Fleas & G-Strings

Ginger cats adopted: 1

Fleas found: 6 (nothing to do with the ginger cat)

Goals scored this season: 10

Free Waitrose coffees this week: 5

Games of Trivial Pursuit lost: 1

Cost of a cinema ticket these days: £9.50 (appalling)

The last couple of weeks have seen the arrival of fleas at my London residence.  Max and Lilly, the family's cats, are to blame, for what has become not just a few pesky nibbly creatures, but a blooming nuisance.  I wasn't believed at first when I found a tiny black 'something' on my cheek one morning, followed by two on my shin the following day.  Lily had only been in my room once - but apparently, that was all it took, much like naive teenage girls having unprotected sex and winding up pregnant.

Then the irritating bites appeared, which tea tree oil did nothing to soothe. Odd that nobody else in the family was bitten despite the little toerags being found throughout the house, but maybe, like with mosquitoes, mine was the preferred blood type.

Personally, I wasn't particularly bothered- I'm sure every cat gets fleas at some point in their life, but my landlady was horrified.  Out came the hoover, scanning every inch of floor, then the flea spray, drenching the carpets and sofas. Finally the house was 'flea-bombed' which in itself sounds rather drastic.  Surely the creatures couldn't survive a complete gassing? 

For a week, calm seemed to have been restored, the fleas had vanished.  The cats received a new dose of Frontline, with the dosage calculated by their weight.  The 'weighing of the cats' caused a minor kerfuffle, as since this involved weighing yourself, then weighing yourself holding the cat and calculating the difference, nobody wanted to brave the scales for fear of revealing their own weight.  This is where a unconsciousness male in the house would have been handy.

But then, last night at supper... 'I have a family announcement.  I FOUND MORE FLEAS!'  As a final resort, pest control are being brought in today. Let's hope they put the fleas to bed (not in mine again, please) once and for all.

Work is plodding on by.  The other lady in the office over-shared again, announcing that she ought to go to the high street to buy new g-strings.  We laughed and asked if her Tinder dates were progressing to the underwear-revealing point. Apparently this is not the case, simply that she thinks it inappropriate to have a VLP at work (despite us pointing out she spends 90% of her day sitting down) and that due to her 'Heathrow Injection' she's grown out of her old ones. In an office where any chance of romance is 100% unlikely, I'm happily sticking with my comfy, VLP- inducing knickers and don't care what anyone else thinks. 

Still nothing to report on the romance front.  My Made In Chelsea viewing inspired me to consider speed-dating, just for fun, but as Spencer pointed out, 'speed-dating reeks of desperation.' Maybe not then.

Cold Feet

Months done at new job: 1
Free coffees from Waitrose: 5
Hair fallen out: far more than normal
Mixed netball matches played: 1
Parking tickets accrued: 1
Letters written to try to get off parking fine: 1
Length of time it took to realise work Mini has heated seats: 4
Letter of concern from the GP surgery about my alcohol intake: 1

Well, I've survived my first month at the job.  It's gone pretty smoothly, not too many lumps and bumps. There have been busy days; good days. But, on the whole, I have to admit that I am bored. It's just incredibly quiet, not very many enquiries at all, and so what am I supposed to do all day? Sitting at my computer with the boss behind me, while I desperately try to find something work-related to do, is exhausting and pretty soul-destroying. I arrive back at my Mon-Fri home at around 8pm; frustrated, poor, and wondering whether I made the right decision to up-sticks and work in London.  There are times when I sit on my bed and cannot help but cry, for cumulative reasons, but then other times I remind myself that as a graduate I'm lucky to have a job, especially in the sector I wanted, and a roof over my head. It's all very up-and-down.

My office is, shall we say, interesting.  My boss is Spanish, and it's often difficult to understand what he's trying to say as he mutters something incomprehensible whilst wildly gesticulating at the computer screen.  I asked him if it's usually this quiet at work, whereupon he throws his hands in the air, proclaiming, 'it's a disaster!' I can't deny I house a small fear about being made redundant so soon into my career.  His kind side comes out with a little Lindor milk chocolate ball deposit on each of our desks, or the odd Ferrero Rocher.  He's been on holiday this week, and it's been rather nice to be able to relax a little in between phone calls, without the fear of him checking my computer screen. Then there's the Property Manager, a beautiful South African woman, who complains about her 'Heathrow Injection' and never- ending stomach problems.  She has OCD tendencies towards hygiene and an awkward habit of over-sharing, 'I just can't crap!' I smiled sympathetically at her and offered her a dried apricot. She has a tale to tell to do with just about everything, the worst being her dating saga and the tricks men have played to try to get her into bed.
Finally, there's the man in Sales.  I'd like to say he's fairly normal, but for the fact that he believes all microwaves should be destroyed, and that the Queen and Royal Family are all lizards. It's all to do with some kind of reptilian conspiracy theory (pretty sure it started in America - no surprises there). It's incredulous that an otherwise sensible 43 year old man actually believes this. The other day he pretended to mug me as I crossed the road back to the office.  He crept up behind me and growled, 'give me your bag!' And then, I did what I swore I'd never do if I were to be mugged: shrieked and swung my handbag at him, like a little old lady, before realising it was him.  This was broad daylight in Kensington. I felt embarrassed, but then thought how weird a thing it was for him to do. I rather feel I'm working in an office full of nutters.

My first game of mixed netball was better than expected.  I joined a league just to try to get some more exercise and have a bit of a social life.  Surprisingly, netball's quite a big thing for men in Oz and NZ, as well as Jamaica, and the speed and strength of these guys completely changed the game.  The umpire laughed along with us and the the rules were slightly less strict compared to what I was used to under England Netball rules, but I wasn't phased and was pretty proud to be awarded Man of the Match. Looks like it could be a fun few weeks, especially with a drink and a bite to eat after the games.

Absolutely zilch to report on the dating side of life.  Gorgeous Carpenter didn't even reply to my friendly 'how are you' text, so that's over for good, and London's dating pond is ridiculously huge.  I honestly had far, far better luck in Hampshire. Of the couple of men I've sought out on Plenty of Fish, none of them have replied, which never happened back home.  Then there's this new Tinder dating app, which I eventually downloaded upon the insistence of friends.  In a nutshell, I don't like Tinder.  Unlike with POF, you know nothing about them, so it's hard to strike up a conversation about mutual interests.  Friends of mine have had success, others have just found people to sleep with.  It's just not really my thing, and has made me feel even more anti about technology dating.   I don't feel I'm looking great anyway, with my lack of exercise and fresh air, growing squishy tummy and bottom and city-living shiny greasy spotty skin.  Goodness, I know how to advertise myself... but it all makes me want to dash back to the countryside.  So I think I'm going to give up with men, and hope that someone lovely comes along in a few months in the old-fashioned way, rather than through a screen.

What Just Happened?

Miles moved from home: 68
Upset pub bosses: 2
Cats in new home: 2
Time taken to get to work: approx 1 hour
Supermarket near work: Waitrose (Yippee!)
Love for my hockey team: masses






It’s been a hell of a few weeks.

Everything was plodding along, in the way that things do when you’re resigned for a few months of mind-numbingly boring PA course, interspersed with a few shifts at the pub which forms part of your social life, with the odd couple of hours of distraction with Gorgeous Carpenter.  And then, out of the blue, my world was turned on its head.  Through an old school acquaintance, I was offered a job at a boutique estate agency in Kensington as a Lettings Negotiator, with the starting date just two weeks away.  In short, it was my dream job.  I ought to have been over the moon; finally, something to get me out of this rut I was resigned to until at least Christmas.  Yet the surprise and speed at which things started to happen was rather terrifying, and I was suddenly all for crawling back to my comfortable hole. Where was I to live?  With whom? How much could I afford? How would they manage at the pub without me? What about my PA Diploma? And, of course, WHAT ABOUT GORGEOUS CARPENTER? For things had begun to progress to a new level, and I couldn’t deny how much I liked him.

I’ll spare you the ins and outs of house hunting and decisions, least of all whether I should actually take the job. Pretty much single girl, age 23, given her dream first job in London on a platter.  How many other graduates are given an opportunity like that, especially in today’s hard-core job market. The decision was pretty much unanimous that I’d be a fool not to at least give it a go. 

So  I gave notice at the pub, shifted my diploma to weekends only, and took a Monday-Friday let in a family home near Richmond. I’ll be home every weekend to play hockey (I’m not ready to leave my Havant girls quite yet), and see Gorgeous Carpenter, I reasoned.    I signed the job contract, paid a month’s rent up front, and waited for D Day to approach.  It was a mixture of excitement and pure terror. 

Yet I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease about Gorgeous Carpenter.  The inevitability is that soon I’ll live full-time in London, and with him being busy even at weekends, where did that leave time for travelling the 70 miles between us at weekends? So what, really, was the point in giving it a go for 6 months with me only home at weekends?  It would probably only end up in tears.  He came over on my last night at home, and we talked at length.  We were both utterly torn. Eventually we came to the sad decision that it was best to end things.  We had a cup of tea, watched the Bake-Off and Bad Education as usual, and he left. Needless to say, it was not what I needed when I was feeling so much trepidation about London in the first place.  I guess some things really are too good to be true.

I’ve decided to put my fishing on hold as I settle into London.  And how I need to settle.  I’m not even sure that I like London after all. The metaphorical pond has enlarged significantly, and my current situation of finishing work late, exhausted and with my make-up having slid off my face, not even being in London at weekends for now, is not a good basis for dating.  Plus, with all this change, my skin has erupted and my bottom swelled more than I thought was possible.  Maybe I will need those M&S control pants after all.  I think early bedtimes with pyjamas and a hot water bottle will be my friends for the time being.

I’m looking forward to reading Helen Fielding’s new Bridget Jones novel. Perhaps this will shed some light on my future. 

I promise not to moan so much in my next post.

Slimming World and boiled eggs

Runs I've been on since last post: 0
Weight according to Slimming World: 11st 10.5lb
Cups of tea: 3
Goals scored: 1
New friends made: 4
Boiled eggs eaten: 2
Jobs applied for: 5ish
Dates with POF man #4: 4

Today I made that leap and went to Slimming World for the first time. My reason for this is that my bottom seems to have swelled to the size of two watermelons, my old clothes are tight and I don't like naked me. I doubt even Bridget Jones' knickers would suck everything in. I thought that by joining, I'd get the extra motivation needed to fit back into my old jeans. 
Upon arriving, I realised I was the second youngest there by a good couple of decades, maybe more.  A couple of members had lost well over five stone since they'd been members.  This was encouraging.  I can't say I really enjoyed the session; it was more like a social coffee morning for the retired or bored mothers. But I came away with my purse £9.98 lighter, clutching my booklet full of what I can and cannot eat lest I should tot up a heinous number of 'syns', and the rather shocking fact of my weight according to the Slimming World Scales. I'll go next week just to see I've lost anything by playing hockey and changing my diet, and also so I'll get that little clap the members receive when they've lost a pound or two. Gosh, now the pressure's on to not put on a single ounce...
And so here's what I've consumed today, in case anyone's interested, which you're probably not:

3 cups of tea (no sugar)
2 boiled eggs (no soldiers)
1 fat-free Activia yoghurt, with some fresh blueberries and a sprinkling of oatbran
1 tin Waitrose Love Life chicken & chunky veg soup
1 cereal bar. (My only syn of the day, lest I should faint during hockey and look like a moron)

On another note, club hockey formally began again today. This is excellent news, made even more so by the fact that I've made 4 new friends, who managed to see past my sweaty pink hockey face. It's my own fault as I haven't been on a follow-up run to last week's achievement, but now I have even more incentive to pound those fields around Priory Park, which are usually pounded by local hormonal teenagers in a completely different sense. 

Things have been going slowly but nicely with POF man #4. I think we'll stop calling him that and use Gorgeous Carpenter instead, since that is, quite literally, what he is. 
Date no.2 was a spontaneous walk up Old Winchester Hill, followed by a drink in a pub. He picked me up in his Audi, thinking that I'd be a bit shocked if he'd turned up in the Land Rover with the dogs. I said I wouldn't have minded one bit. He drove me home, cue awkward car-hug goodbye. 
Date no. 3 was an excuse for us to revert to our childhoods by seeing Monsters University, my treat. I booked the tickets online, he drove; all was fine and dandy. Until we got to Eastleigh Vue Cinema, and my pre-booked ticket refused to come out of the machine. I'd only gone and booked tickets at the Portsmouth cinema instead. What an incredibly blonde thing to do. Surely he'd go right off me. Shame-faced, I explained my predicament to the manager, who VERY kindly let us in for free (it's so not on how expensive cinema tickets are when it's not Orange Wednesday), so our date was saved. But then of course was the endless wondering of whether to go COMPLETELY teenager-dateish and hold hands etc. Just so you know, we didn't. He took me home, cue an even more awkward car-hug goodbye. I was, by now, beginning to feel a little frustrated. But at least I know, from his texts, that he likes me. 
Date no.4 was a walk from my house in semi-darkness, followed by crucial viewing of the Great British Bake-Off. He'd declined dinner, but not a cup of tea, which, in his trade, must be made well.  Thank heavens I passed the tea-making test. Granny Ann would be proud (we won't tell her I didn't use a teapot).
Date no.5 was planned for Sunday evening after my hellish lunchtime shift.  Sadly, he'd had a rubbish day and didn't feel he should 'inflict his bad mood on anyone, least of all me,' and he promised to make it up to me, maybe dinner out. I can't deny I was a tiny-weeny bit sceptical, (Mum was more so) but played it cool saying he had nothing to make up for.  Nevertheless, he insisted, saying he'd like to. I'll be looking forward to Friday night, as will the rest of the staff at work, as they follow this snail's pace dating saga with much interest. Deep down, I rather like the snail's pace. It certainly makes a nice change.

Living at home is getting increasingly difficult. I'll leave it there so as not to open a huge can of worms. 

Goodbye vino, hello cake!

Distance (mostly) run: 4.89 km
Calories burned: 373
Blisters gained: 2
Bramble scratches: 1
Time taken to return to stop looking like a tomato: about an hour
Weight: 74 kg

Today I did what I've been saying I'd do for months: I went for a run.  Those 40 odd minutes weren't quite as bad as I'd expected, which I can only put down to the pre-season hockey fitness sessions I've been to in the last couple of weeks.  I took my ipod loaded with 'running songs' bought from good old Amazon for pennies, and put the 'Map My Run' app to use on my phone, which is strangely feel-good.  Sure, I did a bit of power-walking on the last stretches of the route, but I came back alive.  I was rather horrified to see the tomato-red shade my face had turned, a stark comparison to my Caspar-esque pale legs (which, on reflection, were well overdue a shave). No wonder I'd gotten strange looks from dog walkers when I ran along the old railway.
Following on from my run and fitness campaign, I've just finished my last glass of wine for a while.  Wish me luck; I'm going to need it.

Sunday heralded my date with Plenty of Fish Man #3. I'd had hopes for this one, and we planned to have a country walk with the black Labrador I looked after at the weekend, followed by a pub lunch.  But alas, I realised within the first few seconds of meeting that I just wasn't attracted to him.  Whether this was to do with his tinny South-African accent,  or his physical features, I'll never be quite sure, but I did my best to chat while we fed bread to the rainbow trout in the river.  As we walked back to the pub for lunch, he described how in his spare time he was currently programming Microsoft Excel to play the board game Mastermind against his mother.  Admittedly very, very clever. But a notch too high on the geek scale for me.  Anyway, he was kind to the dog, keen to chat (to me as well as the dog), and was overall a nice chap, but that's as far as it went.

HOWEVER. Along came Tuesday evening, and with it, a spontaneous casual drink with Plenty of Fish Man #4. He lives just in the next village, which is a miracle in itself, and so we have a few mutual friends.  We met at one of our favourite country pubs, and I didn't need to have sunk half a 7.2% cider to see how smiley and good looking he was, with good conversation too. Anyway, for once I had a really nice evening and we've plans for the weekend: blackberry picking.  Random, but why not?!

And finally, hooray!  The Great Bake-Off is back! What a good first week, with Mr Hollywood's eyes as blue and glinting as ever and some epic bakes straight-off.  Mum's hooked for the first time ever. My odds are on the satellite-inventor guy, who's clearly realised how much of a science baking is. I haven't, however, really warmed to any of the contestants yet this year, in the same way that I did to dear old student John or even stuck-in-a-time-warp Brendan. And as for the Essex girl with the curls, if she's going to cry in the first week, she's toast.

(Speed) Dating

Wine: at least 3/4 bottle of Shiraz
Steak: 1. Explains the Shiraz
Temporary labrador in residence: 1. Quite smelly too.
Dates since last post: 2
Potential points on driving licence: 3

That dreaded letter finally came in the post: 4 years and 11 months after passing my driving test, I was caught doing 36mph in a 30 zone, down a little country road on the way back from Sainsbugs. 'Oh, there was a speeding van there,' my mother pointed out oh-so-helpfully after I'd driven past it.  'I think it was pointing the other way,' I replied, keeping my knickers, fingers and toes crossed.  To no avail.  OH THE SHAME. I've elected to go the to the driving awareness course at the cost of £90 and 4 hours of my time, instead of a £60 fine and 3 points on my licence. Let's hope they allow me to.

Last week I had my first date with Plenty of Fish Man #1. I was looking forward to it.  On paper he was perfect; 28 years old ('an older man, very good', said Mum) went to a good school in Guildford, then won a choral scholarship to Oxford (hooray, he'll understand my love of choral music!) youngest of 4 siblings (very good, I like a big family) works at Southampton Uni and owns his own house. Hurrah!

In reality...

SO DISAPPOINTING.

He wasn't as good looking as his pictures, and he talked out of the side of his mouth, giving the impression he'd had a mini-stroke. We met at a pub by the river, and I sat for 2 hours trying not to be bored out of my socks.  It didn't help that ever now and then he'd pepper his sentence with, "When I was your age...."  Not cool.  Eventually my tiredness and boredom got the better of me and a tiny, weeny little yawn slipped out. I'm judging by the fact that I haven't heard from him since (a blessing in disguise..) that he had taken offence. So that was the end of that.

Last night I had another date.  Plenty of Fish Man #2 appeared a bit too cool and a bit too good-looking for my taste, so it took me a while to agree to a date with him. This time, we met for dinner at a pub full of pigs in the New Forest.  Overall, it was better than date #1. Maybe there wasn't an age gap getting in the way. But I wasn't too impressed when he went to order food and came back with a drink for him and had forgotten all about my empty glass of water.  Whether this was down to stinginess or absent-mindedness I'll never know, but he allowed me to buy my own glass of wine, and was happy enough to show me his BMW Series 1 (whatever that means) sitting sleekly in the pub car park.
I wasn't expecting to hear back from this guy, since a little yawn slipped out again at 10.20pm- this time due to tiredness rather than absolute boredom, but 24 hours later I've received a text. Maybe our date was better than I'd perceived.

Tomorrow is date with Plenty of Fish Man #3.  We've rearranged it for Sunday lunch rather than Monday evening, mostly because then there will hopefully be no little yawns slipping out to cause offense, and also we can take the black labrador we're looking after this weekend for a walk too. Oh- and cos I read somewhere the other day that the best time to take a photo of someone is at lunchtime, so that they're over the morning puffiness, and the fatigue hasn't yet set in.  I guess the same goes for how you look on a date.  Well, fingers crossed, because I like Man # 3.  Let's hope I'm not left disappointed.

On another note, I came back from my date with Man #2 last night and my mother said, 'your legs look chunky, Chunky Monkey, like tree trunks.' Bloody charming. If she doesn't like my legs, how can I expect any man to?   Fingers crossed long skirts come back into fashion soon.

Post- Graduation Blues & Online Dating

Weight: 74kg

Units of alcohol: 2

Banana, choc chip & apricot cakes made: 1

Random crying outburts: 2

It's official: I'm a graduate. 2:1, BA Creative & Media Writing.  It's an ok degree, but winning my course award made it so much more worthwhile. Opening that letter from the university was one of the best moments of my life, as sad as that possibly sounds.My graduation day was lovely; a hot July day, photos with my course mates and a family celebratory dinner.  

Now all the celebrations are over, and for the past few days I've been waking up still exhausted, and very much on the wrong side of the bed.  I've no energy to do anything, and I feel close to tears a lot of the time. Baking made it a bit better, using three rather dead-looking bananas.  Whoever came up with the idea of putting bananas in a cake is a genius. 

Deep down, I know the biggest reason for my melancholia: my break up nearly two months ago.  I should be over this by now, I tell myself, and the more I think about it the more I find faults with him and know it was for the best.  But I hate him.  I hate him for giving me flowers which nobody ever had before, and for telling me I'm beautiful and amazing and for being the first man to make me feel special and cherished.  Most of all, I hate him for giving me hope. Where did I meet such a man? Online. 

There is so much stigma attached to online dating for people my age, with the general view that it should be for people of my mother's generation.  But with our busy, hectic lives in this modern age, more and more people are signing up. And I suppose, for those four or five months, it was successful. 

Post-break up, I swore I'd never go back on that site or any others.  But the truth is, I'm not someone who likes being alone.  Now I've left university, I don't go out since all my friends are scattered around the country, and there is little opportunity to meet new people.  I'm a romantic at heart, I know that most people meet at a bus stop or in a supermarket queue or some other lovely story.  The internet can seem forced, like a cattle market where everyone know each other's purpose.  There's nothing remotely romantic about it. But today, out of loneliness or boredom, I'm signing up again. I suppose I ought to ask for luck, but after being so hurt the first time I don't trust it quite as much.  I guess I can only try. 

In other news: I've been stuck on the same level of Candy Crush Saga for three months now. And, I treated my uncle's bee stick with Aspall's White Wine Vinegar. Spur of the moment, you know. 

AND SHE'S BACK

Chapters of PA Dip done: 0
Cups of tea: 2
Episodes of Grey's Anatomy watched: 1 (well-controlled, since yesterday I watched 4)
Winces due to sunburn: around 10
Comments from Mum that I look better 'brown' (aka SUNBURNT) than my usual pasty white: 2
Units of alcohol: 0- an absolute miracle.


Dear Readers,

It's been a while (2 years) but I'm back.  As I am no longer 20 years old, but in fact, 23, I've lost enough brain cells during my time at university to somehow bar myself entry from my old blog. So I've had to start afresh.  But in case you fancy a goosey gander, here it is:

http://ayoungbridgetjones.blogspot.co.uk/

Looking back, it's actually quite funny...amusing enough, it seems, that family and friends of mine who used to read it have been pestering me to get back on that horse and type.  I've finally given in. So here goes.

I let the blog have a little doze for two reasons: Firstly, I ended up writing too much personal stuff because I have a tendency to just let it all out.  But I don't have anyone to upset or offend anymore so that's no longer a issue. Secondly: Although I've wanted to come back to it before, I've been scared. Scared because I've entered a new stage of my life and I'm worried I won't be as funny anymore, and people won't want to read on.  But that's something I'll just have to get over.  Besides, I'm still a Young Bridget Jones: last week Mum and I went shopping and she said, 'I think it's time we bought you a pair of nip and tuck knickers.'  That's when I knew things were definitely going downhill and I had to do something about it. 

So what's happened in the two years since I last blogged?  

A LOT.

Most notably however: 

Finishing my degree
Moving home
Blooming men. As usual. 

These will all receive their own blogs of dedication in due course, but now's not the time.  It feels, however, that I'm having my own little mid-life crisis.  Perhaps I should call it a post-uni crisis.  But then a large percentage of almost-graduates are feeling the same way, right? 

Having moved home, I've embarked on an Executive PA Diploma, forced upon me by my grandmother.  Although it is extremely generous of her, it's as dull as the washing machine water once Andy Murray's watched his match socks.  Who am I kidding, he probably wears new socks every match.  Anywho, it's BORING. A man speaks to me from my computer in a monotonic voice as I learn how to save a PowerPoint document, then turn to the next page in my accompanying workbook to learn how to rename that same document.  I'm learning computer programs from scratch. But by the end, however many months it'll take me, I'll have 17 certificates and have the skills to be a darn good PA.  Then I'll spread my wings, finally leave the nest, and find a job.  Big Wide World, here I come.

So that's my current situation.  Alongside this, I try to keep chirpy by playing hockey and netball, seeing friends (when I'm not chained to my laptop) and watching Grey' Anatomy (If I do the ironing at the same time, Mum doesn't notice and I get away with it...) I have no men in my life, so there's no fear they'll be reading this, and most importantly, I can go back to wearing REALLY BIG KNICKERS. They're so comfy. Every cloud....

This post is dedicated to Alex Stobbs, Frances Bowden and ReAnna Laney. Thanks for making me blog again. x