Busy Is As Bitchy Does

So one of the interesting things about this full diary I seem to have developed is that I've become this sort of of super-organised, highly-motivated worker that like, totally DOES STUFF.

This morning alone I was up bright and early, shunned the bus for a brisk walk to wake me up and get me going (I KNOW. THERE ARE BETTER WAYS TO DO THAT THAN POWER-WALKING TO ADELE. But work with me here.) to write an original piece of work and redrafted another, go to work, do some journalism-type stuff, research a job opportunity, take out 5 minutes to poop (because DEAR GOD performance anxiety in a public loo is crippling) and text my bestie about the merits of Resident Evil and how we quote my mother too much. Because we do. Every conversation we have is laced with what Jane says. We're mad for it.



I went the whole week just gone without seeing Calum. Our schedules just didn't match. Yeah. I said schedules. I'm a dick.



He even texted me to say, I know that you are working very hard, and I'm very proud of you. He spoilt it ever so slightly by following that up with, Unless you're at home watching ER or masturbating with a big black dildo again.





I've missed him, but part of this busybusybusy stuff means planning time in my diary to chill the bejesus out, too. In fact, I felt that I had successfully accomplished so much last week that when I felt sick with hunger when popping to the bank I decided to randomly treat myself.



TO A THREE-COURSE MEAL.



Alone.



Which to me is not bizarre at all- you get to enjoy gorgeous food without it going cold as you make small talk about the weather or the UTI you have that just won't clear up. As I asked the waitress for a table for one, and then requested a corner table, she frowned and said, "Are you in hiding from somebody?" Then she seemed to take pity on me and tried to converse throughout the delivery of said three courses. That was reason enough not to tip. Can't a girl be left alone? That's code for I DON'T CARE ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE SAYING.



So Saturday night Calum and I had our standing appointment for Saturday Night Bollocks i.e. two-for-one on Dominoes delivery and the crappest TV we can find. We even had the added bonus of his sick boyfriend with us too. We thought that after X-Factor had finished that we might struggle with something equally as brain-dead to pass our eves BUT NO. Take Me Out? TELEVISION GENIUS.



Okay, if you haven't seen this sort out your life. Thirty women all have lights and a single man comes onstage to try to impress them. It's a case of, "No likey, no lighty," as the girls pull the plug on any suitor not deemed... well. Suitable. They're all desperate to get taken out, and then never like the chap that chose them after the date. I bet they have a cheeky slap and tickle anyway. That's the kind of show it is.



It's the most horrendous piece of television you're ever likely to see. "Paula," the presenter says, "Why did you turn your light off when Derek said he was a gentleman? Isn't that what all ladies are after?" Paula is inevitably dressed in something discounted from Topshop and is the colour of an MFI fibreboard desk. "Well, you see- I like a tough man really," Paula replies, which is essentially code for a man who treats her like shit so that her self-esteem is so low that she is an easy shag, meaning she never has to go to bed on a Saturday night alone. Gentlemen don't bed ladies that quickly, so she'd become dejected and disheartened fast. It'd be a waste of the dress.



It's brilliant.



So brilliant, in fact, that even when Cal and I broke tradition and actually WENT OUT one Saturday, we spent the whole evening parked with a soft drink equidistant from the bar and the door so as best situated to pass comment on the clientele of the evening as if they too were the girls on Take Me Out.



"Slag," we said, as a man in a bright pink shirt passed.



"Urgh. Know when to say no to tiger print," we said about a fat girl with toe cleavage.



Internet, we've met, right? You KNOW that I'm a bitch. No surprises.



"Calum," I said, basking in the glory of his company. "I think my wedding night will be like this you know." He looked at me. "Honey, I'm a gay," he replied. "We're not getting married."



I laughed. "I didn't mean that. I feel like all my wedding guests will be drinking and laughing and having a good time, and the groom will just get in the way of you and me sat at a corner table saying nasty things about what he is wearing and I'll be pissed off that I'm not at home watching telly instead."



Calum smiled. "I think you're wedding night will be like that too."



I hope it is, you know. And the wedding breakfast will be stuffed-crust pizza, and my wedding dress will have an elasticated waist. I'm dead classy like that. When I'm not too busy.