I haven’t written a blog in a long time. I sold my soul to a temporary data entry job (with no internet access-arghhhh)! For an extra pound an hour, I have been working in a former prison, with a quarter inch view of sky, a temperamental scanning machine and a coven of sugarless, menopausal women. Great, if you enjoy working in an air conditioned office all frickin’ winter:
“Oh Janice, I’m having another flush, crack the whirry thing up to 10".
Morose if you’re still alert to life, believing it to be a thing of beauty rather than something you squander 9 til 5, en route to a retirement in an SW14 postage stamp garden.
But mainly I stopped posting because I’d become a victim of my own caricature. My rich sex starved narrative, whilst a collective source of amusement was slowing strangling my lady garden and informing my love life. So I embarked on a social experiment:
Quit the blog. See if the men flock…
And they kind of did! Believe me, no one was more surprised than the Lollster. The mini skirts were back and the crimper on permanent standby.
Perhaps, working in the ancient institute of parliament has assisted me on my quest. I'm not sure they've seen women who wear mascara or own a fully supportive bra since the pre suffragette movement. HOWEVER, I waded through the mire and talked (sometimes seductively) on levels with contractors, police, committee analysts, MPS…and whilst I cannot talk about a lot of my findings, here are a few of my learnings over the past three months:
- Never boost the ego of a divorced man over 45. They are ravenous, deluded, blood suckers. Whilst they may kiss elegantly and be knowledgeable on the finer intricacies of a woman, they will inevitably be social vampires, on the prowl for energy kidnap and have a cavalier flair for the improper and flamboyant use of emoticons.
No, you can not even get the tube 'there'. Ever. All buses on permanent diversion, fruit loop.
- Never snog a random on a night dedicated to the theatre. When normal people watch a play, it may involve a G and T and a convo about the ethics of Jacobean staging. But no, the Lollster watches a play, sinks three bottles of Prosecco with Pip Swallow, accidentally gets her feet tickled by a dirty contractor and snogs said (dodgy, weathered but VERY handsome) contractor enthusiastically in the Notting Hill drizzle.
- Never be the other woman. Special only in the afternoons, keeping the perfume and glitter on the downlow so as not to infect his life. Becoming a poison. A secret carrier amongst an unpolluted and morally courageous public.
- Do snog men with pierced tongues. Don’t make jokes about them being stuck in the nineties.
- Try to stop moaning about the lack of investable characters on You Porn. It is not their fault they can’t act. Not everyone trained at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama.
- Rum is not the answer to heart ache.
- Rum is not the answer to a soulless job.
- Rum is the answer to most other things.
- Don’t get a fringe if you have a small forehead. It is time consuming at 6am and ultimately unneccesary.
- If someone won’t let you love them, do not love them. Even if they are brilliant, capable of supreme brilliance, reek of brilliance to the point of intoxication and are caked in aceness. When there is an invisible flight path connecting the two of you in a starless sky, between Bermuda currents and exploding, flinty meteorites…take the beautiful, perfect dick heads advice.
- Do poke old friends on Facebook. It’s unexpectedly funny like a triumphant trump in the workplace.
- Don’t talk to security guards outside of work hours. They will start planning a collective future on the assumption that you’re into them when you’re just killing time between jobs and can’t yet be arsed to walk to Trafalgar for a Pret, avocado sandwich.
- Always offer to do the coffee run. Your loyalty card; a personal totem of success in an unrewarding universe.
But above all else:
- When life gives you unripe limes, put them in your rum anyway.
I suppose if I’ve learnt anything since I last spoke to y’all, it is to avoid being someone who is dead inside. I constantly meet people whose eyes have clouded over, who cannot freefall, who cannot put themselves freely and fleetingly in someone else’s possession, who have forgotten how to smile and who think it is acceptable to make an already cooling, *frosty office, colder.
*Not a metaphor. But also totally a metaphor.
I am nearly at the end of this temp post. I am ready to pack up my bags once more like Supernanny and move on to my next destination, my flight path, as yet unprogrammed. I am ready for the warmth of summer outside of my prison cell, to feel the sun on my face.
I am thinking it is time to stop kissing people in the street, after dark, with abandon. After all, it was but an experiment. I have learned that love is cold, uncompromising and always governed by someone else. We are all but lowly temps in an office, knowing that we are capable of something greater but unable to move for the giant, menopausal thumb on our head and flattening down our (possibly misjudged) fringe.
I may still be at the bottom of every rung but I am free and I have (if only fleetingly) allowed myself to feel. A wide awake fuck up, edging through a sleeping, prickly hedgehog nest. And if I find myself in a black suit once more, on a reception desk, hungover, no love in my life, at least I will have space between phone calls to once again note down my musings.
The blog is about to be back people!! The blog is about to be back.
You very lucky, very sexy bastards.