Thoughts on a sober Wednesday

Thoughts? Twenty minutes to say what is right. Twenty minutes not to say something wrong. Time to write. London, inspiring and all that. Annoyed by the constant messages from my computer. It takes three minutes just to get to the screen of Word so I can begin – whatever happened to picking up and putting pen to paper? Fuck. But this is easier, the words flow. Sort of.

Russell Brand – what a distraction and a disappointment. When will I, will I be famous? I couldn’t believe all the slick websiteage and forums and stuff that were up and running on this guy. No one’s a discovery anymore. You see someone on telly – he’s a babe, schawing – and then you look him up online and everyone already knows and has had all the fantasies before you even knew he existed. He’s the town bike of celebrity crushdom.

Ideas about Kings in deserts or slinky Art Deco women reading Virginia Woolf on the edge of an emerald green field with a suicide river running through it. What to write about – 19 minutes to say something profound. The clock glows on, its numbers increasing minute by minute.

Websitage, kinkage, wattage. They sound so much better said aloud than look when you read them. Looks like website. Age. Stupid.

Accidentally bought Mature Skin moisturiser instead of the one I wanted. The pots all looked the same and so I grabbed one from the back that didn’t have a dent in its lid. Imagine my dismay to find I’d got the old lady goop by accident! But cynically I wonder if there’s any goddam difference at all. I suppose someone in a factory or laboratory somewhere worked hard to perfect those specific formulas. They must have some different ingredients in them, or different levels of liposomes or whatever. But whether they actually make a difference… well, I guess that depends on the individual anyway. So should I take it back? Have to weigh up the hassle of returnage (heh!) with potential ill-effects ‘face-lift formula for mature heads’ may have on my precious 29-year-old skin.

It’s a blog! Whatever… have recently had confirmation that at least two people are reading it. It’s only a matter of time until ‘they’ discover my talents, offer me lots of money and an introduction to a certain Mr Brand.

AND I still have 10 minutes left to sort out my stupid blog. They have made me upgrade to ‘new blogger’ but I liked the old one, wah.

PS: OK maybe 'new' blog not so bad... found all these unpublished comments that I have just put up, which means I have, like, FIVE readers - amazing - if that don't beat all.

The dangers of not doing...

I'm excited, as Big Kev used to say before he died of obesity-related causes.

Excited to be living in London, the first time I have 'set up' on my own, away from (most) friends, family and familiarity. And it's cool here, cool as. It's the London of gritty movies, frosted lipstick girls and hair-combed-forward boys. The population is diverse, there's estates round every second corner, a pub on every first.

So why do I feel I'm still hovering, uncertain, on the edges? How to plunge into society, take it by the scruff and claim it as mine? I'm here, I'm Claire, I'm in London, I'm... a Londoner?

Finding work has been relatively easy for me. But I'm scared of how awful I felt when I wasn't working. All the plans I'd made about taking time to potter around and do creative 'stuff' seemed to vanish in a puff of sick-smelling desolation. Without a routine to hang my life around, the rest of it collapsed like last season's dresses without adequate coathangerage. You could still discern the patterns in the puddle of clothes on the ground, but they seemed flatter, less beautiful, and perhaps not something I would actually wear.

Now I have the employment bit sorted, and yet a new fear emerges - the rut. I love the place I'm living in, am enjoying the commute to work because it's new, and feels so quintessentially "London", but I work each day, come home at night, Isco cooks, we drink wine, I bitch about work, we watch TV, then go to bed. Hmm, sounds almost EXACTLY like our life in Marrickville! It's OK for a bit, but where is the tipping point between 'settling in' and having settled back in to a slightly dull groove of what I've come to realise is my typical modus operandi?

I'll keep you posted. Not that anyone's reading, I don't think, heh.