised whole diet had gone down the drain for the day, also it was raining and I was wet, so made big bowl of pasta and shared bits with kitten. Two peaches.
9.30 Glass of wine. Suddenly felt incredibly happy so opened tin of salted almonds at back of cupboard, had two more glasses of wine as thirsty.
11pm wedge of brie to go with peach
11.30 Another peach as they were v good.
I’m not sure how writing this down will make me lose weight, but hope it does.

Magic for Cake-lovers

My romantic life has been so rubbishy lately that I was quite interested when Rachel told me I ought to give magic a go. She discovered on the internet that the thing to do was to, first of all, write down all the things you are looking for in a man, and put it in an envelope in a safe place. Then you find out when the full moon is: 18th of this month – and on that evening you get hold of an African aphrodisiac called Yohimbe (available in health food stores), take some, and channel all your energy into ‘sex magic’ – i.e. thinking longingly of this new man who is going to come into your life. And then, apparently, he’ll appear within a couple of weeks. So here’s my list:
1) Healthy
2) Financially sound: lives in a lovely place
3) Kind and thoughtful
4) Not too old
5) No bad breath
6) Never clips toenails in front of you
7) Preferably has hair on his head
8) Preferably no paunch
9) Doesn’t mind waiting around while other people dry their hair, go shopping etc
10) Likes kittens. And cake.
I didn’t want to be too fussy, and rule out too many people. The papers have been full of stuff about ‘the dark triad’ recently, i.e. women prefer men who are narcissistic, thrill-seeking and selfish, but I think Iif I’m going in for witchcraft it’s probably best to keep it white and not ask for anything dark and creepy. Not v keen on this Yohimbe stuff. May substitute something else like watermelon (just been revealed as superaphrodisiac).

Strawberry Shortcake Thoughts

Well, it’s very hard to see how the thing with Michael is going to progress. I was discussing it with Jasmine just now during chocolate-time (strawberry shortcake), and she said that she knows Michael is going to a private view next week and I ought to go too (she can get me an invite), and sort of be in the crowd, being mysterious, friendly and distant, so he can come up and say hello if he likes.
I thought he might think I was STALKING him. She said, no, if I’m there, too, it will just seem like I’m one of the in-crowd, and have very much the same interests as him.. The other problems are: I don’t really want to buy another new outfit on my credit card. (I can’t fit into any of my existing great outfits until this tomato sandwich diet starts working properly.) (And I just ate some strawberry shortcake because the colours were similar to a tomato sandwich and also I couldn’t resist.) (So possibly the diet won’t work today.)
Also, how hard does one have to try, to catch a (to be honest) not terribly attractive rich guy? Jasmine says there’s a whole art to catching a millionaire, and you can buy books on it etc. And it’s really well worth doing because if you manage to marry them, even for, say a year, you are set up for life. (Although, I do think this is the wrong way to think, and one ought to be romantic, too.)
Oh, and she also said she was a bit worried about Glenn as she hasn’t heard from him lately. He said he’d ring her when he finished being at Glastonbury, but he hasn’t. She’s worried he’s ill and passed out in a hedge somewhere.

Strange Breakfast

Well – yes, the breakfast. Haven’t been able to post for days, it seems, because there’s been so much going on at work, and then Rachel came round again, to flee from the evil Oscar…
It felt very peculiar going round to Michael’s house at 7 a.m. having spent about an hour washing my hair etc first. The Philipino maid showed me in to the dining room – huge expanse of shiny table with four places laid and loads of newspapers, and asked me what I’d like to eat. It really was the perfect place to be, so I just sort of settled in happily and drank coffee and had bacon, sausage and tomato (and fried bread, which I hadn’t asked for, but ate as it was there), and it was almost startling when two strange men appeared as well, and started eating and chatting to each other. And then Michael turned up in shirt-sleeves, looking terribly busy and important, and kissed me on the cheek. I had a question ready – about whether he’d advise me to start up by myself in the PR business –pretty obvious really. But I DIDNT HAVE TO ASK IT. There were mobiles going off all the time, and every time Michael caught my eye and smiled at me, as if he was about to bring the question up, one of the other men would butt in and say something to him. So basically, all I did was turn up and have a very nice heavy breakfast and read his Daily Telegraph.
About 8.15 I thought I’d better go, and he waved at me (on the phone) and said, ‘We must do this again!’ And that was it. So what do I do now? Do I ask myself to breakfast again? Does this count as a date?
Oh – and the bad thing about eating a full cooked breakfast is that you still feel wistful when other people produce fairy cakes later on, but you know you have completely used up your calorie allowance for the whole day. So it’s sort of like being a prisoner.

Dear Little Mousey Snacks - and Tomatoes

My tomato diet is going stupendously well. Soon I’ll be able to roll myself into a ball the way the Woo does. It is getting very very boring, though. Just the sight of a tomato makes me feel queasy. But I will have to break the diet tomorrow when I have my power breakfast with Michael. I don’t want him to think I am irritatingly fussy, but rather the exciting, devil-may-care, living-life-to-the-full type.
They say it will be cold and damp tomorrow so I’ve been and bought a neat little pink cashmere short-sleeved cardi and an umbrella that’s exactly the same colour, which I think will give me a charmingly fresh. Amelie sort of look. And I plan to totally encase myself in a Gok Wan body-sausage underwear thingy.
I was just planning all this when there was a knock on my flat door. So I quickly hid the kitten and answered it. It was the landlord, spouting off about people bringing mud and rubbish into the house again. He was practically in tears. Said the downstairs hall is a terrible mess, and he can’t be having it. I can’t imagine who’s reponsible. The two Japanese students upstairs are always immaculate, and I think the man downstairs is gay. He’s neat too: I once caught a glimpse of his flat and it was full of spindly, highly-polished furniture. Besides, he’s hardly ever there. So it’s sort of a mystery.
When the landlord had gone I realised there was a soggy catnip mouse and a bag of cat chocolate treats (half0-eaten) on my hall table. So I hope he just thinks I’m charmingly eccentric and into strange snacks. Like Amelie.