Clash of the Titans

I've been struggling with my conscience. Problem? Gordon Ramsay has a very sexy voice (certainly my type), but let's face it, he ain't a pretty bloke.
Debit column:
Don't find initially physically attractive; very angry man; not very attractive personality.
Credit column:
Voice; food potential; fact that is a perfectionist (in all areas, perhaps?)
Could go either way column:
The reasoning for the naming of his restaurant 'Aubergine'.
*drifts into reverie in attempt to resolve the dispute*
.....
*swiftly returns from said reverie*
Sorry Gordon. I discard the potential crush. (He'll always have The Greenhalgh Effect though!)

Vindictive inanimate objects

I've been thwarted by several objects today.
In the early hours of the morning, a cylindrical hollow metal rod bit me. Well, I may have walked into it, but it must have created a vacuum, because the bruise is the exact shape and colour of a love bite (except just above my knee).
When I hurried to answer the phone (thinking it was important family business) this evening, it smacked me in the cheekbone. This threatened to leave me with a beautiful shiner for my audition, but thankfully it has calmed down now. The worst thing was, the person on the other end of the phone was asking to order some Chinese food for delivery.
Then, the pièce de resistance, my computer. During my Channel Four viewing, I heard the ominous words "Derren Brown live webchat after the show". Wow, I thought, never done a celebrity webchat before, and here's one I can think of some questions for! I know, I'll get online in plenty of time, knowing my P.C.'s track record. Therefore, I dial up, and at 11.30 I'm ready (chat beginning at 11.40). 11.35, still good. 11.39, hurrah! I'll try the chatroom...
11.40.
The computer makes a noise like a Tamagotchi in its death throes. FATAL EXCEPTION CTRL ALT DEL LOSE ALL WORK DIE DIE DIE appears on the screen. I sigh, and restart. All goes well, until I'm told I don't have Java enabled, which is an outright lie. So, I restart. This time the screen just freezes. Restart. FATAL EXCEPTION death noise again. Restart. Repeat. I begin to get frustrated, and accidentally kick the tower. Which, strangely results in my being allowed into the chatroom.
Which is empty.
I get the feeling the computer is sniggering to itself.
I sigh, and resort to Solitaire (because the Computer will not allow the installation of any other games). And a huge spider crawls around the side of the monitor. I actually scream. I am such a girl.

Sigh of relief

It's all over. For now. Exams, I mean.

A random question (which annoyed me all through my exam):
What is the plural of 'modus operandi'?
It would have helped two hours ago. Well, it would have put my mind at rest, and let me get on with my babble about how the position of sexual offence complainants has been somewhat ameliorated over the last few decades, but the sticking point remains the adduction of evidence as to previous sexual history (phew!).

Oh yes, and for a few seconds I was convinced that 'dutify' was a word. Although, whilst I couldn't quite figure out what word I was aiming for with 'obtainance', I at least knew it was not right.

Counting down

One day until I have finished my exams.
One and a half days until I sleep again.
Eleven days until I face Simon Cowell.
Therefore, ten days until I have a major panic attack.

(Addendum - if rumours are to be believed, I will also be facing Sharon Osbourne; if not Mel B a.k.a. Scary Spice. From the sublime to the ridiculous)

Another time-waster

Declare Googlewar. Pit salt against pepper, fish against chips, yourself against the world (the world wins, by the way). Quality tripe.

Gender issues

Today I have been wondering - could I possibly be a man?
I think crude thoughts and some people have said my libido is too high for a girl (although I doubt that's true, or even possible). Today I was standing on an escalator behind a girl in what can only be described as 'fitted' white trousers, and without warning I started singing "Baby Got Back" in my head. Not very feminine.
I wonder, am I a man in a woman's body?
No. I like men.
Therefore, am I a gay man in a woman's body?
Possibly. Although I like girly things like being glamorous and dressing up every so often. I recall Eddie Izzard's description of himself as "a lesbian in a man's body". Now, there's a man who likes the glamour (damnit, he usually looks better than me). But he's straight.
Erm...
Am I a gay Eddie Izzard in a woman's body?

*goes cross-eyed*

I'm not having a spasm, no.

I'm in a public computer room, and trying hard not to laugh out loud at this site. So I sound like I'm possibly having trouble breathing. Strangely this does not concern the people around me.

Dreams can come true

You have to visit Slow Wave. It's hilarious, but for me also soothing to know that I am not alone in the realm of bizarre dreaming. Basically this guy takes people's dreams and makes them into comic strips. Great. Also linking in with my future project, which is Coming Soon. Woo!

Crushes are good for you, says expert

It has been pointed out to me that a crush is an adolescent thing to have. Well, it may well be that “crush” is an adolescent way of describing it, but the finding of an unattainable person attractive is wholly natural and does not stop when you cease having growth spurts.
(1) I’m pretty sure everyone has these desires, but just don’t describe them in the same terms as they did in their teens.
(2) Life would be rather dull without them. Having a crush on someone doesn’t necessitate obsessive behaviour – it just gives your heart rate a little boost when they appear, leaving you with a tingle in your skin and a smile on your face.
(3) Growing up doesn’t mean your crushes remain the same. I have memories of my teenage crushes (even late teens) being, on the whole, very innocent. I mean the whole sweeping off my feet, knight in shining armour, vanilla skies ’n’ white picket fences shebang. Not so any more. Alright, so the relationship element still is prominent; but they now develop a distinct sexual element, which is great for the old imagination. And before you write me off as sleaze-lady, I’m not just picturing a bit of ‘how’s your father’ (as it were). It’s just I can daydream more elaborately these days. One such daydream, with a complex plot involving being asked to select and write about the next candidate for the Cosmo male centrefold, resulted in my having to stop my revision note writing and putting my head out of the window to cool down. Four times. And I only got as far as sitting in on the shoot – not a finger was laid on me by the object of my desire.
(4) In my case, that is, a young single woman, they help to construct one’s ideal partner mentally whilst allowing one to step back and not be pressured by the great man-hunt in real life. The thing is, my person is out there, somewhere (and if it happens to be my Cosmo daydream guy, all the better!). But I’m not going to search for him. I’ll find him without hunting him, eventually. So in the mean time, I’m choosing these people (consciously, subconsciously, or hormonally) and finding in them characteristics which my ideal person will display, or not, as the case may be. I’ll analyse my current beaux below and play ‘hunt for what Jen wants’.

In conclusion, there’s nothing wrong or juvenile about having crushes in your twenties, thirties, forties and so on. In fact, it’s normal, it’s healthy and it helps develop a vivid imagination ;-).

A Psychological Approach (ish)

Well, herr doktor, what do you make of this little lot? *presents list of 27 (arbitrary control number) top Objects*
- Hmmm *scratches chin and furrows brow*

Time passes in the laboratory. Swabs are spun around in those machines. Test tubes are placed into test tube baths. Rats scurry through elaborate mazes in search of food. Brightly coloured liquids bubble inside tubes.
Finally…

- You will be pleased to know I haff reached my conclusions.
Yes? Tell us!
- Jen is a highly disturbed individual, who desires an older man who can dominate her using psychological trickery and the latest forensic techniques. He vill be an egotistical control freak mit a warped sense of humour. He vill also possibly be a cross-dresser. So, do you vant to see my suspender belt collection?

I bop the ‘good’ doktor right in the nose

Right, now for some more sensible generalisations (oxymoron?) – I like:
• charismatic individuals.
• talented individuals.
• more mature individuals (although not necessarily older).
• a tad of poshness.
• a tad of eccentricity.
• a wicked sense of humour.
As far as looks go, the graphs show very little in way of a pattern. I always thought I didn’t have ‘a type’ in that respect.

So, if you fit the bill, you know where to find me. Especially if you’re one of 27…

This evening...

...I was accosted by two drunken blokes in the street. They'd started to wrestle, and one turned to me to report that the other had felt him in an intimate area, in the manner of schoolkid to teacher. I humoured them, and they spent the next half mile walking with me asking me to "cup" the shorter of the two - apparently it was very large because he goes to the gym every day (logic). I restrained myself, but was persuaded to feel his abs whilst waiting for the green man. They then proceeded to tell me that they could "cup" each other because they were at ease with their sexuality, and they loved each other as friends. All very nice. As we diverged, one of them shouted to me:
'Never forget the word "cup"!'

Magic scarred me for life

So, I'm in my exam, and I start to have a little panic...my recovery tactic is to have a little daydream, take my mind off things.

Sadly, it dredged up a painful memory *snif* and I don't know why.

When I was seven or eight, I was really into magic. Paul Daniels was my hero (well, I was only a tot). I couldn't wait to get a spangly outfit and dazzle the world with my prestidigitation. I ate books on magic whole. In fact I had a permanent loan (ahem) from the primary school library of a book on Houdini. My absolute favourite book was a veritable compendium of magic facts, figures, insight, and above all How to Do Real Tricks - the Usborne Complete Book of Magic.

I memorised that book. I mean, I read it every night for a good six months, and carried it everywhere. From it I learned how to put together routines and patter how to misdirect and to make my own props. I used it as the basis of a talk when I was made to take a 'speech' course (my mother thought it would be elocution, and persuaded me it would help in my future career as a barrister; although I hoped it would stand me in equally good stead for a magic career).

At the end of the talk, I took questions. I was asked the usual - how do they saw a lady in half and so on - but I refused to answer. I wasn't going to get caught by The Magic Circle before my career had even begun. Then came the killer question:

"Can you show us a trick, then?"

Sadly and sheepishly, I admitted I couldn't. For all my months of trying, I couldn't do a thing. My hands were too...wrong. I was so clumsy I had difficult tying my shoelaces, let alone pulling off a sleight of hand.

It was then that I realised I'd never be a magician. It was a traumatic moment.

To this day I deal cards like a kid.

“The system’s against me…”

Later that day I was on the train, relegated as per usual to a flip-up vestibule seat, when a young woman with baby en-pushchair got on. The baby was cute, and quiet as a mouse, but I felt so sorry for it because she was really disinterested. Anyway, not long into the journey I became aware of a chunnering from the seats opposite the loo (I couldn’t see because of the partition facing me). I thought the guy was talking to a mate; as it turned out he was talking AT the baby-woman until she listened. I tuned in:
“….it’s not a problem, because I’m the expert on exams, there’s a trick, and it’s chewing gum. Right, what you do, you have a good meal before, like….like….like fish or somethin’, then you take in with you a glass of water. Well, a bottle, right. And chewing gum. And you’re alright. You’ll be fine in the exam with chewing gum.”

Baby-woman realises he’s talking to her somewhere in the middle.
“Oh, yeah, I heard fish is supposed to be good for the brain.”

Guy: “It’s chewing gum, right, it’s good. That’s why Alex Ferguson’s always chewing gum.”
Woman (looks confused): “Because it’s good for the memory?”
Guy: “No no no, it’s for the nerves see, the nerves, stops you being nervous. It’s always worked for me, chewing gum, exams, yeah”

Here the train stops, and the woman needs to move her buggy out of the way. So she sits with the mystery guy. Mistake. He’s (a) got her down as an easy target, being single mum and all, (b) he is completely unaware of anyone else but himself, and (c) he’s a compulsive exaggerator. Here are edited highlights of his hour-long bombardment.

“David Beckham, right, David Beckham’s younger than me, and I’ve done everything he’s done, near enough…I’ve got a better physique than him. I can play every sport in the world. But it’s the system, it’s against me….I’m trying to be humble…”

“I’m studying to be a physiotherapist. But the system, right, they keep trying to make me retake the year….anyway, I don’t know if I’m going to do it, because they can’t pay me enough…I’m worth more than they want to give me…so I don’t bother.”
Then later:
“At the end of the day I’m happy with any job.”

Guy realises after a while that he’s not asked anything about the woman, so asks her questions, gets half an answer then interrupts with a tirade about himself. It emerges that she wants to go into ‘travel and tourism’, maybe join an airline.
“I wanted to be a hostess…Eh, but make sure you take care of yourself down on the ground cause when you’re up in the air it hits you….There’s more to that lifestyle than meets the eye. You can meet some really powerful people.”

It comes out that she’s from Brazil:
“You’re from Brazil….Interesting….Have you ever been to Selfridges? What’s your star sign?”

She tells him a bit about her boyfriend troubles on his questioning. Basically all he wants to know if she’s open to offers, and so he keeps butting in with unhelpful titbits when she goes into details.
Woman “He’s always drinking. He’s always going to see the woman downstairs and…
Guy: “You look like you’ve got a temper….etc”
Woman: “And last week, we were all supposed to go to the zoo, and I said ‘Well, why don’t you invite her?’ all sarcastic, but he actually went and asked her, and…
Guy: “I’ve been to prison, me, I’ve done everything….etc”
Woman: “ and then he just went off in her car to the zoo, and left us. I don’t know if he just wants some independence…
Guy: “I’m a very independent person, me…you’re one of these women, right, like…like Michael Jackson sings about….
“I could go out with so many beautiful women, but I choose not to….I could have been a doctor, I was told so, but the system, right…I’m naturally very clever person…deep and spiritual…
“I’m gonna get a place of my own very soon. I’m working at all sorts, of…well, I’ve got to watch I don’t burn out.”

He was trying his hardest, bless him, but the truth was out – he was a sad jobless guy in his early 30s chatting up single mums on the train. The crowning glory was when the train was about to pull in. He popped into the toilet, saying:
“I’ve just got to go in here to put on my sunglasses”
On the top of his head.

On the platform, I realised I was getting the same connecting train as the Brazilian. Sad Guy was desperately using up his last few minutes (totally unaware he had no chance). Finally he thought of something he knew about Brazil:
“Do you know who my favourite football team in the world is? Well, one of them. It’s Brazil. You know that match, you know Ronaldo, well, I predicted that, 4-2 was it, I didn’t even watch it, and I knew….”

But the train had arrived. Sad guy pranced off to talk about himself some more to some other random girl. Brazilian woman went on ignoring her baby, and went back to her cheating boyfriend. I felt glad I wasn’t either of them.

The copy shop

Last week I had to go to get my dissertation printed and bound. This took an inordinate length of time – which I will not rant about – but at least I got the chance to observe the infrastructure of a printing establishment. It was without a doubt the strangest workplace I have ever entered. Its employees were such a disparate bunch, you have to wonder how they all ended up there, and what they ask at interview. And they kept streaming in! I thought they might be customers, but, no, just more employees wandering about (mainly aimlessly). These are the categories of people I saw:
· The been-in-the-print-business-man-and-boy old guy
· The slightly dodgy-looking YTS lads, looking uncomfortable out of their shellsuits
· The very butch woman
· The very girly girl
· The muso types
· The aging (aged) hippy
· The obvious IT technicians
· The suited wannabe yuppies
· The random old guy in a boiler suit
· The John Prescott, talking loudly but nobody’s listening, C&A suit type
· The complete social inadequate computer geek (who took the desk nearest to me and kept looking at me, but I couldn’t tell a word he said)
All of these people generally milled about, getting coffee and looking at each other suspiciously (except for the yuppies, who talked loudly to each other in jargon, and the geek, who had a soft spot for the lesbian). Then I realised there was yet another area to this office, where the bitchy typist/secretaries gathered. This place began to confuse me, with its strange social hierarchy that I couldn’t figure out. So I had to go out in the rain for a sandwich, and come back. Freetening.

Ok, someone is really tapping into my psyche….

Something very odd just happened.

The origins of my tale: every few months I have a day or so at the mercy of my hormones. You know A Midsummer Night’s Dream – where the flower stuff is put into the eyes of the lovers, meaning they fall in love with the first person they see on waking? Well, it’s like that. I get sudden and strangely compelling celebrity crushes, in manner of a 13-year-old, on whosoever my gaze happens to fall across. Previous victims have included Will Young and Shane Ritchie (of the more acceptable ones).

So it was last Friday. I turned on the television twice and watched two programmes all day. From each I developed an upsetting crush – well, one is understandable, he's very charismatic and somewhat foxy, but the other one is very distressing. I’ve been suffering the last few days, but obviously haven’t divulged to anyone.

Except for the BBC, who have evidently been scanning my brain from their satellite network (I can’t blame Gmail yet). Watching Dead Ringers just now, I was quite upset to see these two people in the same sketch.

I can’t bear to say the names, so I’ll play 20 questions. Unless you’ve just been watching Dead Ringers, in which case, you’ll probably already know, and be ashamed for me and my estrogen.