A pictorial meander through the procrastinating pursuits and lengths of which I go to avoid Writing.

In Uncategorized on January 10, 2010 at 4:44 pm

Baking. I am not what you might call a natural domestic goddess. In fact I rather dislike the term. Up until recently, the only time I would enter a kitchen was if I ran out of ice for my G&T.  Then one day,  in the middle of a particularly troublesome edit,  I was entered by the cake spirit. Two hours later, and a kitchen as white as a Tony Montana party, I ended up with a droopy batch of  24 fairy cakes.  Put enough icing on them and they’ll never know, is what I told myself. So I did. They tasted awful and yet I made my friends eat them, in front of me, watching their faces as they made polite  oohing and ahhing sounds. 

Look pretty, taste like horse shit.


So, the baking led to eating more, so to counteract this I started… 

Running. Like the wind. Or rather like a mad thing with dodgy ankles. I would awake early, dressed like an extra from an Eric Prydz  video and lap Victoria Park. I even started talking to squirrels. They never talked back.  On numerous occasions, fellow joggers (all men) actually felt the need to stop me in the park and lecture me on my unusual technique. Bizarrely they all used that word, unusual. It kind of freaked me out. Obviously  I didn’t listen.  And a week later, I did this to my ankle.

Doc's diagnosis; prod hard with finger, 'yeah, it's sprained.'


I think I took the picture as I had a fleeting idea I would try to sue someone – obviously I had been watching far too many Claims Direct adverts. 

So, running was out of the question, and as I couldn’t walk  I had to find other distractions, which of course led me naturally onto my next obsession…

Wildlife documentaries. Or more specifically an unhealthy fixation with any programme involving Whales. And when I say unhealthy, I in no way mean, sexual, let’s get that straight. I’m not one of these women who gets off on mammals or travels to Latvia just to marry a bridge.  I just enjoy watching them, preferably with a soothing Attenborough voice over, envying the solitude and serenity they seem to create. I also learnt lots of Whale trivia, which I thought up until this point I would never use. Did you know that a Whale can bend the tip of  its Penis to facilitate mating?  Don’t ask me how I know that. I just know.  So, when the Whale thing got a little bit weird. I decided I needed to  get out more…

Cycling.  So I bought a bike from a bloke in Bethnal Green.  It’s green and heavy and the brakes don’t really work but I loved her so much, so I called her Stacey (before that annoying song) and would take off for hours at a time, infuriating motorists with my devil-may-care un-proficient road attitude. Not being able to drive, I had no concept of lanes, amber lights or junctions. In fact it’s a miracle I am still alive. My main problem with cycling was other road users. In particular, I refer to the White Van Brigade who would, without exception and sometimes quite vehemently berate me on a daily basis about my incorrect seat height.  ‘GETYOURFACCKKINNSEATUP…’  being my particular favourite. 

'Oi love, yer seat's too low..'


Then winter hit, so I moved onto…

Expanding my mind, man.  Not with drugs, (that’s like so ’94) but with workshops usually run by men that moisturise.  I actually went to a lucid dream talk, in the vain hope I could harness the power of my dreams, embrace my Jungian shadow and enlighten my waking reality. However,  ever since then I have been so excited about going to sleep that I have developed insomnia. So,  instead, I stay up and watch…

World Darts. What other sport are you actively encouraged to drink lager?  The players, caricatures of themselves huff about the place, perspiring into polyester shirts that bear their sporting monikers.  Like Ted Hanky,  or  The Count as otherwise know.  A few nights ago I watched him defend his 2009 title, don his trademark Dracula’s cape, barely containing his bulging beer belly, and taunt his opponent as he stepped up to the oche to the background of a techo track.  He lost, but how I laughed.  

Ted Hankey (real name). The Count (not his real name)


Which leads me nicely onto …

This post. Yet more procrastinating. Now excuse me whilst I get back to work.

  1. Visiting from Nicola Morgan’s blog party, making the mistake of reading one of your paragraphs too fast, and spending a moment wondering why on *earth* a whale would be travelling to Latvia to marry bridges….

    Competitive darts really does look like an odd mashup of ‘high-concept scripted wrestling’ with ‘just enough chance to make it legal to put a bet on’ and ‘hanging around the pub’. If one had made it up, somebody would probably tell you not to…..

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