A Brief Update...

... as I'm going CRAZY and cannot glue myself to constant revision.

I'm going to take a mini-break.

So far, my days have been spent in the library, from 9 am to midnight.

My diet: Egg and cress sandwiches, although these are quite flatulence inducing, so I alternate them with ham and tomato sandwiches. Also, sticks of Pepperami, Dry Roasted Soy Nuts from the Food Doctor, coffee, water, Scotch eggs, salad and celery sticks.

And Kalms.

*thinking*

Oops, breaktime over.

Time Out...

... for a few weeks.

This Little Monkey is sitting finals and will resume all Monkey Business after a fortnight when its all over...

Thank you all.

Oh My Goodness...

... Kalms didn't work for me last night.

Since I've been taking the magic pills I've been sleeping soundly. Last night however was a different matter. I woke at 4 am in a cold sweat from the following dream:

I was walking down the corridor towards the Departmental Office to hand in my lovely bound copies of my dissertation. Black leather folders, discreet embossed initials on the bottom right corner.

Then I tripped.

And the dissertations flew out o my hands and onto the floor. I picked myself up and dusted myself off, then walked over to retrieve the (still) nicely bound copies.

But when I picked them up I saw bits dropping out of them. And then I realised in horror that the impact of the booklets with the floor must have dislodged all the words and diagrams within. And they were trickling out.

No, now they were pouring out.

And then I was left with two useless (but still pretty) leather folders with empty pages, with all my hard work in a pile on the floor. In an Absolute Mess.

I looked at my watch: I had 5 minutes to hand in my dissertation. And I was supposed to assemble the whole thing back together again, letter by letter, like some sort of masochistic timed Scrabble game.

Then I woke up.

*sigh*

I wonder if Kalms make Kalms Maxi Plus?

Trials And Tribulations...

... all week long.

This has been probably one of the more challenging weeks I've had. From expectant waiting to hear from the interview results to being disappointed. I finished the Dissertation this week and I submitted a copy to my supervisor that gave me some very encouraging feedback, saying if I tweaked one or two sections there wasn't any reason why I shoudn't be in line for a First. Then there's the shadow of impending exams hanging over me, and in the midst of it I was potentially offered an exciting position to work in a very cool company that I've been temping at on and off recently. Then I've been thinking about my future career and deciding that the best course of action to take would be after my exams are over.

Other Half has been an angel all week and take things in its stride and been very supportive.

Thursday evening I decided to pack it all in for a day or two and had French Teacher over for dinner. It was a very civilised affair, lots of wine, and I rustled up in true Domestic Princess style a Rustic Italian Easter Dish. So, the night lapsed into a blur and we were all happily watered and fed.

Friday, the weather was brilliant. Sunshine, sunglasses, and even the beginnings of Pimm's all around. Yay, finally spring has sprung. Earlier in the day I was feeling a bit unsettled, thinking that it was high time that I did some more revision but OH very wisely put all thoughts out of my head and insisted that the best thing that I needed was a Very Long Walk and to spend some Quality Time together. He was right.

Wandered through Marylebone and into Mayfair, down little side streets with quaint shops selling bric-a-brac and whatnots. At one stage we walked pass a Surveilance Shop that had lots of Mission Imposible style gadgets and there were some very amusing pictures and captions in the window that almost made it a parody of what a surveillance shop should be all about. Then two doors down we came across a similar shop but this was a Counter-Surveillance Shop.

*chuckles*

Coming up to Picadilly there was a bar-cum-cafe place that was actually open on Good Friday when most of the surrounding shops were closed. Peeked in and saw that it looked very swish, with a chrome bar and lots of mirrors with artfully distressed tables and sofas, and right by the window sat a very pleased looking mother holding on to a baby who was facing the other way. She caught my eye and smiled at me and I smiled back, as we walked past I naturally looked back to have glimpse of the baby.

Then I walked on and then decided to turn around to have another look at the baby. And I nudged OH to have a good look at the baby as well...

It was one Ugly Baby. So ugly I had to do a Double Take just to make sure that I wasn't being biased. OH said it looked like it was missing a Flat-Cap and a Woodbine. I thought it looked like Elmer Fudd.

I mean, I know I'm mean, but the baby had wrinkles...

Then as we were crossing Parliament Square there was a little boy's voice that piped up 'Daddy, what would happen if we pushed Mummy on to the road and a steam-roller ran over her?' (Little Gay Homicidal Maniac in the making. I mean, what about the Oedipal Complex? Surely he should be proposing to kill his father rather than his mother?)

Later we found ourselves down by the South Bank and as we sat down to a lunch of crepes I commented on the immense swarms of children that had seemed to invade London. OH turned to me and said 'Honey, are we being broody?'

Me: 'What makes you think so?'

OH: 'Well, its not just you but I think I've noticed children a lot more recently than I can remember.'

Me: 'What are you implying?'

OH: 'Well, just that I've seen a lot of the recently and I've been thinking about having kids.'

Me: 'Noticed lots of kids recently? Perhaps it because its the Easter Holidays...'

OH: 'Oh... Yes, that would make sense...'

Later on I came up with the most brilliant idea. If children were on the cards then I'd always have wonderful parties for them. Themed parties. And I'd have one Theme running through from when they are kids until they are 18.

A Victorian Theme.

Where Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard.

Rubbish Date (3)

For some reason I can't fathom it was one of those nights that I was feeling miserable. It was probably 3 weeks after Blonde Ex had flown the shores of Blighty to set up life where the sun shone more frequently. I'd been out with a friend earlier in the day and was totally drunk when I got home and my previous flatmates TweedleDon and TweedleDan invited me out along with them.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I went out. And I ended up enjoying myself despite not thinking that I would initially. This was mainly due to meeting some very cute man, who complimented me all evening and was duly rewarded with a snog. After that we exchanged numbers and he promised to call.

Typical Men. Always promise to call and then they never do.

So I called, and left a message. And then left another message. And another.

I think it must have been after 23 messages that I'd left* that he rang back and apologised. Usual story: It's me, not you.

And so I thought that was it.

Until he rang me up a few days later asking if I wanted to go for a coffee. And I said yes.

Do you remember the first time you meet someone, and the romantic, lusty notion you have of them far outweighs the reality? This was one of those occassions.

I arrived 10 minutes late at the agreed destination, just so I didn't appear over eager, and he was sat there in at a table, 2 lattés steaming from bowls (yes, literally bowls) and looked up expectantly at me.

The first thing I thought was 'I don't remember these many wrinkles'

Then we started talking, and then I couldn't drink my latté fast enough to consume the caffeine to keep awake. After about 10 minutes I was desperately wanting to grab a handful of coffee beans and munch them while he droned on. And on. And on.

About Russian revolutionary culture and the Writers Of Vision.

Now I really don't mind having intellectual conversations but when you're being lectured about it and being bored into submission at the same time it really doesn't give one much hope of getting a shag out of a pointless date.

The other thing was that he had some sort of crazy Perspiration Problem. He was wearing this tan coloured shirt that initially showed traces of underarm perspiration that seemed to grow as he was talking animatedly about his favourite subjects and then when I has a few minutes to talk the Perspiration Patches retreated, then grew again when it was his turn to speak.

After a while he noticed that I was now staring unabashedly at aforementioned Perspiration Patches, and apologised for it. Profusely. In fact, that was the main reason why he was so nervous about meeting people, because the fact that he had this endocrine problem just made it worse. It was fine in clubs, because you could dance about and people would expect you to be sweaty anyway.

So, after what seemed like an eternity, I promised to buy all of Oblomov's writings, and that I'd see him soon. He pulled me in for a kiss, grabbing my shirtsleeves in the process and leaving sweaty handmarks.

I think I changed my number after that.

*Nothing to do with the fact that I may have come across a bit psychotic...

Large Sunglasses...

... are everywhere.

The British are a funny breed of people. Most of the time the stiff upper lip prevails, and for foreigners who have lived here for a while*, the stiff upper lip begeins to develop. Perhaps this is due to the bitingly miserable winters that we have and while the wind whips around you and a spray of raindrops pelt at you from all directions as if a natural Evian misters, although laced with dissolved dirt fumes and grime.

Then as soon as a ray of sunshine shatters through the blanket of grey clouds out come the sidewalk tables, people sit smiling/shivering in the chilly air clutching their mini-espressos trying to warm up their hands, or groups gather around pub benches, slopping thier drinks everywhere while trying to maintain conversation as the wind whips their hair into human cotton candy. But no matter, the sun is out.

Oh, and out come the sunglasses...

Everyone hides behind them. Even myself, when I can be bothered to swap my comfy spectacles for contact lenses. However, in recent (fashion) seasons the trend for sunglasses seems to be the bigger the better. As soon as I buy a pair of cheapo sunglasses that shade my eyes, the trend is to have a much larger pair that also shield your eyebrows. Then as soon as I've got a pair of those, ones that cover your cheeks and then ones that cover your forehead. Pretty soon we'll be toting Power Ranger style sunvisors that cover your whole head. It will be called The Sunglass.

So, yesterday I was running late and donned my trusty glasses instead of tortoishell Ray-Bans even though it was jolly sunny. Just as I was about to leave the house the post arrived and so I grabbed what was mine and stuffed them into my satchel and then pegged it out of the door.

I hopped on the bus and settled into a comfy seat. London busses now have a wonderful seating configuration of 4 seats, 2 in a row and the other facing the other two. So it ends up that sometimes you end up oppostite some really random tramp who stinks like an inhabitant of the Bog of Eternal Stench, but because you're by the window and sandwiched in on the other side you just have to stare out of the window and feign ignorance while silently wishing someone else would comment on the stink.

Anyway, on the bus on my way to temp job...

Bus stops and a guy boards the bus. Decides that with all the rest of the seats available on the bus to sit in the one right opposite me. And he's wearing REALLY big sunglasses that cover half cheeks and there's only a naughty hint of an eyebrow peeking over the top of the frames. Now this is the thing: the lenses aren't totally dark, so I am able to track his eye movements everytime I glance up surreptitiously which are virtually non existant since he is staring at me with a hint of a smile on his face. I don't mind this as he's not bad looking, but on further inspection he's wearing white Reebok Classics: Not A Good Sign as this indicates Total Chav.

So, I look away and try and busy myself by looking out of the window when I suddenly remember that I have my post to sift through. I look through the pile and see one with the postmark from the Medical School. My heart starts to race as I open the letter and begin to read.

blah... blah... blah... unsuccessful... blah... blah... cannot divulge your interview results... blah blah... as this will pose an unfair advantage to other candidates should you wish to re-apply later on... this does not reflect negatively on your ability to be a doctor... blah... blah...

And I feel the pinpricks of tears at the corners of my eyes.

And suddenly I wish that I had my Trusty Sunglasses on.

Or even a Sunglass.

*This does not apply to Americans.

10 Things...

... I'll never do again:

(This is not a meme, but feel free anyway)

1. Pretend to have a quiet drink knowing full well it'll turn into one of those nights.

2. Try to read on L-type calcium channels in the postsynaptic process with a hangover.

3. Have a conversation with Big Flatmate about Love Life when completely intoxicated. (Big Flatmate is very secretive so after plying him with a bottle of wine he told me everything. And at the end of the conversation said 'you're so drunk you won't remember what I've told you which is the way I like it'. And he was right)

4. Stir salt into my coffee thinking it was sugar.

5. Yell down the phone at Big Flatmate telling him to bring Sexy Physicist home so we could get him drunk and take advantage of him. While Big Flatmate had his phone on speakerphone.

6. Try to sing the Blues at 4 am.

7. Tell German Flatmate that her boyfriend has been nicknamed 'Cha-Cha'.

8. Try to roll a cigarette with newspaper after we'd run out of Rizlas.

9. Offer to walk to the Magic Offlicence at 4 am. In my socks

10. Do any of the above.

Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should any of the above be done on your own. It takes all the fun out of it.

All's Well...

... that ends well.

After the jitters having flown out of my stomach I settled into bed with a good book and my lovely duvet, having banished Other Half back to his flat so I could Rest In Peace and get lots of sleep before the interview. Read for a while and then decided that I was suitable knackered and that I'd have queue jump to the Land of Nod as soon as my head touched the pillow.

Oh how wrong I was.

In the even it turned out to be one of those nights where as soon as the light is out, your mind makes up for the lack of stimulation and you end up trawling through your catalogue of thingsthat you never do or have done and shameful things and every possible aspect of life that you can dredge up.

I finally rested my eyes about 5 a.m. and panicked I was going to miss the alarm so I stayed awake for the remaining hour and a half, busying myself by having breakfast (something I almost never do) and drinking cups of espresso in quick succession like downing tequila shots in a Mexican bar.

Anyway, went off to interview and got my knickers in a twist when I realised that my cufflinks weren't matching. My friend Tinkerbell who had an interview at the same time as well told me that that was the least of my worries and pointed out a spot that was developing on my chin. Why oh why does it always happen? So there we are, 8 a.m. rush hour on a Northern Line train and she's trying to apply liquid eyeliner and I'm dabbing furiously at the pot of concealer that she's thrust at me to try and hide the angry spot. She's using the only mirror available and I'm trying to apply this stuff using my reflection in the doors as a guide.

Big mistake.

Tinkerbell has a typical English Rose complexion and my complexion is olive-tan. While the fluorescent lighting on the tube may make everyone's complexion look the same sallow grey, out in daylight it is another matter altogether. When we got to the hospital we took a short cut through the Staff Entrance and made our way into the waiting room where our interviews were to be held. I went to the loo's before that and had a bit of a shock when I realised that the artfully applied (or so I thought) bit of concealer actually looked like I had the same melanin-breakdown disease that has consumed Michael Jackson, and it was slowly consuming my face.

So I rubbed it off. And I went for my interview.

It wasn't too bad, I get the results next week and I'll be posting then.

Hopped on tube back, went to Boots and bought some Kalms as recommended by the Muse. Seriously, they are like the best legal drugs in the world. I've never been so close to a vegetative state as I was while watching the fabulous new Wachovski brothers (of The Matrix fame) film, V for Vendetta.

Incidentally, go and watch it. It's really good, and it makes me think of conspiracy theories. Especially with the current bird flu malarky.

All Jittery...

... with pre-interview nerves.

Q: Why do you want to be a doctor and not a nurse?
A: Because I want to be a doctor shagging the nurses, and not a nurse shagging the doctors.

Q: What do you think is the worse thing being a doctor?
A: Wearing those horridly coloured and tailored surgical scrubs.

Q: What would you do if you had a massive disagreement with a senior doctor over a diagnosis?
A: Depends if he was cute or not and I'd suggest a Kiss and Make Up session.

*sigh*

So you see, not looking forward to it at all.

Not One Single Bit.

Out Of The Loop...

... for such a long time that I've forgotten the etiquette when being in a Gay Bar.

Thursday night found me in a usual state of ditzyness, having briefly read the text message that Mr Notting Hill Friend had sent in relation to South African Tart's birthday suprise. Having had a decent run at doing some work, I was all fired up and my head was more than a little bit fuzzy so I turned up at the bar at the arranged time and proceeded to look for the surprise party.

This is a bar in Soho, with a number of floors to its name and gets extremely packed. It's not one that I would normally go to, given the clientele is not necessarily my cup of tea and I was surprised that Mr NH suggested that place. So I walked up and tried to look for them but no one was there apart from some newly lusted up couples having a pre-coital cocktail or two that just gave me dirty looks when I peered around trying to locate the par-tay...

First floor: no one I recognise.

Second floor: no one I recognise...

Third floor: still no one I recognise... By this time I'm starting to panic, thinking that I've got (a) the wrong date, or (b) the wrong time... So I reach for the trusty mobile and open Mr NH's text.

So the plan is to meet at Bar BlahBlah at 8.30....

I look at the bar name again, and look above the bar counter that I'm stood at. Wrong names. They don't match...

Bugger. I've got 10 minutes to run to the other side of Soho. Pick up phone and call Other Half.

Me: *pant pant pant* Wrong bar, its Bar BlahBlah instead...

OH: *grumble grumble*

Arrive at bar, just in time before SA Tart arrives for his surprise. Look around and lots of people I haven't seen for a while. Air kisses and 'dah-ling, long time no see' done, I look around at people milling comfortably with lounge techno pumping from the speakers.

And there I am, clutching my beer awkwardly, suddenly realising that I've forgotten how to lounge around louchely. I'm racking my brains trying to think of the First Gay Rule of How To Behave in a bar... Then I remember...

Pout.

And suddenly the world seems much friendlier, and I even get my picture taken with the Nigerian Princess for Soho's Party People website...

So glam.