Sweet Jehesophat.

We've just finished watching the CSI season finale. You know, the one that was devised and directed by Quentin Tarantino?

It was good.

In fact, it was a work of excellent TV which only added to the genius of CSI.

God I love that programme.

I really wasn’t sure what to expect.

I kind of thought that people wouldn’t take it seriously, that they’d just go with the flow and do it because everyone else was doing it.

But I was wrong.

At five to twelve today everyone from my office block duly filed out of the building. There was a strange, expectant hush as we stepped out onto Wardour Street, sun blazing down, life continuing as normal.

People began to line up on the other side of the road and within a few minutes there were hundreds of us.

At noon, everyone bowed their heads and stopped talking. Motorists stopped their cars, and everyone took two minutes out of their days to pay respect to those who lost their lives in the London bombings. We all stood there, strangers united in silence, our thoughts on the loved ones of the victims, of innocent lives lost, of the ‘it could have been me’ syndrome.

I was proud to be there on the road with all those other people and I couldn’t help but be touched by this resounding mark of respect. Some might think it was a small gesture, but having been there today and been part of it I came away thinking that it was a tremendous tribute to the survivors and those who lost their lives last Thursday.

Okay…so I’m drunk. And when I’m drunk I want the answers to every question ever raised in the whole world.

I want to know why, in this day and age people can’t accept us regardless of our creed and colour, I want to know why we can’t feel safe going to and fro in our own towns/cities, why homosexuality is a stigma, or why people with more money get more respect. I want to know why first and second and third worlds exist, why all worlds can’t just be equal, why wealth can’t be evenly distributed. And I want to know why we can’t just all be kind to each other.

And these are just a few of the questions in my head.


But most of all, I want to know why no matter how hard I try, you are a wanker to me. And why your letting me down hurts me this much.

I’ve had a fair few weird dreams recently, so when Tim asked me and a host of others to guest blog about our dreams, I was more than happy to oblige (If you have a few idle minutes, I’d recommend you take a look as there are some corkers May 2005-June 2005).

So in my dream world there have been strange animals, rats the size of large dogs, faceless people, nightmares, happy ever afters, all sorts.

I remember, way back, years, eons ago, Big Bro Senior asked me if I dreamed in colour, and if the people in my dreams had faces. The latter was easy to answer - sometimes the people in my dreams had faces and sometimes they didn’t, and the way my dream panned out, sometimes I just never saw their faces. In fact, sometimes it wasn’t physically the person I was used to, but I knew it was them.

But the question of colour remains because I just can’t figure out if my dreams are in colour or in black and white. Can you?

Recently my dreams seem to be taking a saucy turn (I’m not complaining, I rather enjoy them!), I wake up one Saturday morning and turn to face Bonobo, trying to focus on him with my sleep-blurry eyes, “I had the coolest dream” he says energetically, having been awake for two hours already (for bless him, no matter how hard he tries, this man is incapable of having a lie in). I am racked with guilt and feel as though I’ve cheated on him, he sees that something’s not quite wrong;

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice all soft and concerned. “IhadadreamthatIwasshaggingElleMcpherson” I blurt out.
“Well, that’s not terrible is is it?” he replies. And he’s right, the fact that I had an erotic dream about another woman, and a supermodel at that is not that terrible.
“I suppose,” I concede, “But it’s pretty terrible that it was Elle Macpherson and not someone I actually fancy.”

Hmmm, now if only someone could invent a dream control machine...

Andre gave me the nickname Thinkerbell. I like it, it’s sweet and it sums me up. But recently, I have a feeling that I haven’t been thinking enough because I seem to have run out of things to blog.

Gadzukes say it isn’t so!

So if it’s all the same I am going to gloat a little in stead.

For I, ladies and gentlemen, am the proud owner of an Andre Jordan original.













This little beauty has pride of place on my dresser and although I’ll admit that it’s not framed yet (I can’t find the perfect frame for it) I love staring at it. Because, without sounding like a cheesy arse, I love the depth of the colours, I love the fact that it’s shoes (even though they’re cowboy boots!) and I love the fact that although it seems like a lonely picture, you’re immediately reminded of the human touch because you know that someone had to have put those boots there.

And that, of course was Andre.

After a bit of a shitty time waiting for you with no sign and no gurantee that you were coming, my faith faltered a little. I actually began to worry that you weren’t coming after all, that you never were. But somehow I made it through it all that and I’m not entirely sure where I got the strength, but I did. And as I walk into my room and see you asleep in my bed, I realise that you were absolutely right when you told me that some things are worth waiting for.

Any discerning Londoner has always known that this was going to happen one day. It was never a case of ifs, it was always a case of when, but no matter how you much you expect something, it doesn’t prepare you for the actuality.

When Bubs and I got the bus to work this morning it was just another ordinary day. We got to work safely blissfully unaware of the trouble brewing and within ten minutes the carnage had begun. It doesn’t bear thinking about that we missed the scene of that obliterated bus by a matter of a few hundred yards and god knows how many minutes.

At work my team rallied around to check up on missing colleagues, all day we pulled together to help keep spirits up, to work out ways in which to get home safely. We huddled together to watch the news updates and I damn near started bawling when Tony Blair made his statement and the enormity of what was happening today hit me. The flurry of text messages and e-mails rolled on throughout the day from my friends, some as far flung as Australia and Singapore, checking on my safety.

It’s been a scary day, one that will be talked about for quite a while and that many of us won’t forget for a long time. But as Bubs and I started our long walk back home and Red offered to drop everything to come pick us up, what I found most amazing was the general atmosphere of absolute calm. In Bubs’ words, it felt’ as though we were on some sort of mass exodus from the biblical times’ as we walked in droves out of town, all desperate to get home. The usual elbows-out pushing and shoving of the daily commute ceased to exist and I was amazed by people’s kindness and the general sense of unity. And the way the emergency services and all key staff and police worked efficiently and professionally was just staggering. It made me feel as though everything was under control and that we were being looked after.

I’m not sure I want to venture back into work tomorrow. I can’t help but think that just as the twin towers was the first wave of attacks, so too was today. I realise that today’s attacks were a mere fraction of the destruction and mindless deaths that took place at 9/11, but this isn’t about numbers. People are dead. It’s about the fact that these so called crusaders will seemingly stop at nothing and they do not discriminate. And that is terrifying in itself.

When a disaster like today’s terrorist attacks on London happens I am reminded of the fact that we are actually capable of altruism.

There are some people in your life, who, no matter how hard you try, will always keep you at arm’s length. You feel that friend chemistry between you straight away, you see the glimmer of connection, and so you stretch and reach with all your might to protect the possibility. But all they can do is run and hide because they don’t understand the potential of what could be, don’t understand that a friendship like this doesn’t come along every day. For some reason you allow yourself to get caught up in the whirlwind of let downs, of broken promises, of unanswered e-mails, and unchecked rain checks. After some time your exhaustion impedes your judgement. But then...it only takes a very small thing to make you realise that your real friends are waiting for you at the pub with your favourite drink and a warm pew. And when you get to that rabble of yours in your favourite bar, you count yourself bloody lucky for those tiny reminders.

I am fixed, cured and free of disease, thanks to the Boy Wonder.

And as I sit here contemplating the beginning of my fourth week at my new job, I wonder if I’m still seen as the new girl.

I sussed out the toilets and the kitchen on the first day so now I can make cups of tea to my heart’s content, and then relieve myself after (sorry, too much information). I’ve memorised the code for the photocopier and the stationery cupboard. I’ve even finally managed to figure out how to adjust my chair.

But I’m not yet brave enough to choose a CD on the team stereo. Oh no. Little steps, little steps.

My friend Bassface sent me an e-mail advising me on the New Girl rules - Don't try and be funny, don't kiss ass, be quiet, polite and confident. Bingo bango. But God it’s exhausting being the new girl. And yes I know that when you’re new you have hardly any work to do for the first few weeks, but the tiredness comes from not being the ‘real you’, from being on your best behaviour and working out which parts of your humour you should leave at home every day.

But as much as I was worried that perhaps leaving my old job may have been a huge mistake, I think I’m getting somewhere. I got myself in favour with my boss by subtly taking some work off his hands, ingratiated myself with my peers by making them tea and taking an interest in their lives, I have remained polite and quietly confident and although I’ve had to pull a few late nights already I think that in due time I will know my shit inside and out, and maybe, just maybe, things will be just fine.