A Life In The Day of Stupidgirl

Everyday I try to think of a topic for my blog so that I have something to write about when I get home. But today I am stumped. Even though there is tons going on in the news - G20 summit/trustafarians rioting/Obama visiting london/me having jam sarnies for dinner - none of these are particularly inspiring. I do have a very special kind of lethargy when it comes to public interest stories and high brow news. I know the news is out there, I'd just rather not get involved. Perhaps I'm a lib dem politician?

Anyway I thought I'd rip off the Sunday Time Magazine column, and give you A Life In the Day Of.... Stupidgirl. Which will most likely be tedious, self-obsessed but definitely fat free.

6am Most mornings SB's sodding crackberry alarm goes off every 10mins from 6am, waking not only him, but scaring the living shit out of me and causing me to wake up at least an hour before I need to drag my lazy ass out of bed. I doze on and off repeatedly until around 7am when I crawl into the bathroom and perform the neccessary ablutions. Although I've been a fully blown slave to the wage for several years now, I still can't get used to the ridiculous hours. Who decided a working day should begin at 9am? Someone who doesn't get up early that's who.

9am After spending approx 45mins travelling underground crammed into a strange man's armpit and running through various tube stations in 4 inch heels, I arrive at work. I have had various working hours in my *career* so far, but none of them compare to when I went to school in the City and got up everyday at 6:30 am AS A TEENAGER. Surely this constituted child abuse. In fact having to travel on 4 different tube lines twice a day should have been made illegal and given me higher grades in my A-levels purely for the torture of travelling to and from school.

I digress. Once at work, I settle down to my working day yadda yadda yadda. Again, it seems unwise to discuss work on a massively public forum LIKE THE INTERNET WHERE ANYONE CAN READ IT. I have put this in caps for the foolish people who do write about their jobs on their blog.

Midday This is where frantic wedding planning commences. For 45mins I cram the neccessary faffing and emailing and phone calling for one of the biggest days of my life into this short amount of time. More crucially lunchtime also involves a heavy amount of maths: X + X for lunch = few enough calories to allow me to fit into my wedding dress but, enough calories to fill me up until dinner and avoid the 4pm chocolate run. Which doesn't help the wedding diet AT ALL. Today's wedding tasks were informing the hotel of the menu we wish to *taste* on our next visit up there. I know this is tediously boring for any readers, but hey its my blog. In fact in addition to the tedium, I have also completed my info sheets which involved lots of buggering around with the print settings on Word Vista (which is surprisingly awkward to use) but very satisfying when all done.

6pm Home time, freedom. GYM TIME. Its like out of the frying pan into the fire. After a hard day at work, all i want to do is come home and mutate into a giant human slug. Flannel pjs, plate of pasta, tellybox and Facebook. BUT NO. The gym fairy demands that I go to the gym. And when I argue, she plants a picture of my FAT ASS covered in skin tight ivory satin into my head. Its very effective motivation. The highlight of my trip to the gym is trying to see how much cheesy music I can cram into my time on the cross torturer. Madonna is a current favourite but I really have to try hard not to sing along - although given where I live, I am one of the more normal crazy people. Apart from the usual reasons why the gym is crap, for some reason my gym appears to also be a pick up joint. Particularly the mats area. I know, bendy women + minimal lycra+ tiny bit of sweat is sexy but...... not while I am trying to work out. It's annoying. (I may have a slight touch of jealousy here) And lots of laughing prevents me from hearing my Madonna song correctly on my ipod and then I lose my place mouthing along with her words. Grrrrrr.

8pm Finally, finally relaxation. Except this is where the guilt hits. The flat normally looks like a clothes + tesco bomb has hit it. And I really should clear up. And make dinner for SB as he works such inhumane hours and can go MONTHS without seeing daylight during the week. But I don't. I come here and slave away over this blog (aka chat on Facebook for 2 hours and intermittently put some words on here). Finally when I realise I have rambled on long enough I go to bed.

11pm Bed. Book. Duvet. Until SB strolls in around midnight. And then I go to sleep. Before the whole thing starts again. Its like groundhog day. Without Bill Murray. Which makes my day about a billion times better. I hate that movie.

Anyway I hope that little blog post has been massively informative for you and helped you all to be better people. Thank you and goodnight

Stupidgirl has left the building

Love Love Love....(warning possibly slushy post)

Love, love love...as the beatles put it. All You Need Is Love.

Over the last few months, I've been thinking about this love-stuff quite a lot (please no juvenile jokes about love-stuff , NOT what I meant). Obviously getting engaged makes you think about it. As in, do I love this person enough to spend the rest of my life with them and not kill them over their many irritating habits (toilet seats being left up, leaving piles of paper everywhere, hating cheesy 80's music, being obsessed with odd over-sexed Sci-Fi tv shows.....) And of course I am sure SB is loving all my weird little habits too (picking my feet until they bleed, singing appallingly badly, uncontrollable messiness...)

And also, friend-type love. The kind of friends that will allow you to drag them up on bar tables to dance to Guns n Roses, who invite you to random birthday parties where you create your own version of silent disco in a posh wine bar (try it, all you need is an ipod and some dolly parton...) and the kind that when the shit hits the fan, help you dispose of the bodies + provide you with an alibi (and some decent tequila). Cause although I've not been on a killing spree over the last 6 months, there's certainly been a little shit hitting the fan. And my mates have been there. Its certainly when you know who your friends are for sure. And recently my friends have been going through some shit of their own. So I hope I can provide the alibis for them - and that I've been good enough so far.

I'm getting slightly off tangent here because what've been on my mind recently is other people's attitudes to love and how they show it. Because after reading something in my book today, it's occurred to me that one person's act of love can be an act of complete cruelty to another. It depends on your perspective.

Here is the example. A wealthy upper class woman gives birth to a baby girl in the 1930's who has a moderate disability. One that is very much accepted now, but even about 30-40 years ago was seen as shameful and embarrassing. The child is immediately put in a home by the parents and brought up there. The parents have very much differing views on whether they were right to hide their daughter away. The father feels horrendous guilt and suffers very much. The mother meanwhile is completely happy with her decision. As a modern reader I felt very much on the side of the father and sorry that someone should feel the need to hide their child away.

You later discover that the mother (who married into a rich blue-blood family) has an impoverished past and was teased mercilessly at school for her foreign accent and attitudes. As a result she completely reinvents herself - and achieves the popularity + success she so desired. Her logic for putting the child in the home - and hiding her away - was to prevent the child from suffering cruelty at the hands of others, as she did, for being *different*. For the mother, this act was an act of love. For the father it was an act of cruelty. Who is right?

The book just crystalised for me how we all love, and show love in many different ways. And how we have different capacities for love. So often the problems in relationships happen when we make assumptions about what someone would like, or what is best for someone, without actually consulting them. Even when I think I'm being straight with SB, and have thought about why he might or might not like something, he still can mistake my assumptions for thoughtlessness.

So perhaps its best to remember that you can't always know someone's motivations for doing something - and give them the benefit of the doubt. No matter what ties you to someone, blood, love, or friendship, you can never truly know them. The best way to act is to give without expecting back, and then you can never end up disappointed. I guess that's all for tonight, before I turn into a walking cliche. Peace out. Thank you and good night

Stupidgirl has left the building

Sunday - List Day

I love lists - specificially top 10 lists of things. And as a teenager, I spent a lot of time categorising my favourite books, films, colours, songs, TV shows, bands, albums, food, feelings - in fact pretty much everything. I feel that this is very much a lost art, one that disappears when you hit adulthood and realise that actually, no-one really cares what your top 10 songs from 1995 are because frankly its all bit OCD and overly nostalgic.

However there is one other person who understands the value of a rankings list. And that is Nick Hornby. His book, High Fidelity, is like nirvana for listing-making musos. The main plot of the book is essentially boy meets hot girl, boy dates hot girl, hot girl falls in love with him, boy acts like total fuckwit, girl dumps boy and starts shagging overweight minger, boy looks back at all previous girlfriends to try and figure out a way to fix things with hot girl. But that's all beside the point because, Rob, the fuckwit music-head in the book, is obsessed with lists:

"Do you know your desert-island, all-tine, top-five most memorable split ups?"
"My Dad's top five films..."
"All time top-five favourite episodes of Cheers?"

I think you get it. And I love this idea of categorising all your favourite things. Because you never know when it might come in handy. Perhaps you might get kidnapped, and in some sort of weird Stockholm syndrome way, start discussing (for example) favourite 80's movie stars. And perchance, you both agree that in fact, Emilio Estevez is good - but not that good - you magically win over your kidnapper through your mutual love of categorising movie stars and he/she frees you from your torturous captivity as a result. Unfortunately this is the only example that springs to mind as to how list making could be useful.

And so, in Nick Hornby's honour, I have decided that Sunday nights, on the blog, are to be list nights. And every week I will provide you, my avid readers (of which currently there is only 1 anyway) with a list of my top 10 for that week. It could be top 10 anything. Top 10 men, top 10 horror movies, top 10 fantasy novels, top 10 news headlines. Whatever. So you now have Nick Hornby to thank for the latest bizarre idea to hit this blog. And in a shameless display of name dropping, I did, in a previous life meet the lovely Mr Hornby. And he signed a copy of all his books for me - during which I shook with nerves and stammered out "High Fidelity is... like...my favourite book ever". On a list of ways to impress great authors, sounding like a complete valley girl is not one of them.

So, to tonight's list. I thought I'd start with something relatively easy. My favourite songs. Which I would like to point out, could have many, many sub genres. In fact I could have a list of top 10 sub genres. But I digress.

Top songs (and please, I have terrible taste in music, so just don't bother)

1) Sweet Child of Mine. If you don't know who this song is by, I don't really know why you're bothering to read this blog quite frankly

2) Where the Streets have no name - U2

3) Am I getting through - Sheryl Crow

4) Like a virgin - madonna

5) Stupidgirl - garbage

6) Come As You Are - Nirvana

7) Sympathy for the Devil - Rolling Stones

8) Californication - again, reading this blog, you should know who this is by. In fact all of these songs really. They're not exactly obscure. I'm not known for my total supercoolness with regard to music tastes

9) Heaven Is A PLace on Earth - Belinda Carlisle

10) All Is Full of Love - Bjork

That wasn't in any particular order - and top 10 songs is terribly mood reliant. But that gives you a good overview of my music tastes - MOR, Hard Rock, Grunge with a sprinkling of cheese and craziness. I am sure there are many interesting reasons why I have picked these songs but to be quite honest they are just great songs and make me feel ALIVE. In fact if I could, I'd be walking down the aisle to Sweet Child.

Its funny. Music is so personal. What one person loves, for another it can cause their eardrums to bleed. I know my list is fairly boring but I bet everyone I know would like at least one song on there. So I'd rather please the masses generally than a few people specifically. *thinks to self - where is this trite crap coming from??* So as you can see, i've been writing late at night again and it's not produced the greatest post yet. But I hope you like the lists theme for sundays. I do.
Thank you and good night

Stupidgirl has left the building

Late Nite Writing Club

So again to my 6th post. Does this writing malarkey get any easier? Will I ever get ideas for blog posts ever again? Will I ever stop posting in questions? Perhaps I should just write when I am not completely exhausted. Although I have just had a birthday cupcake with edible holographic sprinkles on which should give me the neccessary sugar boost to get some thoughts down on the blog tonight.

Well it's been nearly a week of sharing my inner-most thoughts online. So far I know for sure only one person (outside of myself) reads this. And I am hoping she thinks its okay. When I started planning my blog at the beginning of the week I had tons of ideas for blog entries. But they all seem to have evaporated. I need a muse I think. Kind of Theda Bara crossed with .... Emily Dickinson? That would be an interesting voice to write in. Witty, depressive 19th Century virgin crossed with 20th century silent movie sex-goddess. Hmmmm perhaps a sample sentence would be:

"Should I -
Or should I not -
when the gin bottle, the half empty
bottomless
gin bottle - is near by
make gimlets and laze about -
in -
chiffon baby doll nighties?"

Apologies for the terrible copying of ED's poetry style layouts. But you get the gist. You can't philosphise (sp?) over the meaning of life while getting slowly inebriated in one's lingerie. Can you? I do talk an awful lot about gin + lingerie I notice, which is odd because I don't like Gin. But I do love lingerie.

In fact I caused a friend to have a rush of jealousy today because I have a copy of the Agent Provocateur bridal lingerie catalogue. And she doesn't. Hah! And as one would expect (can't get rid of this Theda Bara + Emily Dickinson voice now), the lingerie is to die for. In fact given the prices, I would actually have to sell a kidney to afford some of it. But yes lingerie in general is wonderful. Brassieres, stockings, hold ups, suspender belts, french knickers, normal knickers, baby dolls, corsets, waspies..... the list is endless. Although sadly I have very rarely had the opportunity to wear lingerie like this. Until last weekend....

Last weekend I realised a life-long ambition and had a nude/pin-up girl photo shoot done - ostensibly for SB, but really for me, to celebrate my body. Why not? Can i just point out at this point that SB doesn't know anything about it - so please don't tell him....Packing a suitcase full of chiffony knickers + high heels to take away with me was an odd sensation, kind of naughty but nice. It was a simillar to the time, when in one of my many shopping trips in preparation for the shoot I purchased simply a pair of peach chiffon knickers and some dark red patent sandals from Primark. I felt like a total floozy (in a good way) going home with just shoes + knickers.

I have also got some revelations about nipple tassles at this point.

1) They bloody kill when you take them off. I had to check I hadn't left any nipple inside the tassle. It hurt THAT MUCH.
2) However, do not let this deter you from wearing them. They are weirdly flattering to the decolletage area. I felt very *perky*
3) Unless you are very practised at twirling said tassles, do not attempt this for the first time in front of an audience. Unless you want to be laughed at.

Anyway the shoot went very well. I may do a proper report back once I have seen the pictures. And possibly a nice big feminist rant about how we are all beautiful, should love our bodies and celebrate our individuality yadda yadda yadda. So you have that to look forward to. I can see the next post title now - Stupidgirl Stripped Bare. Although obviously I am not going to post a link to the pictures on here. You'll have to use your imaginations. And on that note, until next time mes amigos. Thank you and good night.

Stupidgirl has left the building.

Thank Crunchie It's Friday

Its been a bit of a week - nudity, pin ups, nipple tassles, 12 hour days, depression, mass catering, possible riots, and bad men - to name a few.

But its bloody friday. Thank god. And I actually have a surprisingly nice weekend planned. Mainly wedding stuff. So if you hate weddings, I would give up reading now before I go totally 'Zilla on here Tomorrow the plan is get up, go to gym (bridal diet doncha know), then into town to pick up our wedding rings and pick out stuff on our gift list. And then I've a party in the evening. Except how it'll probably go is - we'll probably sleep in, miss the gym (guilt guilt), run late as we head into town (throw in a row about which of us contributed to the running late) and then not make up until we pick up the rings. We will then have a max of about 1 hrs peace and no rowing until we start picking out gift list stuff.

To be honest I don't really know where to start with the whole gift list thing. It seems f*cking cheeky to be all kind of "please come to our wedding, which is miles from where you live, requires an overnight stay (and a new outfit if you're a girl), it's a cash bar...oh and, please buy us a present". But the rationale behind it is to prevent aged relatives buying us complete tat (crystal decanter anyone? stupid ceramic figures?) and means we get some new plates instead. Which are always handy seeing as how many I've broken throwing them at StupidBoy......

Back on track, as I was saying, I've a party to go to - its a 30th of a friend I used to work with. Although we've lost touch a little since I left, I am having a happy reminisce about some of our bizarre nights out. In fact our first night out together involved a celebrity lesbian + her lesbian football team and Bonnie Tyler kareoke. And since then we've been to a dodgy underground club in the seedier part of west hampstead, a fairy tale themed charity fancy dress party and sunbathed for so long in the park one afternoon that I got sunglasses shaped sunburn on my face. Which WAS NOT a good look. And caused lots of hysterical laughing and/or crying. So yes, party tomorrow. Which boosts my social life no end as other than that i have no plans for the next few weeks really.

This blog entry has really not been so hot tonight really has it? My social life + plans for the weekend are hardly thrilling. My ideal weekend would have been something like: Finish work at 5 (which I did today actually) and be collected by chauffeur driven limo and whisked off to the airport, where SB would be waiting for me with tickets (first class) to Rome for the weekend. We would arrive home refreshed, full of pasta (magically fat free of course) and wine, pleasantly re-cultured, and have a lovely relaxing sunday evening in the flat. Which the spring cleaning fairies would have cleaned + tidied and restocked full of yummy food.

But instead I will be getting jet lag coming back from the gym on sunday morning as the sodding clocks go forward. Which evil person decided that we should LOSE an hour's sleep. Its just ungodly. And I really could do with the extra hour's sleep this weekend. As you can tell by the complete drivel that is making up this post. In fact you know what, I'm going to stop here. SB is home, the spag bol needs to be heated up, and I don't think I'm going to get any wittier or more intelligent this evening. In fact, I'll probably just go further downhill. So best to know when to stop. (not something I often know) So thank you and goodnight.

Stupidgirl has left the building

Thieves

There are many kinds of thieves. The kind that steal your bag in a club. The kind that break in to your house and steal your stuff. Pickpockets, burglars, anyway you want em, thieves. Thick as thieves. And there are comedy thieves too - the vodka thieves that steal your inhibitions. The tequila thieves that steal your memory of the night before - leaving you helpless to friends pointing and laughing and starting sentences with *Do you remember doing X....last night?* The thieves that steal the good hair days, the skinny days, the bus/tube/train arriving on time days, the not-saying-stupid-things thieves.

And then there are the kind of thieves that steal your life, insidiously, piece-by-piece, through a single action. And it can take forever to get it back. The thief that stole part of my life is now in prison. And he stole pieces of many other women's lives too. Pieces that they are working hard to get back and put back together.

I was sexually assaulted. By a serial offender + rapist. The assault happened around 18months ago. But he's only just been found guilty - of over 24 attacks and 2 rapes. And they had almost 61 cases in total they could have brought against him. It's just terrifying to know that there are men like this out there. And although it is rare to be attacked, the number of people that confided in me with their own experiences after my attack was shocking.

When are some men going to realise that violence against women, and terrorising and threatening them is just not acceptable goddammit. It's just ridiculous. And the number of convictions is pathetic compared to the number of assaults. No wonder women are afraid to come forward. Its terrifying enough being attacked, without having to subject yourself to the humiliation of being intimately examined in an area you'd like to forget existed. To be treated like some kind of strange exhibit. Having to describe your every movement. The humiliation of remembering how much you drank or didn't drink, what you were wearing, where you went. And to be interviewed almost aggressively. Yes the police are just doing their job. But it would be good to have some empathy, to try to understand what someone might be feeling.

And then after the police side of things, after the statement and the photofit and the promises to call and let you know how the case is progressing. Then nothing.

And you are left to continue with a partly broken bit of life. The feeling the morning after when you first wake up - and you know something isn't quite right - and then you remember. The feeling of wanting to hide from the world. Of never wanting to wear anything that shows more than your ankles and wrists ever again. Of being unable to be alone in a room/bus/train carriage/shop with a man you don't know. Of being unable to look the world in the eye. Of panic attacks and terror. Of scuttling into your flat when you come home late. Of constantly looking over your shoulder. Of spending an evening out with your friends - supposedly relaxing - but instead fretting about how to get home. And having a constant tumult of emotions inside you. Anger, sorrow, fear. And shame. Shame over how much I drank. Shame over wearing basically lingerie as a top. Shame for putting myself out there.

And then anger. Because I didn't ask for this to happen to me. No matter what I wear or do or say or act or drink or feel I didn't deserve to be attacked. No-one deserves to be attacked.

But although that man tried to steal my confidence and my guts and a piece of my life, i'm clawing that piece back. And his conviction says that I didn't imagine the attack. That I didn't make it up or hallucinate it. That it was real and it did happen. And the knowledge that he was wrong and I was right - and the confidence that brings, that's the piece of my life I'm getting back. The ability to look the world in the eye again. It doesn't happen over night but I'm bloody getting there. Thank you and good night.

Stupidgirl has left the building.

TV Junkies

to paraphrase a friend's FB profile..... klass, sugar, bree....
That's my line up for this evening.

If you don't know what I'm talking about you should do. It would seem that the infinite wisdom of the telly programming gods have decided to put anything worth watching on the box, on wednesday night. Hump night. (god bless the aussies, such a fab word - along with sheila and bonza...and yes getting off the point here)

Hump night, in case you don't know, is wednesday night. It's the hump in the middle of the week that leads you into the gentle decline that is friday night and the weekend. It makes wednesday bearable. The knowledge that 2 sleeps and its the weekend. And lets face it, wednesday night is the new thursday night is the new friday night is the new black.

Back to the telly-box. So tonight the majority of women in the country will be watching 10 years younger at 8pm. A programme in which, ironically, the presenter herself has been replaced by a sleb 10 years younger. 10YY is the antithesis of the Gok *get ya wobbly bits out for the girls* school of thought.
10YY says *yes, you look crap and wrinkly and unshaggable but why don't we give you tons of plastic surgery, caps, a blow dry and some polyfilla and ask the general public to guess how old you are* I actually quite liked the blunt, hatchet faced saffa who presented it. Honesty WAS her best policy. And watching a toothless 37 yr old crying after being told a general poll thought she was 65 is pure car crash telly. (hey, I didn't say I was kind). Anyway the blunt one has been replaced by the bland one. Its too tiresome to even have to describe who she is and what she does. So I shan't.

Back to my point (somewhere up there in the ether) new series of The Apprentice starts tonight. Put a bunch of bitchy, arrogant, moody, unemployable wannabes in a get-rich-quick-job-hunt scheme. Instant telly karma. Hogging the 9pm slot on a wednesday night and causing most of the working population to dash home to watch it, The Apprentice is highly addictive. In fact I currently only have ONE friend on FB chat, thus indicating that half the country is watching telly. Either that or I'm a social leper (FB is the only way to judge your popularity clearly)

Following this (true TV marathon here - 3 hours worth) is Desperate Housewives. Which I love. And have aspired to be all of the characters at some point. My current favourite is Bree. Immaculate, home cooking, terrifying, reformed alcoholic, apron wearing, redhead bree. I love her. I want to be her. My favourite scene is the one in the 2nd series where she learns to shoot. Wearing an immaculate twin set and skirt. Now thats a woman not to mess with. Tonight's episode apparently features the ever lovely Gabi trying to get back into shape for the no-longer-blind Carlos. It's so easy in TV land, ya just take the fat suit off. Easy.

Anyway I'd better go and warm up for the TV marathon - a light bit of Hollyoaks viewing to get me started perhaps. So I'll leave you here. Thank you and good night.

Stupidgirl has left the building.

The Black Dog

Well this is a cheery second post. The black dog. The death of Nicholas Hughes got me thinking about this one. In case you don't know, Nicholas Hughes is the son of Sylvia Plath + Ted Hughes. It must be genetic - the urge to stick one's head in a gas oven and other legacies to leave your children.

Is depression genetic? That blanket of lethargy that settles over your mind like gray candy floss. Its something that affects everyone differently. I've always thought depression is a luxury. Albeit one I've suffered from and most of my family. And I guilt trip myself by thinking *well you know the starving millions in africa don't have depression*. Sort of the grown up version of *eat your food - there are starving children in Africa* . And I've read all the feminist depression literature as per most pre and post grunge girls. Prozac Nation. The Bell Jar. The Edible Woman. All strange and yet familiar in their own way.

I am not sure this is the greatest topic for my second post. But at least I'm writing. 546 words on the last post. Better than nothing.

Today, also in my head - names for characters. Kind of like naming your children. But without the nuisance of actually having to have another person's input.

Tallulah
Ava
Naomi
Ari
Harlow
Minnaloushe (yes I know this is actually a male name)

I'm on a bit of a silver-screen trip with this one. And clearly these characters wouldn't get far. Probably not much further than the nearest gin bottle with names like these. And they'd be so bored without any men. I'm not much good with male characters it would seem. I would write an entirely female novel. But that's been done.
And besides a book featuring characters named after silver screen stars, with gin and lots of lingerie. That could lead to an entirely different sort of novel. Which would probably sell loads actually. Maybe that's where I'm going wrong. Is that a new genre? Pin up porn?

Well who knows. On that note, I think i'd better go. A post that covers gin, porn, depression and allusions to lesbianism is hard to beat. Thank you and good night.

Stupidgirl has left the building

Alienating your readers and other cool blog tricks.

Well I was going to write this first post in wingdings. But I thought that would make it kind of hard to read. And defeat the point of me doing some actual writing.

So the point was, here is my blog. God knows who's going to want to read it. I'm an ordinary girl with an ordinary life. If I were a colour I'd be black. I have friends. And a fiance. And a flat. I am Jane Austen's dream for liberated women. I can grow in my body hair, and not wear a bra. And I earn my own money but have a joint bank account. Except I shave my body hair. And buy expensive lingerie. Just for me. And the only thing the joint bank account pays for is bills + the mortgage. Which sadly is not a tracker mortgage in this current financial climate.

This blog was for me to practise my writing. I've always wanted to write a book. I never said that I was original and/or special. But so far all I can see is that I like to write in short sentences - contrary to what I learned in my Classics degree. And also that you now pretty much know what I look like without my clothes on. Yes, I have no shame. Why do I get the impression this post is running away from me. Its as if i have no control over my hands and their connection with this keyboard. Have I alienated you yet? If you've gotten this far, perhaps I'm not the crazy one.

Anyway, what to write on a blog if you're no-one special. And if I want to be anonymous how does anyone read it? And give me opinions. And how close to real life should I stick - perhaps I'll refer to all my friends by the first letter of their surname. Mentioning work or jobs or anything like that seems a little foolish. So the question remains, what to write about.

I was hoping that I would post about random things that caught my attention. And eventually I might get a clue as to what I could write a book about. Not a publishable book I might add. I am sure I'm a fairly terrible writer. And the thought of being published is far too terrifying an aim. But after a discussion with a friend (K) in which she revealed she too wants to be a cross between several authors, I decided I wanted my writing style to be the love child of Douglas Coupland and Margaret Atwood. A sort of Edible Generation X Girlfriend in a Coma Tale.

....*i've now been sat here for 5 minutes with no idea how to follow up that last paragraph*....Is it possible to have writers block after a mere 400+ words? I seem to have managed it. It's clearly a talent of mine along with dancing weirdly, obsessive organisation of my books and my addiction to wedding websites.

I guess the last paragraph is quite a neat summation of my first post. I have high ambitions and a laissez-faire approach to achieving them. I'm wedding obsessed and yet still have strong feminist tendencies (is it more or less liberated to stay home with the kids now - or is having the choice the point?). And finally I love books. I think I'll sign off there. Thank you and goodnight.

Stupidgirl has now left the building.

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