Love Taught Me to Cry

You may remember me mentioning Beano before. As I had a dream about him last night, I feel now would be an appropriate time to tell all.

Oh, and just to clear it up before we start, having read this back, I concur that Beano bears some similarities to a certain person which some readers of this blog know rather well. Well it isn’t him. Capisch? There are exactly three people who have ever known about this relationship (for reasons that will become clear…). And that’s me, Beano, and Jellie. So ditch the preconceptions please…

I met Beano shortly after I met the first man I ever considered falling in love with, about a year before I met Him. Jesse was a foreign journalist. I met him through friends when he was in London, and thus began a long-distance relationship, mostly conducted by email, text, and long phone conversations. He was a nice man. A few years years my senior, reliable, decent and honest. I liked him. Under different circumstances it probably could have worked for a few years. He would never have been Him, but we would have been good together for a while. Despite what happened, I remain convinced of this.

I met Beano about a month after Jesse and I started our relationship. Again, he was a friend of a friend, and through several degrees of separation, also knew Jesse slightly. I had a very incestuous group of friends at that time. Beano was/is a drummer in a moderately well known band. He was/is stunning to look at. The first time I set eyes on him, I felt as though my heart liquefied inside my chest. He looked at me as though he wanted to devour me. It was a moment that could have led to sex, right there in the middle of a crowded pub. But instead, during a five hour conversation, we became friends.

Seriously, just friends. Best friends. We used to go out and get lashed on straight vodka then lay around in his bed next day, tangled in each others limbs, stroking each others aching heads, persuading each other to get up and make coffee (he is still almost the only person who knows that much as I drink my coffee black, I actually like it best milky with three sugars. I can’t drink it that way any more, it makes me think of him.)

We were twins, we decided. Our opinions, our thoughts, our personalities matched. We were both clever, lazy, hedonistic, and a touch amoral. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t go around torturing children or animals, but we did treat the opposite sex badly. He preferred the ‘honesty’ of one night stands. I was busy pretending to myself, and most of all to poor Jesse, that my infatuation with Beano was just friendship, nonthreatening and cosy.

And then one day we kissed.

And after that, life became about finding opportunities to fuck, passionate and guilty and desperate. And when it wasn’t about that, it was about trying to find the strength not to fuck. We’d lie on the sofa, limbs entwined, bodies pressed together, drunk with lust and deceit, and telling each other that as long as we didn’t kiss on the mouth, as long as we didn’t go any further, then we were good people. But inevitably, resolve would slip, and we’d find ourselves once more sinking into each other, consuming each other. We were rollercoasting towards some kind of conclusion, and it was never going to be a happy ending.

Jesse ditched me. He never said he knew, but he would have been dumb not to suspect. The final weekend we spent together, at my house, I spent more time furtively texting and ringing Beano than I spent with him. He must have seen, though he didn’t comment on, the bruises on my hips, the discoloured patch on my breast which could only be a fading bitemark. Sex with him felt like cheating on Beano. We only did it once. The relationships had been reversed. Jesse ended things like the perfect gentleman he was. We promised we would stay friends. I haven’t spoken to him since.

Afterwards, Beano and I tried to make a go of it. But our relationship was based on the deceit, and the excitement, of what is forbidden, and our friendship had been swallowed. There was no possibility of backtracking to the stage of faux-innocent twinness. Now that we’d hurt someone, the shine was off our affair. I felt tawdry. He told me he loved me. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. We screamed, shouted, fucked, and cried. I felt like I was cutting off my siamese twin, without an anaesthetic. I felt I needed to punish myself. A while ago I found the file of his old emails on my laptop. This is the last thing he sent me, when we were breaking up:

“You should be happy with me, but you aren’t. And if I am you, and you are me, then that just means you’re not happy with yourself. Bitter doesn’t suit me, and guilt doesn’t suit you. I can’t see you anymore. After tonight, when I think we should make love on my drum kit one last time. Come on doll, let’s not pretend you’re a good girl, and let’s not pretend I want one. I love you, you impossible bitch.”

That night we made love on his drumkit, said unforgivable things to each other, he slapped me, and then he cried while we clung to each other. An appropriately dramatic and messy ending. I couldn’t have written it better.

Aside from a few drunken and bitter emails and phonecalls, from both sides, it was a number of years before I properly saw him again. I bumped into him, literally, at a tube station. I was on the way to a wedding dress fitting last December. I looked up in annoyance at the stranger who had knocked me into the railing, at the same moment that he looked down at me. We stared at each other for a split second before the crowd pushed us apart. He fought his way back to me. We stepped outside and into the nearest pub. He bought me vodka without asking.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’m getting married.”
He nodded. “I heard. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
We sat in loaded silence. It reminded me of him, us, so much I almost started crying right there.
He spoke without looking at me. “You’re still the most amazing thing I’ve ever known. I still want you.”
I leant forward so that my forehead was resting against his temple. We both breathed. I kissed his cheek and left. I looked back once. He wasn’t looking after me.

Last night, I dreamt about him. I missed feeling so desired and so torn. Believe me when I say that in its own way, it was beautiful. I woke up and turned over and looked at Him. My heart jumped. This is where I belong.

This morning I deleted Beano’s emails, and wiped his number from my phone. It was an old number anyway. I rang it, just to see, and a disembodied voice told me “This is a redundant line.” I think it might have been God

Things to Do in Essex When You’re Skint

It’s funny, but since this whole economy drive/poor thing has happened, our relationship seems to be going from strength to strength. And with the exception of the intense fear of more nasty letters arriving, I’m feeling better in myself. I think it’s something to do with taking my head out of the sands of panic and starting to confront this whole debt/skintness situation with some maturity.

The hard thing is that of course the whole thing would never have happened if He hadn’t been shafted by His previous employers, so it’s kind of hard to swallow. I wouldn’t mind if we’d run up frivolous debt by spending too much and buying too many shoes – of course some of my old debt comes from that, but I was paying that off rather effectively until everything went wrong with His job.

But the last six months, we’ve run up a serious debt bill just through trying to pay rent and bills, and eat! Not to mention the horrendous extra spend that the wedding suddenly demanded at the last minute!

I know that come Friday, we can pay off the most pressing bills, but this is the really scary thing: we are £500 short of what we need this month to pay all our normal bills. This is because He isn’t getting paid until 31st May. And while we may raise a couple of hundred on Ebay, any fool can see that’s not going to be enough.

You may ask why I’m writing about this embarrassing/painful/private situation on a public forum. Well, two reasons: firstly, because I’ve always used writing as a way of rationalising and calming my fears, and secondly because like an AA group, there’s something very freeing about speaking out on something like this.

My name is Mookmoo, and I’m in debt. But I am not an alcoholic.

(That’s called counting your blessings)

Money for Old Rope

Since I’ve started selling on it, I’ve become a little too obsessed with Ebay.

I find myself checking up every half hour or so to see if my precious little items have had any interest. Like an overanxious mother, I inwardly scream with delight if they have a ‘watcher’ or a bid, and inwardly sob with despair if they don’t.

At the moment I’m selling lots of redundant fitness books and DVDs – do go and take a look.

Also to come are tacky novels and DVDs (Footie Wives is selling ever so well!), a few choice articles of clothing, and some Clinique sample sale goodies…

So if you fancy owning a piece of Mookmoo, or just want to help me out in my hour of financial need, head on down to the links below.

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=8303022630&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=6390395331&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=6390399272&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=6390409508&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=8303138386&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=8303139118&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=8303140795&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1

Poor Me

I kind of feel like a student again.

We went to Tesco last night and bought a week’s worth of food for just under £20. Then we went home, put some more stuff on ebay, and watched tv while eating home made (fat free) chips. The only big difference from my student days was the lack of alcohol and other mind altering substances. Though what I wouldn’t have given for a nice fat spliff and a glass of cheap white…

This being-poor thing hasn’t fully sunk in yet. But I have a strange feeling that it’s not all bad. Since it’s only going to last a month or so, I think it may provide a much-needed wake-up call. And a good diet opportunity.

Now, before anyone kicks off and starts emailing me with death threats for treating poverty as a joke, I’m not. I am huge supporter of campaigns to end world poverty, I don’t for a moment compare my situation with that of those living below the poverty line, and nor do I kid myself that being poor is enlightening for those who live like this permanently. Yes, I am a middle class young professional who is, for whatever reason, having to live in a temporary state of very low funds. A poorness tourist if you will.

So now I’ve slagged myself off, you don’t need to. Capisch?

Of course, if you’re slightly more savvy, you may realise that I am using humour as a defence mechanism. But believe what you will…

The Valley of the Shadow of Debt

The shit hath hitteth the fan, as Shakespeare might have said.

We are officially without funds. To the point that on payday on Friday, everything we earn will go straight to bills, and yet there still won’t be enough.

We spent all day yesterday sorting through stuff to sell on Ebay. I just hope and pray that it all will sell rather than costing us more in listing fees.

I’ve been on a permanent sick and shaky adrenaline high since Friday. I feel like shit, but am probably going to get quite thin (clouds, linings, silveriness...)

The great irony is, we’ve managed to get through the last six months with Him temping, by relying on credit cards and overdrafts and stretching our already impressive levels of debt even further. But now, five weeks from the finish line of His first proper pay packet, we’ve actually run out of get-outs.

Bills are not going to get paid. Credit files are going to get (more) fucked.

Dammit, I couldn’t even afford a trip to the supermarket until I won £16 on a scratchcard this lunchtime.

I think we may be officially poor. Which is bad because clothes from Peacocks just won't suit me...

Petty Victory

As always during an election campaign, I am being inundated with mailshots from all three main parties. Oh, and UKIP, but they just make me laugh! And the British Nazi Party, but more on that later...

This is what I'm doing with it this year:

LibDem - read, digest, bin

Conservative - read, laugh, bin

UKIP - don't read, laugh, bin

Labour - dropped into little alcove outside the front door, screwed up (will not give them house room, even in my bin)

BNP - dropped into little alcove outside the front door, with 'Fuck off nazi bastards' scrawled on it (will not give them house room, even to wipe my arse with)

I'm taking bets on how many campaign leaflets have to be chucked outside the door before they stop putting them through. At present the score is:

Labour 5
BNP 1

But I'll keep you posted...

Apathy and Ignorance

Do you know what scares me most about UK elections? Actually, hang on, what scares me most is the 'first past the post' system, but we'll talk about that another time.

Do you know what scares me second most about UK elections? The turnout figures. Only 59.4% of eligible voters turned out in 2001.

Now in the recent Iraqi election, despite death threats and acts of violence towards voters and polling stations, the turnout has been estimated at 70%.

Why?

I would hazard a guess that the Iraqis, newly granted the powers of democracy, have a true appreciation for what a privilege the right to vote is. On the other hand, the British seem to have lost sight of this - and this considering that it was only in 1918 that the majority of citizens were made eligible to vote.

So, as a nation we've forgotten that to live in a democracy is a privilege granted to too few of the world's population. But that can't be the only reason. Let's have a look at a few other theories:

1. People don't think they can make a difference.

Granted, in the first past the post system this is truer than it would be if we had a system of proportional representation. But at the end of the day, who is in parliament is still decided by the voters. And who helps to keep 'safe seats' safe? The people who don't bother voting because they live in a 'safe seat' area.

2. People can't see the differences between the parties.

Fair enough. Labour is now so right wing they might as well be Conservative, and the LibDems, though more liberal than the other two main parties, still aren't exactly radical. But then let's face it: if you want radical, you've either got to vote Green, or at the other end of the scale, BNP. And let's not even go there...

BUT if you look closely, there are some very discernible policy differences between the three main parties. And this is where the apathetic non-voter goes wrong. Because we don't live in a society of radical parties and radical viewpoints (sadly...), so what all of us need to do is decide the issues on which we feel the most strongly, then examine how the main political parties plan to tackle those issues.

I don't vote Lib Dem because I agree with 100% of their policies. I vote Lib Dem because on the issues that matter to me the most, their views ally most closely with my own.

3. People don't think the outcome affects them.

I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Actually, no, I will, just to prove the point...

When you get up in the morning and turn on the lights, the government affects how much you pay for that electricity, who you pay, and how that electricity is generated. When you go out to get the bus to work, the cost, reliability and crowding of that bus is determined by the government. When you're at work, the hours you work, the pay you get, and the holiday you're entitled to is all affected by... can you guess? The government!

Your fag break, your lunch in the pub, your walk home past gangs of unpleasant chav-youth, the cost of the petrol you use to drive to the supermarket, the amount you pay for a bottle of wine... every single aspect of your day, right down to where your poo goes when you flush the loo, is affected by goverment policy.

So for fuck's sake, no for everyone's sake, get up off your arse, inform yourself (although you could do that while sitting on your arse by watching TV or surfing the net) and go out and vote on 5th May.

And if you don't, don't you dare complain to me about ANYTHING that happens during the new government. You will only have, quite literally, yourself to blame.

Surfing the Crimson Wave

I feel like shit.

Thank fuck it's Friday.

One week til payday, though all my money is going to immediately swallowed by the black hole of rent and bills.

Five weeks and four days til the NEXT payday, on which He will get his first full wage packet for six months and we might have enough cash to buy more than just noodles.

Eight weeks and two days until we fly off to sunny Spain for two weeks in the sun.

My whole life at the moment is just waiting...

War and Peace

According to Clearblue, I am not growing a tiny life-destroying alien. This is good. Positive physical proof hasn't occurred yet though, so we'll trust science for now but I'm not relaxing just yet...

I was in a foul mood all morning. I didn't even want to answer the phone because I knew the chances were that whoever was on the end of the line would inadvertantly fuck me off and get shouted at. At least I'm aware of my own capacity for disproportionate rage.

Rather wisely, Scarfee pulled out of having lunch with a homicidal bitch, so He took me out instead. We bought sandwiches then went and sat in the grounds of the Cathedral. Normally I try to avoid hallowed ground - fear of thunderbolts - but I was amazed by how peaceful and serene an atmosphere the place has, even though it's slap bang in the middle of town. After 45 minutes sitting on the admittedly slightly damp grass, enjoying the sunshine and eating chicken caesar wraps, I felt a lot better.

Work has seemed a lot like counting the hours lately, which is strange for me. I can only assume this is linked to hormones and the desperate need for a holiday. Just over 8 weeks to go til Spain, and I'm finally beginning to see it less in terms of bikini-panic and more in terms of oh-thank-god. This is progress.

All I have to worry about now is trying to raise the money to buy holiday clothes. Still, that's what Ebay was invented for...

The Female of the Species

So... my period's late.

Which has happened quite a few times before.

But hell, let's worry about it anyway.

If I had a girl baby, I'd call it Scarlett. If I had a boy baby, Charlie.

(And I'm doing this because the more I try and convince myself I am pregnant, the more likely it is that I'm not)

He's pretty keen on the idea. Keener than me anyway (which isn't hard - I fucking hate children)(Well, 90% of the time, when I haven't just seen a Calvin Klein ad or similar in which motherhood looks sexy and stylish). I told Him He can keep it, and I'll go away and come back when it's 18 and has left home. Because the relationship we would have for the 18 years it was growing up would be shit anyway, so we wouldn't be missing out.

He said He reckoned He could name at least one couple we know who have a happy relationship and have children. That was over an hour ago and He's still trying to think of one.

I fucking hate kids. And I'm fucking irresponsible too. I'd leave it in the supermarket, or on a bus. Probably on purpose.

Although we could always put it out to work as a baby model and live off its earnings...

See?! See?! I'm an unfit mother even before I've had a bloody baby!

A Sorry State

I’m becoming re-politicised.

The UK General Election is fast approaching, and for the first time since that smug bastard got in in 1997, I feel that the race and its outcome won’t be as sure as everyone thinks. With this in mind, I have renewed the Party membership which I let lapse in 1999 or so, and feel a renewed vigour in my support for my party of choice.

Strangely enough, it’s been living near the intensely right-wing stronghold of Romford that has inspired my political re-awakening. A few months ago I happened to be in the town centre when the BNP were holding a rally. Watching those fuckers shouting through a megaphone about ‘dirty blacks’ and ‘do you want Romford to be another Ilford?’ while black and Asian families were walking around with their kids trying to do some Saturday afternoon shopping made me feel almost violent. And people were stopping to listen!

What kind of person do you have to be to support a party who are basically the UK equivalent of the Nazi party? Has hatred really reached a point where people honestly believe the best way of improving Britain is to persecute and expel everyone who isn’t pure Anglo-Saxon?

What does it achieve? How does hating and blaming make your life better?! How does referring to the family down the road as “that lot of fucking paki’s” make your life any easier? Make your area any nicer? These bigots reckon that the way to cure racial tension is to kick racial minorities, immigrants and asylum seekers out. Oh yes, great plan! Why not make hatred and intolerance worse by reinforcing the idea of white supremacy?!

Surely we should be trying to make everyone in society feel equal. Give everyone in Britain the right to have a job, support their family, and contribute to the economy and to society. Get this: under the current government, asylum seekers are allowed into the UK, but are not allowed to work. So basically, they’re let in, but then public money is used to house, clothe and feed them. What better way to incite intolerance and anger against them?! Meanwhile, we’re crying out for qualified professionals, especially in the health service, but if an asylum seeker is a qualified doctor, for example, rather than letting him work both to feed his family and add to the UK economy, we keep him at home and use more public funds to support him!

In my view, the government – whoever that ends up being – should be concentrating on promoting integration, tolerance, and understanding. Not increasing the divide between cultures or ‘classes’ of citizens, and certainly not handing out excuses for intolerance.

Here endeth the first rant.

Location, Location, Location

We’re going to look for a new house – something less big and empty, less sterile and impersonal. I’m not a big believer in feng shui, but everything has gone wrong since we moved in to this house.

Since August we’ve both been sacked, it’s take Him six months to find a permanent job again, we’ve had constant money troubles, rows, and bad luck. Our car has broken down, so has our stereo, and our fifteen year old second telly has never worked since we moved in. We’ve had illnesses, injuries and issues that have never happened before, and quite frankly, it’s all just been hell!

I mean, I’m not superstitious – but come on!

I’ve never been able to fall in love with our house. I keep changing the furniture round, buying new stuff, changing things… to try and make it something it will never be. And He feels the same.

So onwards and upwards…

Editor's Note

You may have noticed that yesterday’s entry has been deleted.

He and I are fixing the problems that arose over the weekend, and I don’t want a (very one-sided!) reminder of them posted here.

It has been a horrible few days, but after a long talk last night, things are getting fixed.

Thank you for the emails of concern. They are much appreciated.

Now… back to the lighter things in life…

Mookmoo xx

Praise You Like I Should

I had my first appraisal yesterday. Miraculously, they think I'm really good. I have no points to improve on.

I knew the fancy shoes would work.

In other news: I have horrific PMS; my new phone is being plagued by dodgy calls from someone who hangs up when I answer; I can do nothing right when it comes to banks; He is the best thing since sliced bread but I can't wait til He has money again; I am so sleep-deprived from late nights that I have black bags under my eyes - nice; the weekend is going to be another we-have-no-money sleepathon.

I would expand on the above, but none of it is interesting enough, frankly. It must be a bad sign when my own life is boring me this much.

Teenage Kicks

I watched Clueless last night for the first time in about five years.

I had forgotten what a great film it was. It catapulted me right back to being 15, and worrying about all the things that seemed so important at that age. I was so full of angst and existential gloom, so obsessed with how people judged me… Of course part of that came from being in a school where I was ostracised for being ‘common’, but I think a lot of it was self-inflicted…

I was always the Tai and really wanted to be the Cher. In fact, I wasn’t even the Tai, as I had no Cher to come along, make me over, and turn me into her pet clone. But it’s only looking back now that I think it was actually pretty cool not to be a clone, not to be yet another Daddy’s Little Princess with a £250 allowance and a mother on valium.

Of course when I hit 17 or so I started to realise this, but I endured five years of total misery first, and to be honest even once I embraced my rebel status it still didn’t make life any easier. Sevenoaks School – welcome to the torture paddock (you know me, I only namecheck firms/people too evil to be granted anonymity).

But anyway, Clueless is a great film. And is it wrong that I still lust after Paul Rudd?

Best Friend with Benefits

Setting aside any intensification of feelings that my chronic PMS may be causing, I had one of my best ever relationship moments at lunchtime.

He and I were talking about how we often go for lunch together, and I commented that it was probably quite excessive, what with us being married and cohabiting and all. To which He replied, with characteristic insight, “Yes, but you’re my best friend. That’s why I want to have lunch with you.”

I know we’re married and all that, but it still gave me a thrill. I’m His best friend! Hurrah!

Use Your Imagination

I’ve just read an article in New Woman in which a woman argues that as soon as the thought of sex with someone else enters your head, you’re cheating. Now I’m sorry, but wtf?!?! That means I’ve cheated on Him so far about…. Hmmm… probably about 1000 times in the last three years. Now I think we’d all agree that’s impressive.

Thinking about sex with someone else isn’t cheating. If that was the case, men would be cheating on their wives/girlfriends/boyfriends about 100 times a day (women slightly less, but still…)! If you can’t have the odd moment of fantasy while glancing a handsome stranger, then what did God give us imaginations for?

I’ve often heard it argued by psychologists that an active fantasy life is actually the best way to avoid cheating, and a healthy thing to pursue. After all, what harm is there in it? If this was really cheating, surely girls would chuck their boyfriends for daring to buy a copy of FHM… or for walking down the road with their eyes open… or for having any form of sentient thought…

So please, in the name of all that is sensible and sane, don’t take away the purity of my occasional fantasy of Vince Vaughan tying my wrists to the bedstead and passionately beginning to…

*ahem*. Well. You know what I mean…

Look At You in Your Fancy Shoes

Careful boys, this is a rare girly fashion-related post…

Lately I’ve been trying to improve the way I dress for work. Working with students has made me incredibly lazy, as no matter how scruffily I dress, I’m still generally smarter than they are (even if I’m wearing combats and trainers with dirty hair in a ponytail and last night’s mascara). However, I am trying to remember that I am no longer a student myself, and therefore should really be making a little more of an effort.

And so, today, for the first time since… well, god knows when, I am wearing proper shoes!!

Yes, you read me right. I am, in fact, looking stunningly well groomed. My hair is clean and shiny in all it’s brunette boho-wavy glory, my nails are short and rouge noir, my trousers are fitted (as opposed to combats for a change), and my shoes are perfect little round toed flats in a becoming shade of dirty green

I’m not wearing full make-up though – that would just be too much! And this girl likes her sleep in the mornings…

Short and Sweet

After yesterday's mammoth post, I thought I'd keep this one mercifully short.

Plans for the weekend:

1. Eat little
2. Stomach-crunch much
3. Fight crime
4. Sell things on ebay
5. Sleep

See you all on Monday, my dear readers.

xx

Dishing the Flirt

This is loooooooong. You may want to grab a cuppa, put your feet up, and stick your reading glasses on for this one…

Now, I am well known as the one of the world’s greatest flirts (I’m talking about quantity rather than quality, though the quality isn’t bad either…), but even I know when to draw the line. Unfortunately, however, this appears to be a problem area for a large number of women, a fact that was rather disgustingly highlighted to me this lunchtime. And so, without further ado, welcome to Mookmoo’s Flirting Guidelines.

When it comes to flirting for sexual gain, in a darkened pub for example, I really don’t care much who you target. Really. The world is made of up of all different kinds of people with all different tastes in the opposite/same/indiscriminate sex. So go ahead, get flirty with whoever the hell you like, and feel free to take them home and play doctors and nurses too…

BUT when it comes to flirting in broad daylight, in public, and especially for personal gain, there are limits, ladies! Limits! And for those of you that haven’t yet worked this out, print the following list, memorise it, and carry it with you at all times. Please. For the sake of yourselves and others!

Firstly, some examples of people with whom it is good to flirt:

People you fancy – duh!

Bank personnel – if you want to get a charge refunded, an overdraft extended, or a loan granted, flirt away. I cannot recommend this enough. Bank staff are what flirting was designed for, though with the advent of centrally managed branches, I admit the gains are smaller than they used to be.

Traffic wardens/policemen – if I have to explain, then you are too stupid to be left in charge of a cleavage bounce and a hair flick.

Doormen/bouncers – but please note, I’m talking about flirting with not giving blowjobs to. Learn the difference. Study it well. The former is crafty, the latter is just plain slutty.

Salesmen with power – if they can upgrade your mobile phone, give you a discount on your new designer sunglasses, or fix your shoes for free, great. If it’s the Saturday boy at the local newsagent, save your skills for the next man.

Waiters/Barmen – simply because every girl likes to get served first.

Now, some people with whom you should never ever ever ever ever ever flirt. Not ever. Not under any circumstances. Never…

Your Doctor – doctors are great, they really are. Go ahead and flirt with as many as you want. But for god’s sake don’t get all cosy with the one man who might have his hand up your fanny one day for a bad reason. You will regret it evermore. Oh, and they can’t fiddle the waiting lists – I’ve checked.

Arresting Officers – if you’re being arrested for anything other than a minor driving offence, flirting will not work. It will particularly not work if the offence involves drugs or alcohol. You will just come across as even more wasted than you probably are. I have seen this happen, and it is embarrassing. And let’s face it, getting arrested in the first place is embarrassing enough, without making it worse.

Salesmen of embarrassing products – yes, trying to make light of an embarrassing situation helps make everyone involved more comfortable. Flirting with someone in this situation does not. And this brings me to the inspiration behind this post:

There I was in Boots, queuing for some contact lens solution, when I find myself tuning in to the conversation the (attractive, besuited, twentysomething) woman in front of me is having with the (attractive, male) pharmacist. It goes something like this:
“Diflucan One please [a thrush treatment]”
“Certainly madam. Have you been diagnosed with thrush by your doctor?”
She leans over the counter a little. Her cleavage depends. I’m thinking, okay, that could happen to anyone.
“Oh, no. My doctor’s a woman. I wouldn’t like a woman poking around down there.” Cheeky smile, too much eye contact.
“Er, okay madam, have you used this product in the last six months?”
“Oh no, it’s my new boyfriend,” Cheeky smile, cleavage shot. “He’s been working me too hard.” Giggle, hair flick….

I could go on, but I’m feeling sick reliving it.

No! A thousand times no! No no no no no! You do not, ever, try to make a man selling you thrush cream fancy you!

Honestly, what is the bloody world coming to?!

Make History in 2005

Okay, so there’s something I’ve been involved in since the start of the year, but have resisted talking about in this blog until now. Some of you are going to hate me for this (because this is the one post of the year that isn’t mildly entertaining tales of my fuckwittage), but please read it anyway…

A quarter of the world’s population (that’s about 1.6 billion people) are living in poverty.

Every single day, 30,000 children are dying as a result of extreme poverty.

That’s scary, isn’t it? Doesn’t it scare you? Because it scares the hell out of me.

Now, this is a blog, not a charity, so I’m not going to ask you to give money (though of course if you want to, please do). What I am going to ask you to do is click on the banner on the top right of this page, and go to http://www.makepovertyhistory.org/index.html. All you have to do is sign up – there’s no cash involved.

There are lots of ways to help – emailing or writing to politicians, wearing a white band, or even just telling one other person about Make Poverty History. The aim of the campaign isn’t directly to raise money – it’s to get the politicians of the world, and particularly the UK, to make changes that can help bring about the end of poverty.

Because we all moan about our lives, particularly bloggers like me, but faced with the thought of a whole family dying of AIDS, or the thought of tiny children living on the streets, easy prey for traffickers and pimps, then the worries that I have – like getting into a bikini, or being able to afford the direct debit for my expensive contact lenses, kind of seem… well… petty.

So please, do something good today. You’ll feel better for it, and so will 1.6 billion other people.

Ringing the Changes

Today’s burning question: why are mobile phone salesmen such wankers? Answers on an email please to stickyourphoneupyourarse@phones4u.com. On the plus side, it only took 45 minutes to sign up for a pretty new phone which may not have all the boy toys the salesman would desire, but is curvy and stylish and retro and, well, much like me in phone form, I guess…

Have been having a stunningly uneventful week so far. Which is nice as far as it goes, but doesn’t make for scintillating reading.

He and I seem to have entered a new period of loveliness. I really can’t explain it, and I suspect it has much to do with the restoration of His ego with the new job, but it’s a huge relief after the last few months. It’s hard to believe we’ve only been married just over 3 months. Feels like forever…

The thing about marriage is, I’m not sure it ever really sinks in that you’re signing up to a lifelong commitment. I mean, you know that of course, but in the real sense you just can’t imagine it. I really can’t get my head round the idea that I will never sleep with anyone else (for example – I’m not just talking about sex here…), because it seems such a huge concept. Bizarre I know. Maybe it’s just me.

The other good news is that after my ‘worrying is pointless and gives you wrinkles’ epiphany, I am managing to lighten up considerably. Fuck money, fuck future plans, bring on the fun! The old Mookmoo is creeping back…

Married to the Mob

I’ve realised that despite long and involved rants about His family, I’ve barely even mentioned mine in passing. This is a crime, as my family are the most fabulously glamorous and insane bunch of beautiful freaks you’re ever likely to meet.

So – a quick run down:

DaddyCool – My dad (obviously) is an economist by day and rock and roll god by night. No, really. He is married to…

StepMommy – who is 90% great and 10% irritating, much like all (step)parents. And she looks like Trudi Styler. Just don’t mention the…

StepBrats - aka my vaguely related stepbrothers. It’s not that I don’t like them I just… don’t like them.

Then there’s

LotusMomma – my mother. I could write whole paragraphs. Instead I’ll settle for three words: Buddhist; Skinny; Co-dependent. But she’s alright really. I don’t see any of her family, so back to DaddyCool’s side of the clan…

SuperGran – DaddyCool and Joni’s mum, my grandma. Officially a very cool old lady. The first time she met Him she spent the whole time flirting and stroking His leg. Poor boy didn’t know what had hit Him! She lives on the other side of London, near to…

Jellie – my beautiful cousin/best friend/lifelong confidante. Again, I could write paragraphs, but for entirely different reasons. I love her.

Joni and TopGun – Jellie’s parents. The most generous, fabulous, hard-drinking and 40-going-on-21 people to ever walk the earth.

PrettyKitty – Jellie’s sister, my other stunning cousin. The only one of us whose creativity has gone into acting rather than music or writing. As a non-drinker, the fact that she hasn’t disowned us all points to her intense inner strength…

And finally there’s

BratGirl – my beloved sister. Crazy artist, with JLo’s arse (needs a mention). No major character flaws at all, other than the fact that she’s chosen to live on the other side of the world…

You’ll be meeting all of these guys at some point. But for now, just be aware that there’s a reason (or several reasons) why I am the way I am… and most of them are listed above.

Save the Whale

I have a dream/nightmare, and the dream is this...

Picture a hot mediterranean beach. People lounging around, sunbathing, playing volleyball, eating ice cream. Focus in on two lifeguards. They're probably speaking Spanish, but let's assume we have a babelfish* and therefore can understand them...

"So, Juan, what did you get up to with that fit chicky last night?"
"Oh, I banged her every which way from- Wait a minute!"
"What? What?"
"Miguel, look over there! Is that...?!"
"My god, a whale!"
"Quick, call Greenpeace! I'll clear the beach!"

Juan sprints towards the gargantuan mass on the edge of the shore, scattering lithe Spanish beauties as he runs. He spares an admiring glance for their scantily clad breasts, but this is a man on a mission... As he approached the creature, he notices something unusual - could that be... no... a human head?!

As Miguel jogs up to join him, having somehow acquired a bikini-clad beauty on each arm, the two lifeguards look at each other.
"Shit, she's back." Juan sighs.
Miguel nods gravely. "You'd think she would have learnt by now. Our beach is for beautiful people only. Like these." He generously hands over one of his chicks to Juan.
Juan shrugs. "Ah well. Better call Greenpeace back and tell them it's a false alarm."
"Okay. Just as soon as we bang these chickys in the beach bar toilets."
"Well obviously we'll do that first."

As they walk away, Mookmoo looks up. "Whale? That's a bit harsh. Small dolphin maybe..."

Yes, it’s April, and therefore my mind turns as always to bikini season. Every woman's hell, every man's heaven...

With this in mind, I have conjured a scary amount of willpower, and as well as getting up early every morning to do stomach crunches, have re-acquainted myself with yoga. Ignoring the fact that the video which I used to do on rest days (when I was a serious yoga-buff) now makes me pant and strain and swear, it was a rather fabulous experience to do it for the first time in 3 years last night and find that my body, if not my mind, remembers most of the sequences. I feel very virtuous this morning.

I’m not going to bang on about this – god knows women on a diet are the most boring people on earth when they start talking about it, but I will just say this: 11 weeks to go. AAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!

*Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - look it up.

Just Another Manic Monday

After a laid-back-to-the-point-of-horizontal weekend of TV watching, crime fighting, and pizza eating, being back at work has been something of a shock.

I don’t know if I’ve ever actually told you what I do for a living. Privacy in this blog is important to me, and my job isn’t exactly mainstream, so probably not. But what the hell, you’re not gonna track me down are you?!

I work as an advisor to overseas students at a large but not-very-prestigious university. I deal mainly with prospective students and current applicants rather than people who are already students, but there’s a fair few of them too. Basically I divide my day between answering hundreds of emails, speaking in words of two syllables or less on the phone, and being shouted at by underqualified eighteen year olds. I work in a teeny office with three other people, hidden away in what we call the highest room in the tallest tower, which is pretty much what it is. I have a big L shaped desk, two phones, five email accounts, and my own swivel chair. Oh, and I don’t get paid as much as I’m worth, but that’s a general complaint around here.

Most of the time, I like my job. The students are interesting, interested, and for the most part good company. Of course there are immigration battles, tantrums, and debt-chasing too, but no-one’s job is perfect.

Anyway, there you go. Mookmoo’s 9-5 life in 2 paragraphs. Not bad for 4:55pm on a Monday.

Camels, Straws, Revenge...

Now, you know that generally I like to protect the anonymity of my associates, workplace etc. But today I am making an exception to tell a story in full (and gloat).

The straw that broke Mookmoo's back yesterday (and brought me to the brink of an ugly emotional collapse) was the news that LLOYDS TSB(astards) had charged me when they seemingly shouldn't have, causing a DD to bounce and elicit more charges, and thus reducing the amount of cash I should have had for myself this month to a measley £5 (or one bottle of wine, translate as you will) per week.

Getting home to two nasty letters, I therefore steeled myself for a fight and rang LLOYDS TSB. And, would you believe it, for the first time ever they admitted they were wrong, grovelled, and promised me a callback at 10am this morning.

Naturally the callback didn't come (let's not be silly about this...) but having just phoned LLOYDS TSB they have apologised again and sworn that by Tuesday latest, my account will be fixed, and all the money they wrongfully took (going back to January...) will be restored!

So take that, LLOYDSTSB, and let us all hope that this comes up on Google when someone searches you!