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.