Quick Greek Thoughts

Managed to fins a Greek internet cafe. Can't write for too long as the bartender keeps sniggering at my breasts. The Greek men are very testosteroney and grumpy. Anyhoo, it is v hot here and Rache and i both have great tans. Part of the reason we came was that Rache was desperate to get away from her horrible cat, Oskar (it belonged to her ex). But the cats here are -well, completely different to English cats. There are so many of them. One black one keeps racing into our apartment and hiding under the bed. Another one, that looks stuffed, with a lumpy, misshapen head, stalks us, and if you give it a slice of bologna sausage it eats it INSTANTLY. There are about five kittens in the apartment bar, all of them snarling at each other when they think you aren't looking, and then putting on studiedly sweet expressions when they think you are.
Apart from that, Rache is getting on rather too well with the man who runs the rubbish shop that sells dry, furry peaches and overpriced bottled water. I'm rather sad i haven't managed to find anyone yet.

Apologies

I've been very gloomy lately, and you know how that just sort of stops you writing. First, I had to work incredibly hard to get all my work done before the holiday - and then I got flu. And the whole staycation idea was horrible. It was definitely NOT the same as being on holiday, living in my flat, with the rain pouring down outside, and a few guest soaps sprinkled around the place. I got sick of Indian food after the second day, too.
The only strange thing that happened, last Sunday, was that Mirabelle the kitten escaped out of the front door, and i was in a real panic to find her before the landlord did, and she raced down to the hall and found her curled up on a dirty sleeping-bag someone had left behind the stairs. I met the two Japanese girls as I was carrying her back up, and they went on and on about how sweet she was, and said they'd love to look after her for me.
So when, yesterday, Rache and I went to see Mamma Mia, and decided that we didn't care if we had no money, we were going to max out our credit cards and go off to Greece AT ONCE if it killed us - I had someone who'd look after Mirabelle. So we are off tomorrow, early, on a cheapo flight, and we won't be back for a week.
When i do come back I'll try to be a much better blogger, and write every day, and be better in other ways, too - work harder, and be much thinner etc etc.

Walnut cake and Frankfurters

Inspired by the lists on other blogs, e.g. the Urban Woo’s., I’ve made my own:
Hideous minor celebrity I fancy and feel deeply ashamed about (and repulsed by myself in consequence): Dennis Waterman (I didn’t mean to fancy him. I had one of those awful, creepy dreams after watching him by accident on TV.)
Favourite cake (if not allowed squishy chocolate) : walnut and coffee.
Strangeish meal I eat when completely miserable, which always perks me up: frankfurters with lime pickle.
My lucky underwear is: a boned, zebra-print set (with yellow lace edging – ugh) that I got in a moment of sale-madness years ago. Got a wonderful job offer while wearing it, also was wearing it when Michael’s secretary rang with offer of dinner. It is incredibly naff and uncomfy, so I only ever wear it when everything else is in the wash.
Most horrible recent sensation: last Thursday, when I accidentally tipped some pommes dauphinoises into a hairy rug, and then had to comb it out with my fingers. While the kitten rode on my head, trying to be helpful.
Part of a politician that most annoys me: David Cameron’s puffy cheeks.
Thing I hate most about this summer: having to wear sweaters. Also, the way the milk still keeps going off in the fridge (the way it does in hot summers –why is that?).
What animal would I most like to see a comical youtube film about?: polar bear. Wish there were far more polar bear films on there.

Surprising Things

Clare, at work, has just told me HER husband proposed to her when she was in the nude, too – in a Jacuzzi in Thailand. Maybe all real proposals (as opposed to ones in romcoms) happen in the nude.
I was thinking about how miffed I was at the wedding – that Andrew didn’t flirt with me the way he always has every time we’ve met up. It’s odd, because I don’t fancy him at all. I’d never want to go out with him or even snog him. So why do I care that he no longer wants to flirt with me? I think it’s a possessive thing. Because he usually flirts with me, I feel he’s MINE, and should flirt with no other – ever. Also, any diminution in any flirting aimed at me, even by repulsive people, is BAD .Odd, really.

Being Past It

I had a rather depressing weekend, which is why I haven’t been posting. But then it seems lots of other people are gloomy at the moment, too – like the Woo - possibly because this rotten weather makes any sadness worse.
Anyhoo, I went off to a family wedding which I’d been looking forward to for ages (Mirabelle came in a cat basket), and all the liveliest, wittiest, most gorgeous people at it were all around ten years younger than me. Obviously I wanted to be with them, but I’d been put on the boring table with the aunts with early-onset Alzheimer’s, the old farts who only wanted to talk about tall ships/ military campaigns/ the hatefulness of Labour etc. Well, I went over and sat with the fun ones after the speeches, anyway, and though they seemed pleased to see me, and I could join in all the crack, they still made me feel a little as if I, too, was not that interesting, Not one of the guys flirted with me – and, you know, one of them, Andrew, really did flirt with me a LOT at the last family do I went to. I just started to feel I’d completely lost it. I even got the feeling two cousins at the end of the table were sniggering at me and specifically my dress, like it was far too short or something.
Maybe I need to go to a family funeral where, hopefully, family octogenarians will flirt with me and make me feel better.
Oh, and at this wedding the bride let on the groom had proposed to her when they were naked in the shower. I can’t decide whether that’s romantic or not.

A Return Dinner

Jasmine says I should invite Michael to a party at my flat, as a thank-you for his (pointless and unnecessary) advice and slap-up restaurant meal. It either has to be a drinks party or a dinner-party, and a dinner party is loads cheaper. Obviously Jasmine has to come, and I thought Jo and Martyn would be good (especially as Jo says she’ll make a range of delicious puds). Rachel wants to come, and says she’ll bring her gay best friend, Pym. And Jasmine says she’ll find some presentable man to bring along. So I’ve just got to persuade Michael to come. I keep getting either his answering service, or his scarily efficient PA, and I don’t want to leave a message with either of them. Esp as it has to be a ‘Can you come this Friday, or next Friday, or the Friday after?’ pathetic kind of message.
I feel quite hopeful about this as I love cooking, and unlike Bridget Jones, am jolly good at it. I’m going to practice various dishes, trying them out on Rachel and getting her honest opinion. At the restaurant, Michael chose really stodgy English food: steak and kidney pie. And treacle tart. So I’ll do something like that. And I might buy a Cath Kidston apron, so he can see a softer, more domestic side to my character. Rache says I must serve really strong champagne cocktails to everyone the instant they arrive as there are three rules to follow if you want people to think you are a good cook:
1) get them plastered
2) serve small portions
3) only feed them when they are totally famished (and plastered)