A Shit Day…

…To Look on the Bright Side

So this week has been a really shit week. It all started with cat piss. Cat piss is the worst kind of piss. Even after you’ve soaked (literally soaked) the whole area in pure bleach you can still smell it for about eight years after you’ve cleaned it all away. My cat, Nunney (I didn’t know that was a euphemism for vagina when I named her that btw) went through a phase of pissing on the kitchen surfaces, right next the cooker – hygienic. This has resulted in the cupboard where I keep MY PLATES smelling like cat piss for months on end. I finally thought we’d solved the problem by various different methods and have gone without pissy plates for about a month. But oh no, I went away for one night, ONE NIGHT on Friday and to punish me Nunney started pissing on the bloody kitchen surfaces again.

Continue reading “A Shit Day…”

“She’s very self assured isn’t she?”…

… “No, she’s an absolute mess.” (I was not party to this conversation)

This week I was given two compliments by two very lovely people (at the two black-tie events I attended, ahoheho), and those two compliments said essentially the same thing: “I loved your blog, don’t stop writing”.  So here I am! Writing (in a onesie and painting my nails at the same time… and watching Strictly Come Dancing – it’s a winter tradition)!

The reason I had stopped was purely unintentional, I was going through the emotional and physical assault that is the first three months of a new job. I’ve now been at said job for nearing on four months and my senses are just starting to return to me, I can now laugh again, feel the warmth of the sun on my face and hold a non work related conversation, instead of just coming home from work and staring at the TV with a face like a mentally challenged mongoose, grunting in a way that my FIANCE quickly learned meant “more wine… now”.

A Bush in Paris
Two Bushels together forever!

Yes, Fiance! I am now an engaged lady! Planning a wedding is turning out to be a distracting and stressful experience, but not half as distracting as trying to type and not look at my engagement ring. You’d think that in the four months I spent knowing that Chris had a diamond ring in his ‘man bag’, getting it out when he was sleeping or at basketball and trying it on (he knew none of this) would have prepared me for owning such a beautiful piece of jewellery, but it didn’t. I was lucky enough to go to London for a marketing conference recently (…lucky), upon entering the room I decided to make my way to the first table and take a seat at the very front. I was greeted by the speaker with a “Oh right at the front I see, I love a keen marketer.” I nodded and smiled, thinking it unwise to tell him that I had only sat there because that was where the lighting was the best, and therefore where my diamonds would better sparkle. I then spent an hour and a half looking at them, when I really should have been learning how to manipulate people’s emotions via social media.

My engagement ring
Tweed and bling – what could be better?

When I looked down at my notes at the end of the conference I found these bullet points:

  • Buy yourself some Lady Grey tea, you deserve it, and some new tights, because the ones you’re wearing look really cheap.
  • The man sitting opposite me looks like droopy the dog wearing a ginger toupee.

This was the same conference in which I opened my smart overnight bag (I borrowed it from my mum) in order to get my lap top out and a small bouquet of panty-liners gently poofed out of it, like an elegant explosion of female hygiene. This embarrassment added to my already, slightly sweaty demeanour; I had that morning realised that the only top I’d packed had a big burn mark from my iron on the back of it, so I was not at liberty to remove my blazer, even in the flushes of mortification.

All of this aside, I am very much enjoying being a member of the working forces again, I feel very fortunate to be a graduate with a job, because a higher education seems to work against gaining employment these days. I am also highly enjoying engagement (more on this later – don’t worry I won’t be one of  ‘those’ brides; if I ever say the words “princess dress” you have my permission to troll me on all forms of electronic communication) so all in all I’m feeling pretty good.

Happy engagement photo

I’m back! Stay tuned (I know I’ve sad that before, but I mean it this time)…

P.S. That 5:2 diet didn’t work; I live too close to the world’s finest fish n’ chip shop. I’ve taken up slow and sporadic jogging instead.

‘Working 9 to 5’…

…try 9 to 6 Dolly. Part-timer.

I have been away from my blogosphere for a while – I’ve been out earning a living! Now I can’t write about unemployment (woop!) I thought I’d write about employment and see how it goes. I’ll also take the opportunity for a general catch up 🙂

So my new job; my official title is Customer Services and Marketing Executive (snazzy), for a snow sports company. Somewhat unfortunately for me the offices are in Cardiff and I live in Bristol, however, somewhat fortunately for me my parents live a four minute train journey away from my new work place! This means I am now spending three nights a week (Monday – Wednesday) back at my parents. This has had one particular consequence for my life…

Now, I don’t know if anyone has heard about the 5:2 Diet, or the Fasting Diet but it’s basically an eating plan based around starving yourself for two days a week. My mum swears by it and starves herself on Mondays and Wednesdays and in the hope of general personal improvement, I’ve joined in. This  means I spend Mondays and Wednesdays starving my arse off, suffering from the shakes and suppressing the urge to hiss at people on the train, and the rest of the time stuffing my face. Literally. Surprisingly enough I’m yet to see any positive results. I’ll keep you posted. If I can stuff my face for five days a week and still lose weight, I’ll put up with the shakes and hiss at innocent strangers forever.

Even though I have been in employ for a month, because of an initial work trip (crazy four days in France, I’ll tell you about it if I pass my probation) and my annual week in St David’s (Viking night was a highlight) this week just past was my first full week in work, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s such a nice feeling to feel useful again! And happily pooped at the end of a working week. I’ve spent this weekend chilling out, trying not to spend my first paycheck in three months, in two days and stuffing my face.

I am now enjoying my Sunday sat in my favourite chair, waiting for a Poirot double bill to start, curlers in hair and sherry in hand, thoroughly satisfied with my lot and finally feeling hopeful for my professional future. Thanks for reading all about my unemployment, stay tuned for the rest.

Sunday Afternoons


‘This train…

… is at the station.’

This can go on no longer! For a while I almost enjoyed the whole Betty Draper housewife thing I had going on. Painting my nails, cleaning, washing and doing the occasional food preparation (I’m not the cook of the house). However, I am now starting to feel a bit ground-hog-day-ish. After fully and painfully realising something I’ve sort of known for a while now – I’m going to be in dept for a long time because of a hugely expensive education that is, at the moment, essentially useless to me, I decided to combat the tragic monotony of job hunting and the serious lacking of funds with the search for a part-time job.

I started with a run… jog… running interspersed with panting… and hobbling. With the glow of self-righteousness that a morning jog provides, I walked to a local jewellery shop (after a shower, just to clarify). However, when I asked whether they might have a part-time vacancy I got a disdainful snort and the words ‘no love, this train is at the station’. Not quite knowing what this meant but presuming it was akin to ‘this is a sinking ship’, I politely displayed my sadness. I then had to listen to a speech about how nobody gets engaged or married anymore because everybody’s poor and nobody loves each other, and a soliloquy on the loss of the many rich old Clifton ladies who used to spend all their dead husbands money (I didn’t want to ask why all their husbands were dead) in his shop. The blame for this financial dry up lies with John Major, apparently.

By the end of the day I had handed out three CVs, one in a shop full of clothes I can’t afford (that’s just painful), the next was in a sweet shop (again, temptation). The third was full-time waiter staff (if they give me free food, I’m there).

This morning I handed in my CV in to a bar (the food thing applies to alcohol too), when the gentleman I gave it to said ‘do you have any experience?’ I replied with ‘no not really, aside from a predilection towards alcoholism.’ He didn’t get the joke. Why do I think it’s okay to say these things, why!?

I feel for the gentleman whose jewellery shop (train) is coming to the end of it’s journey, but I hope that my train is only just leaving the station, perhaps experiencing a slight delay, because of technical difficulties, that’s British rail systems for you…

How to…

…not get employed!

I read a magazine article about how to ace interviews the other day (whilst on an airplane, trying to not think about death). One thing this article stated is that you should never, ever, write about bad interview experiences on the internet, including social media sites or blogs – fail number one!

Fail number two: do not get into your car (that you haven’t driven in four months) and put on the Bridget Jones soundtrack – it may explain what followed…

Number three: DO leave two hours to get to an interview that is an hour and five minutes away, it leaves time for damaging other people’s cars. In my defence I was trying to avoid a cyclist who had decided the middle of the road was a great place to stop and take a phone call. As I swerved to avoid him I scraped along a parked car. I then did what every normal person does in this situation; a barrage of expletives left my mouth, I burst into tears, called my mum (who I couldn’t get hold of, boyfriend had to do), wrote a note with my sincerest apologies, excuses and phone number and continued to cry. Somewhere in all of this I looked up to find the pillock on the bicycle laughing at me. After taking a moment to gather my thoughts and the appropriate drips of Bach’s Rescue Remedy I continued on the rest of my way, which turned out to be an hour and 20 minutes of thin country lanes. By the time I got to the interview my knuckles were white with gripping the steering wheel so hard, my newly ironed shirt was suitably moist and my nerves were in tiny pieces at the bottom of my brain.

Number four: The interview article also advised not sitting down in the office waiting room, apparently it makes one look slouchy. So when a kind lady showed me into the offices and into the waiting area with the welcoming words “please, take a seat”, I thanked her but declined to do so, to which she gave me an odd look but promised to tell the appropriate person I had arrived. After a few minutes of pointlessly standing in a small space in the foyer, my interviewer came in stating that they weren’t quite ready for me so could I please take the seat. This time I listened to her and sat down, which she seemed much more pleased with and offered me a glass of water.

Number five: Do not bring up Stroke victims in a job interview.

Number six: When they ask the question, “Do you own a car?” Just say, “yes I do, I drove it here today”, do not say “Oh yes, Emanuella – Manny, she’s a trooper, we only just made it here today.”

Suffice to say, I have not been invited back for a second interview. I hope these tips are helpful to all my fellow unemployed. Thank goodness my next interview is a phone interview…

How art the mighty…

… rejected.

Today was going to be a vlog day, I even put on makeup and dry shampooed my hair (I’m unemployed, this is a big deal). Then I made the heinous mistake of calling to chase up a few applications I’ve been waiting on. One post has been filled, the other post I didn’t even get my application in on time (and it was the perfect job – I’m a knob) and the other they’re going to get back to me, probably when they’ve fished my application out of the disguarded ‘NO’ pile on the office floor. So now my make-up is a little worse for wear. I’m also recovering from a cold and PMSing to the extreme. If it’s after lunch and it’s a Friday, it’s okay to start drinking, right? (I’ve just heard back from them, it’s been filled, it’s definitely drink o’clock now.)

This week has been actually been really interesting, with a trip to the past via my Oma’s home town of Flensbug, Germany…


…and the realisation that my rent is due for the second time since I was made unemployed – the low level panic attacks I’ve been experiencing for the past month are now taking it up a notch. But one must focus on the positives and in my blog pipe-line I have how to make these romantic bad boys:

Romantic lightingRomantic candle holders

The Great Gatsby review, it’s had some mixed opinions and I thought I’d go ahead and throw mine into the mix because I am very good at criticising things. I will also be touching of the tender subject ‘Man Flu’ and naming my second vlog ‘Am I a Feminist?’ – bet you’re all excited about that one!

So stay tuned people, because your encouragement makes unemployment actively enjoyable! All you need is love… and a reliable income – one out of two isn’t half bad.

All you need is love...


… and Bachata!

So Salsa classes have been on Christopher and mine’s ‘Fun List’ (every couple should have one) for a while now and yesterday we braved the insecurities that public dancing (when sober) unearth and headed to the centre of Bristol and spent the very little that was left in our joint account on dancing classes (the list must be obeyed).

We got to a vaguely hispanic looking bar where dancing juice meant rum in a brownish water they had decided to term Bacardi and coke. Whilst drinking our water and rum Chris and I sussed out the rest of the clientele; lots of singles, a language school, many short men and lots of ladies wearing a late 90s/early 2000s combo of flared jeans with strappy sandals. I myself had decided on a pair of wedges my mother very kindly purchased for me as a sorry-you-are-no-longer-employed present. I’m planning on wearing them on an upcoming trip to Germany and thought a 3 hour Salsa class would be a great way to break them in. I haven’t been able to walk yet today.

We took our places on the ‘beginners’ section of the dance floor and started to learn the basic steps of Salsa. It was all very fun but I was there with a very handsome man and wanted to get all Salsa up on him. After a while we started partner work but Chris was not my partner, oh no. It turned out a big part of the class was a weird sort of Salsa speed dating in which ladies had to move on to the next man every 2 or so minutes. Two words: sweaty hands. Many, many sweaty, sweaty hands. Then it got worse! After our Salsa class the Bachata class started. In between the two I was given the chance to have a little dance with Chris and realised that he can only go where he’s looking, he literally cannot isolate where his head is facing from where his body is moving and therefore cannot Salsa at all.

So Bachata would have been a lovely thing for Chris and I to learn together because apparently it’s a much more sensual form of latin dancing, do I know this because I was told it whilst in the arms of my beloved? No, I know this because the complete stranger who was holding me close decided to tell me this and then look up into my eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. I say ‘up’ because I don’t know if it’s because I live with someone who is 6 ft. 5 but I have never seen so many small guys in one room before!

Maybe we’ll find couples Salsa classes, then again that does seem like something we should do when we’re in our 40s and are trying to want each other sexually again – perhaps we should stick to touching up short strangers for the time being…