fucking men with camouflage fetishes

I suppered with Hotel Boy last night and he's shamed me into going back to the blog world. I'd abandoned it not because I was fed up with not being publicly recognised (although I do feel I should be); but because of all annoying things a full-time job has foisted itself upon me. I'm back in the knicker business and thus on most days, up to my eyeballs in knickers.

Tearing myself away from all things small and lacy what I really want to explore is the recurring theme of men in my life and their odd camouflage fetish. I found myself yesterday writing a Dear John email of sorts to the chap I've been shagging - let's call him Porno Man (will explain another time). He was getting the flick due to a sighting of him in army camouflage patterned pants. I know it's only my opinion but they are truly a fashion faux-pas. I think of macho-mustachioed gay men - bare chested and leather capped. Not a potential father for my offspring.
Tragically this camo-pant shiver of horror was not the first to tingle my spine. Perhaps it's my destiny. Previous point in case: Last year when shagging Man-Recovering-From-Open-Heart-Surgery, I, Woman-Recovering-From-Broken-Heart - had to squeeze my eyes shut very very tightly to get over the glimpse of a camouflage patterned vest this lover was sporting. One hand hastily hoisting camo print polyester - it crackled (John Paul Gaultier polyester - still no excuse and further proof of Gay Man Wear). His other hand pushed eagerly on my head downwards to his slightly small penis. Hmm Porno Man's penis is also of questionable size; another coincidence?

Through tightly shut eyes and necessary blow-job focus I maneuvered the fleeting camo shock to the back of my mind. Simultaneously I countered that his outerwear was tastefully top notch; his upper east side townhouse to die for; and the discovery of a personal, delightfully-dirty turn-on: I totally got off getting fucked amidst a Museum-worthy collection of Richter, Ellison, Prince, Cattalan, Schnabel, Kentridge bla bla bla works of art.

Oh yes breakfast brought to one in bed by live-in housekeeper was also a little something which helped sweeten the nasty underwear blow. Perhaps I've been too hasty with Porno Man. With all these similarities a suggestion of a house-keeper-cum-chef, and contemporary art acquisitioning I may have to reconsider my hasty "Dear John".

Gestapo Moustache

Went for bikini-line maintainence yesterday. We are off to LA on Friday which means surfing, swimmers, and exposed body parts. Needed to attend to the bush as it really had turned substantially feral.

Have found the best Brazilian operator (Anna) on the planet. I'm definitely an expert in the art with vast international experience. The Eastern Europeans are definitely the best. A proclamation from extensive experimentation here, Sydney and London - thus a very broad-based study worth publishing.

Anna's operating room is far from luxurious. There is no soothing music courtesy of Anya or the whales, nor subdued and scented candle light courtesy of Henri Bendel's Home. Note to all beauticians - flickering, dulled light actually causes anxiety as I'm worried my blonde pubes are going to be missed, especially those exposed when the buttocks are pulled apart.

The room is basically bare and white. I have in the past worn sunglasses, as the glare from the mega-wattage fluro lighting above is sometimes too much for a hangover. Anna doesn't speak in hushed tones and she's not trying to push extortionately priced French sounding potions that are actually manufactured in Boise, Idaho for mere pennies.

I love this woman. I love the way she hoikes my right leg over her head and around her back. I call it the PWP - prone wrestling pose. As my leg strained against her meaty back I had a brainwave. Perhaps my fortune would come from creating my own yoga-esq movement created to allow limb positioning for maximum hair removal with minimal pain.

I was in pain, and it wasn't only due to the wax which I suspected was several degree too hot. No, having my right leg in an inverted 75 degree position, bent at the knee, my right ankle trying to hook her right breast from behind is not: graceful, elegant or serene. This of course I reminded myself is not the point of such humiliation - it's all about getting rid of the bush. The left leg doesn't get quite the same treatment. The left leg strains against the wall at an equally obtuse angle.

When it's time for getting those hairs surrounding the anus, a sharp slap on the bit of exposed right buttock and grunt tell me it's time to turn over and pull apart my bum. This is the part which I have to admit stings the most. Again I'm not sure if it's the heat of the wax or the tenderness of the skin. I'll check later for blistering which will confirm a too high a heat for the wax.

After the anal business another powerful slap on the left buttock this time - which gives me a hand mark to match the right and the signal to turn back for the finale. Extracting enough floss to floss my teeth for a month, Anna wraps it around her fingers and neck and gets down to the nity-gritty on the pesky hairs not ripped from their follicles ala wax. This for the uninitiated is called threading - usually the domain of black chicks and their eyebrows. Highly effective however for the Brazilian.

Finished, I inspected Anna's handiwork and was most pleased with the result. Prior to the waxing we had discussed the artwork I would like to sport, and was pleased to note that I did indeed have my own Gestapo moustache. Some women like lightening bolts, others hearts, but I like the tone my GP sets. It goes particularly well with my handcuffs and fuck-me boots.

The Crush

A week in San Francisco and things have not really gone according to plan.

Came out with SoyBoy who's interviewing for a new job after blowing his hedge fund up in New York. According to SoyBoy it was all his brother-in-law's fault.

So after having a preliminary interview in NY with a new hedge fund during which SB got into argument with interviewer - not really what one should strive for, we went west for the next stage. The whole deal was set up by a friend of SB who assured him it was a shoe-in. Meeting the friend for dinner on Saturday night with girlfriend in tow (moi) was also not the brightest move.

We arrive and then the Friend arrives. The scene is a dive bar with pool tables. I and SB are dressed accordingly - jeans, jumpers, trainers. Friend arrives shortly thereafter: dressed for a HOT DATE; plunging neckline on some velvety strapless number, double DD breasts impressively displayed like freshly baked souffles - begging to be plundered. It was then that I realised that Friend was actually Crush.

Who out of the three of us was the most embarrassed? I wanted to slip under the pool table and hide in the ball cavity for the rest of the night. Crush was utterly mortified; swiveling from me to SB - boobs windmilling with her head. SB, flapping his arms like some seagull. Opening and closing his mouth without uttering anything he then turned on his heel muttering something about going to the bar. Bastard!

Unable to fit into my desired hidyhole I launched into "SB's told me soooo much about you" mode. A big fat lie but I was trying to salvage the situation. When Crush replied "I'm sorry what's your name?" things didn't look great for the rest of the evening and it was only 6.30.

I swear it was the lack of sulfates

Important thing to remember; number 638: do not drink organic wine, biodynamic wine or anything pertaining to be sulfate free. Aside from the obvious conclusion that wine of this nature is most likely to be revolting - it is. It also aids getting very, very, drunk in a sneaky, cunning manner.

Hotel Boy and I were dining at a restaurant he picked in the East village. Do not go there. After sampling four different wines of the above mentioned "pure" method, each of which no less tastebud tantalising than the previous, Hotel Boy boldly suggested we opt for a fine little French number, which we'd not tasted. He was pulling French-Canadian rank; what would I know about French wines, being Australian? I wanted to point out that aside from ice wine what other vitacultural delights did the Canadanians ever bring to the table?

Unsuprisingly the unheard of maker produced a fine little vinegar. Suprisingly it miraculously improved - well it did in contrast to the soggy fish and accompanying shrivelled - opps sorry rehydrated organic vegetables.

Quaffing our bottle of organic plonk we rallied on into the night, ending up in an Alphabet City bar. Here I uncharacteristically started slinging back martinis - perhaps frightened by the prospect that with an empty glass I might be confronted by another bottle of dodgy French salad vinegar.

It was sometime after Hotel Boy started going on about his Hotel Room Thing and several martinis, I believe I decided to start flashing Hotel and the other poor souls who had me in their line of sight my double A breasts. Why? I have no idea. If I owned a pair of double D's, then at least an impromptu stripshow would have made sense. Chatting about the East Village Russian Baths, foot fetishes and future plans to combine both activities must have been the spur - but really that's no excuse. Therefore I'm blaming the lack of sulfates for my ridiculous behaviour.

My very own Baywatch

Flew into LA bright and early yesterday morning with SoyBoy. We are staying at SoyBoy's friend's house. The friend is a Lifeguard (to be more precise - a hot lifeguard) and I've already imagined some naughtiness; virtual sex is not straying as far as I know. In fact it's probably quite healthy. Good to know my hormones are active.

Hot Lifeguard's house is in Santa Monica, with direct access to the beach. From my bedroom window, whilst I'm lying in bed with my dirty thoughts of Hot Lifeguard and SoyBoy sleeping innocently beside me I can see the ocean and am feeling very happy.

The beach house worth squillions of dollars for its prime location exudes a charming casual quality, reminding me (if I shut my eyes really tightly) of my parents house in the bush. Only difference being in the type of drop-ins it welcomes. Coffs Harbour beach house - local nobodies; Santa Monica beach house - more hot Lifeguards, Hollywood wheelers and dealers, vacant but gorgeous models, celebs of varying success and the less-thought-of staff of world style-setters, but no less important.

Example A - Beach house is about to be rented for one week by Miuicci Prada's China Carrier (that is her official title) - for rest and recovery purposes, for the tidy sum of $30,000. It's hard work directing minions in Milan to wrap individual knives stamped with the Prada insignia for a private dinner for 12 in Los Angeles (Brat Pitt and Ben Stiller have accepted and will be scraping the bottom of; very excruciating experience, and no doubt holding their cutlery incorrectly - so American; in the company of Miuccia to celebrate the opening of her new LA store).

So I spent my first afternoon lazing by the pool, gazing out over the Pacific and at the motley (but hot - have I mentioned that) crew of Lifeguards who came in and out of the garden with surf boards tucked under their bulging bronzed biceps. Loving this holiday.

Early evening I went to a yoga class with SoyBoy's sister who at the end of the class burst into tears - apparently is was "just sooooo intense dude". Not sure about the tears. I wanted to burst into laughter when we were "panting like a tiger". I guess this is LA.

Then we partied with the hot Lifeguards. This may not be the most stimulating intellectually, but hey who needs Proust when you've got this much testosterone offering free surfing lessons. SoyBoy's not exactly wimpy but compared with the Adonis troupe I think some shutting of the eyes and reverting to past sexual proclivities;lying back and thinking of Britain during sexual liaisons with SoyBoy may be in order; or perhaps I can start "panting like a tiger".

Having the shit fucked into you

During a dirty, sweaty, lustful exchange of bodily fluids exclaiming "honey you're fucking the shit out of me" is the greatest compliment I can voice; in actuality however it's much more an oxymoron (explained below). Whilst in the moment, thoughts do flash between "this is fucking amazing" and "oh my god I think my spleen is now lodged permanently near my esophagus - probably not a good thing"; flick alternatively in my mind's eye.

After the paroxyms of a fabulous orgasm have finally ebbed away and the soles of my feet have stopped burning; (a true manisfestation of an organsm off the Richter scale) I'm left knowing that such a great fuck has dire consequences for future bowel movements. I've not had the shit fucked out of me but into me. For some reason however, my verbal proclamations of said lover's skills doesn't include, "honey, you're fucking the shit into me"... it just doesn't flow - literally.

So, now after four days of tremendous but quite hard-core fucking with Soy Boy I'm wondering what kind of therapist I desperately need to visit in order to have my internal organs repositioned to their natural place, and what anti-constipation concoction I can drink to help ease my discomfort.

Am thinking that perhaps a reflexologist would help and maybe I can create some kind of smoothie laced with chilies.

Claritin, Benadryl, Boogies

Smug in the knowledge that I missed the coldest, nastiest winter in most of my friends' New York existence, allergy misery which spring brings is not really the jolly I was looking forward to. Finally going to bed v late last night, after an amusing evening at Janey's new loft in Tribeca, assembling Bang and Olson sound system, drinking yummy wine as we toiled over speaker wires and listening to Maccers complain about a) latest fuck-up in her life who she never sees due to his heavy work schedule and b) fleetingly short and short in statue (no surprise due to following bit of info) but Hollywood-connected actor, I couldn't decide whether her slightly peculiar manner was due to being charlied up to her eyeballs, tripping on diet pills, or as many of us are at the moment rediscovering the pharmaceutical mind-fuck benefits of antihistamines. Another slight possibility as cause of her personality freakshow may also have had something to do with Soy Boy. Post early shags I learnt that he and Maccers had once had some kind of longish-term sexual relationship.

However the ramifications of antihistamines are far more interesting than rogering in this instance (hmm maybe too close to home). Over the past week or so I have been experimenting with various allergy combatants and have discovered that Claritin (now freely available over the counter) is a superb party pill which gets double whammy points for sinus clearing also. Honestly it works just the same as Charles but I can get it at Food Emporium around the corner and I don't need to line it up in dimly lit bathrooms.

On a Claritin kick I have: vacuumed, moped, toilet scrubbed and generally kept an impeccable Soy Boy apartment; of course this makes him adore me even more - I'm sure I have him fooled into thinking it's just part of the natural female house-proudness coming out in me - just he wait till Fall; and partied late most nights - although a Claritin and Chardonnay bender was also my weekly undoing doozie.

Last Friday night at Gustavinos in clear view and hearing range of only about 100 people I was exuberantly and no doubt loudly rambling on inanely to Soy Boy and our now favourite (but admittedly captured) bar staff (Croatian dude and Texan who's trying to look like a Mexican with new huge fuck-off moustache). Lurching drunkenly against the non-existent stool back I toppled, not delicately, from a great height onto the tiled (yes obviously hard) floor onto my (now) v sorry tailbone. Am still in pain a week from the embarrassing event - not that I wanted to hide in the corner for long - stupid as well. Under the effects of C&C, giggling, Soy Boy dragged me to my feet. Great foolish and typically klutzy-me moment I clambered back up onto the stool, ordered another Chard and washed down another white bullet.

Lying in bed last night at about one in the morning, unable to sleep from the Claritin buzz and still sore bottom bone I was amused by thoughts of the Prat. The Prat suffers allergies more than most but from some fucked-up stoic British sensibility refuses to take anything for it. I wonder now if indulging me in a little bit of pill popping could have saved our marriage? On more than occasion, boogies glistened against his dark nasal hairs, as he sat across the dining table with friends or clients, on view for all who were not sharp enough to catch a glimpse and quickly look away before wanting to vomit. I stress this was not a rare offence and he was not oblivious either.

Admittedly The Prat suffers terribly from hayfever in the summer and a never-ending cold during the winter, and therefore can not be faulted for suffering social blights such as boogie issues. What can not be excused however, is his indignation at dealing with them. Many evenings I spent on snot patrol - desperately trying to alert him to offending foreign bodies, which the general public would not want to have cocktails with nor share a meal. His constant annoyance at my sentry duty really did get my goat - didn't he understand this was how I showed I cared.

Journeying home arguments over this particular issue would lead me to contemplate the very foundations of our union. How could I live with a man who was happy to allow a boogie to hang out in company as if it were the equivalent of the family dog and not some unsavoury, unsightly chunky reflective green thing.

Good thing that Soy Boy, also suffering from seasonal allergies is a big fan of the drug industry. His drug of choice is Benadryl which he claims not only stops him breaking out in hives but also combats stress during business hours - watching his hedge fund go down the toilet doesn't seem to be having quite the ill effect he would have imagined. Additionally his little pink and white capsules also mix well with alcohol and company. What a shame, tonight is most likely going to be another FDA approved drug-fuelled hoot.

Spinning, marriage proposal on 3rd avenue and Californian invasion

I need to admit to someone (can't possible tell my friends) that I've been doing very little during the daylight hours, aside from trawling the local food emporiums for yummy things which have been lacking from my diet due to Prat imposed Thai diet and attending spinning classes to compensate for all those yummy things. I think I've become addicted to the spinning thing - something about the release of endorphins, communal sweating, and I guess hot instructor with bulging Lance Armstrong-like quadriceps is drawcard too.

Dined on Monday night with the Prat. Our first encounter since my mysterious disappearance from Primrose Hill. Once the Prat had returned to London and realised that several "safety-blanket" items in my life were missing - eye mask, lip balm and vibrator he politely emailed me several days later to enquire if I was in New York, LA, Sydney or Wakefield. Fair enough, although if he'd checked his BA account on-line he would have worked it out eventually. Anyway Prat was in New York and wanted to see me in order to retrieve keys to the flat in London and exchanged Sydney house keys. He particularly wanted the set I had with window locks and didn't think I'd mind. True true. We ate at Lever House in a complete papaya-salad-free zone and had a great night.

Tuesday night I went for dinner with my friend the incredibly talented Philharmonic pianist and multi-millionaire software developer. Some people are far to accomplished. Emailed said boy to check what time we were meeting. I thought it was to be 9pm but couldn't remember what he'd said at time of organising; I'd killed off a few brain cells at a cocktail party at his house which were clearly short-term memory cells - not so important really. Anyway yes, my guess had been correct. Although he then offhandedly mentioned that we were to meet in the lounge of Spice Market (latest NY Meatpacking district hotspot) at 9pm but our dinner reservation wasn't until 11pm. I'm sorry but that is just ridiculous. My protests fell on deaf ears - well actually my follow-up email, suggesting this was so went unreplied.

Hence I appeared at 9pm absolutely starving; threw back a couple of champagne cocktails to take the edge off my appetite and way-hey it worked. Suddenly it was 11pm and we were being seated. I was not so drunk to realise that this was also not the last seating. Large parties of beautiful people were being shown to their sumptuous late night zones without mugs of warm milk and cookies.

The Software Pianist, who is always delightful company was on this night somewhat nervous and ended up the most drunk I've ever seen him. We chatted about my latest London departure, my lack of job prospects, my belongings strewn across the globe and basic directionless of my life at age 30. Of course this just made his smooth-flowing successful existence all the more glaringly obvious. He was just about to close on a five million dollar, seven bedroom house in the Hamptons with Ocean and Bay views, as well as ever screaming up the charts of American's most wealthy, single and charming. I wanted to puke - and it wasn't because of the Bolly quaffing.

We finished dinner and when the bill came without complimentary comforter (duvet for those who read English not American) I realised we weren't sleeping over. Software Pianist saw me to a taxi to dispatch me home. Ever the gentleman he then insisted on traveling with me and seeing me safely to my door. OK then....

I believe at about 40th and Third Avenue he then grabbed my hand and asked me if it would be an improper time and place to ask me to marry him. Oh my god! It wasn't an actual proposal - more a testing of the waters. At least this explained his nerves - and I thought it was just his upcoming solo performance in front of Bush. Actually no one is seriously nervous in front of that man - are they?

Yesterday, after lying in bed for an inordinate amount of time, mulling over my almost proposal I: eventually rose; did some shopping - found these amazing dried but still slightly squishy strawberries - v yummy with vanilla icecream; made a marinade for chicken which entailed me spending a silly amount of time looking for fresh guava juice and ancho puree and popped off to the gym to spin.

Returning home absolutely starving, Soy Boy who I had envisaged having a romantic, simple evening at home with informed me that one of his mother's best friends from high school, her two friends and one of these friend's son's were coming for dinner! They were all flying into NY from LA, arriving at about 7.30pm and would be with us by 9pm. Fucking hell another late night dining experience ahead of me but without marriage proposal, phew.

So, it's now Thursday afternoon and once again I'm still wandering around in my knickers with unbrushed hair. Teeth are clean and flossed and I've also managed to scrape blue cheese remnants off kitchen floor, pack the dishwasher (feel I'm easing into domesticity) and make list (thank you again Prat) of things which I need to pick up on the way home from spinning for supper tonight, which is also involving a number of Californians (not the same ones) amongst other imports.

Dinner last night with all the Californians was absolutely delightful, even if son of friend was a little kooky. He'd just returned from 10 days in Australian outback making a cross between The Bachelor and Survivor and had fallen in love with the Australian make-up artist. He is now busy planning the rest of their lives together in Melbourne. Yes, he was v nice, but I know Australian women and my guess is this kook is going to prove a little tooo Californian. He also confessed to having to break up with his Romanian girlfriend tonight who conveniently for the Australian angle is docking today on the Queen Mary(??). He'd met that love of his life on the cruise ship as he sat across from her dealing on the Black Jack table; Australia chick was probably less-than thrilled when he received a phone call from his fiancee and it was broadcast over tannoy to entire film crew; but then again love is blind.

Prat-free but not really single - dabbling in new something

Have been absent from the blogging world due to necessary skiing holiday and dreamy new boy (well not new-new). Day after I set Maya on course for weekly house chores I popped off to Whistler with Squidy and en famille. What a shame when this wee vacance was organised Prat couldn't come with! Thus I had 11 glorious Prat-free days with good friends and referred above boy who now has new name - was the soybean omlette lover - now Soy Boy.

Am now somewhat loved up with Soy Boy. Not only is he a hot skier but he cooks, cleans and adores me. I know all this because I have kind of moved in. Much of course to his friends and family's distress. But I think so long as the sex is spectacular he won't be wanting to get rid of me just yet.

Decided on my return to London from Whistler that I was going to do the last runner from Prat. Thus less than 24 hours later I was back on BA and en route to New York. Am now tappy-tap typing from Soy Boy's computer in his upper east side apartment. I have the East river and Queensboro Bridge on my left, Guastavino's - our dining room, when Soy Boy isn't whipping up something incredible for me and my friends below, cable car above and sun streaming on my face.

Was concerned with how to address the egg vs soybean product issue, but I delicately talked it through with Soy Boy and he now lovingly poaches me organic real eggs. The other major concern is what will I moan about now that Prat is no longer?

Not born to vacuum

Thought I'd do the right thing yesterday and clean the flat. Cleaning in one of my least preferred activities. Do not understand how anyone feels euphoric after removing limescale from a bathtub. Notwithstanding I dragged the vacuum cleaner out and began. It didn't last long. Within two minutes of sucking up two months worth of dust (Prat doesn't clean either) I thought, fuck it.

After letting my fingers do the trawling I found in the easily navigated Ham & High 04 colour pages a delightful little ad for Homeclean. Happy little picture of a bright yellow washing up glove with the quip "Why not let someone else do the dirty work", my sentiment exactly.

After speaking with Theresa for all of two minutes, begging her to send someone immediately - Maya appeared less than an hour later. Hallelujah. I immediately put Maya to work, following the less than grand tour of a grubby two bedroom flat; noting no words of "nonsense" as Maya surveyed the filthy nest I forewarned Homeclean it was. Three hours later Maya had removed all dust, grime, limescale, paper and other crap which somehow ends up inside one's home without notice.

Fortuitously Prat turned up about 10 minutes after Maya's exit. Sooooo glad I'd not wasted three hours of my time spicking and spanning. His only comment before plopping in front of the TV for a cosy evening With Botham and The Windies - "oh you've cleaned up a bit". My God, the place was sparkling. Not that I corrected him in his assumption.

Instead I picked his coat pocket for £20 quid - the cost of Maya's three hours, called her boss and booked her again for this morning. I'm now sitting at a dust-free laptop and basking in Maya's amazing handiwork. Today I asked her to organise for two hours. She's absolutely brilliant. Prat's wardrobe has never housed such neat piles of t-shirts, nor have single socks ever met their significant other. Can't wait to see if he notices - am almost willing him to come home early. Well maybe not, the test match is still on after all.

In case you were wondering I paid her today with the piles of loose change lying about. Prat has a thing about small change - it's no good you know. Seems to be a male thing - I've encountered it before. Hence there are hundreds of pounds in two, fives and ten pence pieces lying about - which Maya now has, weighing down her pockets (I wouldn't advise swimming) or else are waiting in jars ready for her next week's appointment.

Too Good To Last - He's Def A Prat

Knew the love couldn't last. A week tomorrow night and I will have been back in London for one week. The Prat and I have been hanging out, since Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday he came back from Germany with a Dior mascara for me. For whatever reason he called from one of the duty free cosmetic candy stores asking if there was anything I needed. "Well, actually yes - mascara". Hence I got mascara. V unlike Prat behaviour - I was v suspicious.

So, he comes back mid afternoon - decided not to go to the office as he wanted to spend quality time with me. More suspicion. We go to the pub. There was the suggestion of Thai, but I decided to push my good luck and nix that pronto. We have a great time - as great as it can be with a Prat.

Following couple of days are fine. I don't see him - I've other stuff going on. Friday night, well Saturday morning at about 3am my Soho House mischief-making friend (he's a permanent fixture - you'll see him practically stuck to the bar by whiskey residual sugars - just don't touch - he's really really sticky) decides to answer my phone. How he heard it ringing I have no idea. Until that point I was having a riotous time with Gweebeart, some Welsh Rarebit Gweebeart has pulled and Soho House sticky-fixture boy.

Suddenly Soho House hands me the phone - "I think it's the Prat", he announces.

Of course I'm thinking oh fuck - I did kind of say that I was going out for a drink and possibly something to nibble with Gweebeart and that I probably wouldn't be late. This wasn't a lie, but time got away, we got pissed, Gweebeart met the Welsh Rarebit and Soho House and I got increasingly drunk and more and more funny - well we think so.

Reality check - Prat is furious. He's pissed at me because I'd told him I'd go to the country with him on Saturday to look at country pads. Now he knows and I know that I'm going to be miserable, tired and hungover. Not great for property viewing, nor for Prat and I relations.

The good thing (always look for the good thing) is that Soho House (the actual house) is closing. Once again the lights go on. We all squint, realise how drunk we are, stumble out and I eventually get a minicab. Finally I'm back in Primrose Hill. I've called Prat several times from the car, but each time he answered, he also promptly hung up on me. Why fucking answer at all?!

Of course I'm so pissed by this point - that's what happens - the night gets longer but the drinking gets faster. So I decide to call a few people in New York. No one was around to answer their phone. I know I called Soybean Omelet Love interest, and left him an incredibly gooey message - can't remember what I said but that's my style. Will be v embarrassed when we next speak. Actually also knew he wouldn't answer as he was skiing and there isn't mobile reception at Mt Snow. If I find out otherwise I'll be pissed. Phew. Called a few others but gave up when there was no one around for me to slur my words at.

I miraculously rallied on Saturday. Fueled on icy, icy, sugary cold things. Lots of chocolate milkshakes and frozen chocolate covered bananas sorted me out-ish. I almost fooled Prat that I was OK, but he dryly commented that I surely couldn't be if I was wearing sunglasses during Britain's worst storm for the year - rain was pelting down from a horizontal trajectory and the wind was ripping Cotswold stone tiles off houses yet I seemed perfectly happy to stand out in it all jittery, hyperative and hiding behind shades. Still very nice to get out into the country; we stayed at a delightful Inn in Bibury - guests were cosy couples and one odd pair of bickering ex-marrieds.

It's now Sunday night and the Prat and I came back from the country earlier today than anticipated. Prat got huffy with me because I didn't agree on his house of choice. He said that he was so mad because my reasons for not liking his preference were so esoteric that he couldn't even be bothered to argue with me and would rather come back to London and watch cricket. Hence forth that's what we did. Such a Prat!

Beware the foxing soybeans (modern day same same beware the Ides of March)

Never a fan of the overnight flight to London (even when you can do the flat bed business), I plumped for the day flight. Just my timing however, when I find myself in bed with someone rather dishy, (who cooks his two night stand breakfast no less). My only tip for this fabulous lover is to get some real eggs. I know egg white omelets are girl friendly and low fat, but hey when it's yellow and served with a hearty ration of bacon with the rind slash fat left on - you make a mental note to do an extra 20 mins on the bike that night, and tuck in. Or, in my case when you've spent the majority of the night shagging you think a three egg omelet is good for you. This however was a trick. Hmm funny texture I thought. Proudly I was informed that in fact it wasn't egg at all - clearly mistaking my bemused expression for relief at dodging the cholesterol I was told that in fact it was soybeans, foxing at being an egg.

The soybean invasion continued. The egg-in-soybean disguise was Friday morning's discovery. Sunday night at my friend's birthday party, (a fabulous Belgi born on the Ides of March) the soybean reared again. Back to the Ides of March - this being an unlucky date - just ask Julius, the Belgi only celebrates the day before or after. After poo pooing her superstition I then learnt that three years in a row she was fired from her job on the very day. Poor poppet no wonder she was a little sweaty, the fourth year firing anniversary was less than 12 hours away.

However I digress back to the soybeans. A platter of incredible European cheeses puddled around (the Brie and Camembert hogging a lot of platter space) a barely touched semi-firm white mound. A great discussion was held - was it Fetta, no, it was Ricotta, no not that either. It struck me that it must have been another soybean product. Tasting it - boring. Texture hmm very similar to the omelet. I made my declaration and the Vegans moved in with evangelical fervour. Suspicion was then aired over a number of not-quite mousse, not-quite cheesecake cakes. Obviously there are no soybean food mountains to protest about.

A bit more information re the Soybean omelet Lover. My flight was out of Newark at 8am. Sprinting from his upper east side apartment to a taxi and downtown to Union Square I then had 15 minutes to get my shit together (note I had actually packed the day before hoping for Sunday night assignation with SOL). Thus just enough time to walk in on a passed out nude Papist, grab my bag and make the car to the airport.

All in all a fab NY adventure.

Coordinating your almonds with your curtains

It's mid afternoon and today has been a curious unfolding of events. First of all Prat phoned from Paris en route to Copenhagen for dinner. As predicted apart for a few days and separated by a few thousand miles Prat has been reacqainted with his missing, missing instincts. Tempting suggestions of a Parisian weekend rendezvous offered to the same chick, whom this time last week he couldn't wait to be shot of. Of course I now feel guilty for calling him Prat - it's a bit harsh really. Hmm will think of new kinder, softer pseudonym in keeping with the Paris treat.

Crazy German girlfriend, Bratwurst, emailed me to tell me that she and long-term, live-with boyfriend had split up following a throttling incident. Throttling should not be taken lightly. Alarmed at her casual business-like notification - did she send a group email? I quickly emailed her back to enquire if she was OK. "yah yah, fabulous darling, I now have a slightly longer and skinnier neck - you know super-model like", she trilled as only a mad German bird could.

Potential French business partner emailed me to tell me that after long discussions with his partner in Italy, they were not at the stage of involving a "fashion guru" - his words for me - bloody Frog. I think their business plan sucks. Surely if one is a guru, they are to be obeyed and listened adoringly to - also in fashion speak a "must have" item. These Frogs have lots to learn.

Need to recover from BNOs (big nights out) at a faster pace. Last night met up with fabulous British girly friends - Maccers and Janey for Prat-whine sesh. Felt as though I let the team down, as I was less than sparkly and possibly as engaging as a bar napkin. Thankfully Maccers is a local at Public - drinking venue and with that position of influence there were plenty of more interesting folk to chat with. Theoretically this is the case, however when they happen to be Scottish with v thick highland accents it's more like like a foreign language lesson.

The previous night however I'd been in full flight - air kissing with gusto downstairs at the Maritime, at the Whitney biennial afterparty. Decided to skip the opening - always hordes of people, you can't see the art and I didn't fancy schlepping up town. Better to dine with friends then go to the party and nod in agreement with the thoughts posed by those who did battle the preview crowds.

My Euro-inspired air kiss nonsense did prove alluring however. Was whisked away by a tall, dark, handsome man (would say stranger but that would be lying) and invited upstairs to view a suite. Felt it was my duty as uncannily enough had been chatting over drinks that very night with fellow Soho House closing friend who hankers for hotel rooms. We were in the W Hotel's Underbar, drinking in the midst of a Starsky and Hutch fan club gathering and a Very Tall Woman Association meet; when he mentioned how he liked the hotel's rooms. On previous occassions this hotel room appreciation thing had cropped up, and I do believe we've discussed the merits of many hotel rooms across the globe. The principal suite at Claridges in London comes with Butler for instance.

Moving on to the Maritime, Roomy Hanker "Hank", asked if we could see a room or two. Unfortunately room showings are only offered between 9am and 5pm. Note this rules out trysting outside business hours. Thus with an invitation for a private view dangling, how could I refuse. It was the least I could do for Hank whom I'd had a great night with and was sad to see leave. Thus for your knowing pleasure Hank everything is in pure tonal coordination - browns and creams; almonds as token arrival gift a shade or two darker than the comforter and perhaps a touch lighter than the curtains. Distracted from my task however, I'm unable to provide any further details, other than to say it was nice but I think we can find better. Perhaps next time Hank, you can make an advance booking in whatever hotel we happen to be passing through.

Simple delights

There are perks to not having a job. Believe me having now not earned a single cent since October I've had plenty of time to spot a lurking perk, sometimes hiding in plain daylight - or in this case harsh unflattering fluro light. After a day of much re-discovery of portfolio drawings, magazine editorials and the like; and pulling from camouflaged hiding places my ski gear I decided to treat myself from these apartment-bound tasks, and nip off to the gym for a good cardio session. Didn't need to concern myself with weights - ski boots wiggled from the back of a v high cupboard hide hole and ski pants, jacket, mask, hat, gloves etc all bulky and quite heavy - discretely hidden from my adored, often purple-robed Papist's view; in the cavernous secret places of his rather large loft. Much huffing and puffing emitting from my lips as I reacquainted myself with these lost necessities.

Thus, following a damn good workout I was headed towards the changing room. Suddenly genie like the resident masseur who was trying to drum up business by performing mini massages on view to other sweating workoutees suggested he work his magic on my body which he had determined saw a lot of stress throughout the day (possible pervert perhaps - ogling me working my body into a lather). Ha, of course I agreed wholeheartedly, nodding that yes I was under a tremendous amount of daily stress - the pressures of modern life. However, I responded that whilst it was a kind offer, I had sworn allegiance to another and couldn't possibly let the knots in my back be worked on by foreign hands. He mocked my dedication, boasting that after an hour's gratis massage I would be begging him for a weekly pummeling.

Naturally I had to take on this challenge, and thus quickly swept into the massage studio, leaping wholeheartedly and naked on to his massage table - poo-pooing for dramatic effect, for the first few minutes his inability to shake my belief in another's strong hands.

Busy bee

Am going to NY tomorrow - yippee. Prat is going somewhere to, but don't know where and I really don't care. Obviously the birthday weekend wasn't great. Promising start Friday night. In the pub for a few glasses of wine and a spot of casual dinner - a bit too casual for Prat. Had a group of Euros plonk themselves on our table ie/ sitting on table, not at table and were busy photographing each other on their new mobile phones with camera facility. Anyway Prat, being a prat slapped one on the bottom and I thought "Oh my God - we're going to have a punch up". Unfortunately the Euro was weedy and thus scurried off instead of squaring up. Think I would have been barracking for weedy Euro.

Saturday we did indeed go to the country. Prat is now looking at country pads. He fancies himself as a bit of a Squire. I don't. Feeling frisky and charitable, motioned to Prat for a bit of a roll in the hay, in a shed on the property of one of the converted barns we viewed. Thus the daylight hours were quite jolly.

Came back to London for Saturday night, as I'd booked dinner at London's premier Thai restaurant Nahm in The Halkin hotel. I know, I know, thai when I have to eat it the other six days a week. But hey it is Prat's favourite food, or so I thought. I was being thoughtful and gracious for his birthday. Anyway I should have known better. Prat gets into argument with waitress over menu and me over wine list. Indignantly he declares that both I and waitress are "up our own arses". Hmm he is the most arrogant tosser I've come across in a while. Not that I've come across many others. Seem to be hanging with Thai restauranteurs, real estate agents who fawn and the launderer (another Thai and very nice) - yet to meet a horrid Thai.

However, diffused situation - placated Prat with suggesting he choose all food to pass our lips and wine to quench the heat. I slipped out to the bar (pretending to need the toilet) for a nerve calming cigarette and shot of tequila. Incidentally whilst there for all of five minutes I did manage to chat to a very nice and cute non-prat. Dinner progressed well enough all though I was quite miffed when Prat, scoffing all food in nanoseconds started doing his head roll and shoulder wiggle. Poor baby was tired and wanted to go home. People it was 10pm. Thought about seeing Prat to a taxi and going back to bar but realised that I didn't have any house keys and knowing Prat - he'd not hear me buzzing at 2am. Didn't fancy sleeping on the front step. Thus took a deep breath and mantraed "beauty sleep, beauty sleep" all the way home. Did almost stab Prat with Manolo stilly heel however when he informed me that he was actually "quite sick of thai for the moment!" - spoken in his most pompous tone. Went to bed hungry and seething but thinking "beauty sleep, beauty sleep".

Sunday (early) and a new day. Went to yoga to see David, my guru, who remarked how refreshed I looked. Felt much calmer after much ohmming and hssing through nose - or perhaps it was just being incredibly light headed from not much food, yoga in 90 degrees and postures involving nose to navel whilst in an inverted headstand.

All good yoga practice and (Prat imposed) fasting results have now been dashed. After yoga went to brunch with good French friend for Eggs Benedict and several Bloody Marys. Feel much more like the real me.

Some days are very good.

Yesterday was very productive. Although listing off my achievements to massage therapist yesterday afternoon I did detect scoffing. Something in the extra pummelling applied to back of thighs (had to crab out the door afterwards) after proudly boasting of Brazilian bikini wax (BBW) not to be confused with BBC or BMW appointment? Anyway not to digress from the point. I managed to wangle an appointment at v hot, v celeb-orientated salon for above mentioned defluffing of bikini line and legs. Getting coiffed for Prat's big b'day weekend and my NY escape next week. Never know what situations may call for being hair-free. Actually I have an idea and they usually involve contra-indicated positions, which cute Australian (see below; would wag his finger at, unless he was involved perhaps).

Spent morning with physio, who happens to be a very cute Australian. I'm thinking about increasing my weekly visits. He's actually quite dreamy. Has a house in France, somewhere near Limoges - sounds idyllic. Very fit. Has entered a section of Tour de France, near country pad. Runs - is therefore v sympathetic to Post-Keepee's quest to run this year's NY marathon - hence weekly visits to cute Australian. He taught me how to strap my knee yesterday, flirtatiously so, and another of the day's achievements. Maybe we will swan off to France together. He'll compete and win the Tour de France. He'll then devote the European summer to training me, as well set up a small practice in the French countryside for the six months or so until the NY marathon. We'll then go to NY, where I'll run sub 3.5hrs. He'll be there to soothe the aches and pains and we'll then jet off to Australia for the southern hemisphere summer. I like this plan. When should I tell him?

Onwards ...

Went away for a girly weekend with good friend Gweebeart to the country to meet up with other great friend Squidgy. The ladies had a wonderful time, drinking too much wine (has become an almost daily event under the strain of Prat-stress) and eating things not revolving around rice. Fresh ears to whine about Prat. Surprise Surprise on London return I was missed. I think it has something to do with the fact that he has a birthday this week and wants the Post-Keepee (new personal pronoun) to organise something fabulous. This is what I do best according to him.

Hmm what else. Well as indicated have spent much of the past couple of weeks going out with various friends and getting absolutely trolleyed. Feels fantastic at the time but oh my god the hangovers are horrific. Have been unable to get out of bed until at least 5pm on two consecutive days - only trips to the bathroom to throw up and desperate icy-cold chocolate milkshake making in kitchen have interspersed much groaning and throbbing. Can now dubiously boast of closing almost all branches of Soho House. New York outpost was accomplished last year and in the past ten days I've completed the trifecta of Soho House, Soho London and The Electric, Notting Hill. Just need to add Babbington House to complete the task. Actually good idea for birthday Prat. Will suggest it over pad thai tomorrow night, a trip to the country this weekend could be very refreshing and hopefully green curry free.

On a more productive note have been soldiering on with book. Now have official editor (well I've titled them as such)who thus far has complemented me with "I laughed out loud". Prat did point out however that "editor" may have inappropriate vested interest in suggesting my comic ticklings. I've chosen to ignore Prat's opinion as sour grapes, as no one ever says he's funny. Although I have also been told I'm weird - but in a charming sense apparently. See I do have worth outside role of thai restaurant booker and shirt laundering coordinator. Have also organised work-esq trip to NY next week. Am going to explore a few things and pick up a few things I'll be needing in the next few weeks. Explanations to come at later date. Am pressed for time.

Am going to friend's for dinner tonight and will try v hard not to consume largest quantity of wine and thus not confirm his worries that I am now officially a lush. He's kindly offered to help me get my resume looking presentable as he believes (as do I) that I need to re-enter the working world.

So must go blow-dry hair and do other girly things. Am already thinking of the first glass of vin and yes OK the second as well. I promise to stop there.

trials and tribulations - Keeper becomes Prat

Errrrrrrr. Penned a blog last week in draft form only to discover it didn't save. Was so annoyed I blanked the blog for several days. Wonder if it got the message. Thus have learnt never draft. Be brave - post and publish in one swift movement.

So, life was going swimmingly well, all things considered until early this week, when suddenly things have nose-dived rather dramatically. The differences in the type of home that the Keeper and the Keepee have in mind simply do not match. This one not-exactly-insignificant difference has now illuminated all the other differences between us. The honeymoon, or actually the post-divorcemoon is over and now I think I remember why the hell we got divorced in the first place.

Quite simply he is a pompous British prat who thinks my entire role in life is to simply please him and his every whim. I'm supposed to dress for him - this rules out my fabulous furr which he deems not appropriate pub wear. Of course I dissagree vehemently - has he never heard of ironic chic. My fabulous furr and my beaten-up old jeans look great together; talk about topics of interest only to him i.e. the state of British cricket; go to restaurants only of his choosing - this gets incredibly tiresome as the man is willing and capable to eat thai food seven nights a week from the local around the corner that noone else seems to go to and has interrogation lighting - under which the Keepee then gets grilled on cricket.

Arrrrr. So I'm fed up and contemplating my next move. I have to take stock, write lists (something the Keeper has taught me, for which I am grateful) and then act. I think the most sensible thing, as well as where I would rather be anyway - well maybe not until it warms up - is to move back to New York.

Anyway before I start that list I have to take the Keeper's (whom from this moment on is going to be called Prat) shirts to the drycleaner and call the thai restaurant to make sure we can get our usual table - you can't be too sure, it is after all Friday and perhaps there will be the other odd diner.

Obsessed Property Purchaser Who Fancies Herself As Developer

Attacking the London property market with gusto has certainly been eye-opening. Racking up an impressive sixty-odd viewed properties I've definitely got a feel for the market. And the feeling is not good. Too many buildings with great bones have been laid to waste by developers with adopted taste from an Ikea catalogue. Not that there's anything wrong with plain vanilla Scandiness. It's just not want I want when spending close to a million of Keeper's pounds. Traipsing over pale blonde wood floors and marveling (not) at the fitted granite kitchen units.

Seriously fancy myself as a developer material. Tackling a derelict house, Georgian period perhaps and contemporise sympathetically - historic features noted. God I'm beginning to see not having a job leads to delusions on a grand scale. Next I'll be considering running for local mayor.

So, raised the idea of my property development aspirations at dinner last night and I do believe the Keeper inhaled his martini in one in-breath, swallowing the extra olives all at once. I guess I should take that as an indication of his lack on belief in the Keepee's architect slash interior designer slash building site managerial potential . I think my girlfriend, Gweebeart, also dining with us, thought it was great idea, although I can't always be sure as she has a lazy eye which can't express the same degree of enthusiasm as the other.

Seriously, though there is a lot of crap out there. I've only seen two properties I feel I'd want to buy. One, very cool converted printing house from the 1930's with printing paraphernalia still hanging from ceilings. Unfortunately it's not in the most pucker part of London, thus nixed by Keeper. He only had eyes for the council housing estate and the likes that mill about outside them i/e youths under 18, scowling and dressed in baggy tracky bottoms and hoodies pulled tight so that only lips and tip of nose is visible.

More promising is the traditional maisonette we are viewing for second time tomorrow. Should appeal to Keeper as it has all the attributes he desires - three bedrooms, separate sitting room, separate dining room (for all those local council meetings I could host). Biggest bonus is an unparalleled view of Primrose Hill - not a single council estate brick insight.

My only concern is the decor. Hopefully the Keeper will be able to look beyond the 1980's Playboy theme the place purports now. The current owner - Playboy lives in Miami and it was his when-in-London chick-pulling pad. Clearly he upset someone in the family as they have now taken it away from Playboy and want to sell it off. I wonder if the all-black tiled bathrooms and mirrored ceilings throughout bathrooms and bedrooms will put Keeper off?

New Job Description

Keeper has kept the Keepee (moi) v busy. Have spent the past three days looking at possible new accommodations for us. Have decided to label it my new job. Have unfortunately but not surprisingly discovered there is a mismatch in our ideals. The keeper would love to move to Fulham or Chiswich ie/ baby land and start filling the six bedrooms he has his mind set on. The Keepee on the other hand wants to find a uber-cool artists loft in either Notting Hill, Sth Ken, ie/ central London and pretend she's still 25. Was pleased to spot a trendy mummy pushing one of those 4WD buggy things in Notting Hill this morning, looking v smug in her locale. Note to self - tell Keeper of sprog sighting within M25 radius. I considered asking her if I could borrow her pram with babe and trialing the look for the day. Decided that with all the stair climbing - in and out of five house so far today and have five more for late this afternoon I wouldn't be a happy camper by afternoon's end.

Going to supper at happily-married with-twins and another-on-the-way friends tonight - so no doubt will bore them senseless with my new daily activities. Please god send a message advising how to not let brain dry up and fall out of my ears.

Dined last night at Club Gascon - fab SW French restaurant and bar in Smithfield market. Lots of yummy offally things. The Keeper chose the vegetarian menu. The Keepee plumped for the steak with bone marrow and kidney reduction. Need to keep my strength up for all those stairs. Wine selection was memorable too (I think, if I could remember).

Now have a new mobile. Keeper insisted I acquire one asap. With all the fancy technology available in UK and Europe (US is still light years behind in technology) I was offered a phone that not only duel-purposed as MP3 player but also had GPS ie/ satellite navigation capabilities. Refrained as there's only so much tracking I want the Keeper to be able to do. A girl needs to be able to disappear every so often - especially in the vicinity of Harvey Nich's.

Keeper keeps calling me throughout day to check up on my accommodation sourcing. Don't want to say house hunting as I'm worried a flat is all that's within our monetary parameters, unless I give in and move to the nice family home areas of London and start baking bread. Wish he wouldn't call - what am I supposed to chat to him about, over the home cooked roast chicken I've lovingly prepared after his hard day at the office?

Must dash - have an appointment with a rather cute estate agent. I guess this job does have it's perks. Saw a house with him on Saturday and have found another under his sales list that I've decided I really should look at, even if I don't like it.

looking for a gardener

Testing.... Testing.... One ........ Two......... Three......... Isn't that what you do? Have invested many hours today in trying to set my blog up to receive comments from other bloggers. Am somewhat proud of my efforts, for an uneducated internet boffin.

will be testing in a short while.

Am under strict instructions before returning to UK to sort out a gardener for Sydney house, as it will be empty for most of the year. Was given this task on the weekend by the British keeper and have thought about it but done nothing to achieve it. Well I've been busy. Have promised myself that after I finish typing this I'm going to pop next door to enquire about my neighbour's gardener. This is actually just an excuse to hear a private recital by 'ivory tinkler" - Australia's pre-eminent composer. I've been catching the delightful tinkling on his piano for a couple of weeks now, and I feel he's at a place where my keen ears would be to his benefit. I'll get round to the gardener acquisition eventually.

daddy's enlightenment

This better work. Spent inordinate amount of time composing on Saturday morning my Friday night's exploits. Crafting of course to be witty without appearing to have sweated over words as big as "the" or "a". System crashed before I'd published and posted. V annoyed and didn't look at my laptop again until, well anyway I digress.

Phew, have managed to survive visit by parents. Several weeks ago (I think it was over Christmas sherry and lemonades at my grandparents (yes I do have friends believe me) I was feeling all family-orientated. Suggested that my parents come to Sydney for the Australia day long weekend. Imagined spending a wonderful weekend of culture, shared with my parents that we could then look back on in years to come as the weekend of parental/daughter bonding.

Began positively enough on Friday night. Mother arrived in time for dinner which I'd decided would be best spent at cool but not-to-cool casual seafood restaurant. Think Mary's Fishcamp or Pearl Oyster Bar, but southern hemisphere version in Paddington, Sydney.

We dined on 45 degree pavement, oh so chic, amongst many dogs and their stylish owners. Higher dog count to owners at most tables, except for ours. People 2 - dogs 0. Best example - seven dogs to four two-legged patrons. Five yappy heel-biters under table and around chair legs with three over-sized Great Danes lounging resplendently on pavement, they too on severe angle but you know dogs - would they care?

I wouldn't have minded either if I'd not needed to use my chips as barrier to my delicately grilled (v yum) barramundi from sliding off plate and table and into waiting woofer's chops. I feel Sydney is succumbing to wanna' be French thing; same affliction as NY. Stumbled home bathed in a Chardy glow.

Saturday morning came, rather earlier than I'm used to and with it the arrival of my dad. Good country bloke - think Russell Crowe without the good looks or bank balance, and a whole host of other apparently positive attributes. Went for breakfast with mother, a female friend of hers, me and papa. He acquitted himself well amongst all females and the conversation revolving around birthing strategies. So far so good. Mother went off mid morning for girly treatments and I bravely suggested my father accompany me to a contemporary art exhibition or two.

Enticed him by the idea of the first exhibition being a car display. It was - Nam Jun Paik work. Neglected to explain that they were all old American mobiles painted silver with opera heralding from hidden speakers. V cool - situated on Opera House forecourt; I think he just thought it odd.

Next was exhibition in Opera House. All designers based in Sydney of various media. He did fine at this one. Nothing too conceptual to worry about. I was easing him into a more formidable opponent. Third on the agenda was the MCA's Leigh Bowery retrospective. Nudes of Bowery by Lucian Freud were the tamer of the material shown. Comments including "Geez big poofter wasn't he" incredulously came from my father's ogling mouth. I worried needlessly until I noticed he seemed to be drawn to Leigh's fetish shoe collection, and in particular a pair of extreme platforms titled "sewerage shoes". My father is a man who owns perhaps three pairs of shoes - thongs (flip flops for internationals), Blundstones (work footwear) and RM William boots (posh footwear). He was also captivated by a human birthing costume called "the cunt" - perhaps this was a subconscious link to breakfast conversation.

I dragged my dad away, but not before he'd purchased the catalogue of all the costumes displayed. Maybe my Sydney friends will be identifying my father at this year's Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.

We then meandered through the Botanical Gardens, dodging the bat poo which is much bigger and smellier than pigeon poo.

Saturday afternoon was spent leisurely sipping wine and swallowing oysters overlooking Finger Wharf Bay. No complaints there. Saturday night was the big dinner for three event. I booked a very nice Italian restaurant which was BYO. Before escaping Coffs Harbour (town where the parents live and I had to pay a visit on re-entry to Australia) I'd squirreled away from their well-stocked cellar few bottles (oh OK thirty or so) of perfectly aged Shiraz'. Late 70's and early 80's vintages. With these prizes in mind I'd booked a restaurant worthy of their opening.

Dinner went well, as did the wine. Only slight skirmish was when dad had suggested taking a few beers (stubbies) as well. Well, fine but I'd put my foot down when he also wanted to take his own stubbie holder. google this if you don't know what I'm referring to.

Sunday was booked up with a lunch at the yacht club, swimming in the pool and lounging on the sundeck. Friends of my parents also accompanied us and I have to admit everything went according to plan except for perhaps my dad's enthusing about Leigh's costumes and accoutrements.

Sunday evening we had tickets to outdoor Moonlight Cinema watching The Italian Job. Nothing to report out of the ordinary there - although my dad did seem a bit pre-occupied with the gay couples and their romantic antics.

Monday arrived and because it was Australia Day my mother decided that we should go to the Rocks (oldest part of Sydney) for brunch and a wander. Fine. On the way we stumbled across another automotive display. Classic cars lined the streets, which we had to inspect - a car theme had definitely taken root.

Following lunch we came back to the house and my parents packed up and headed for the airport. They wanted to get the Qantas lounge for a few drinks before getting back to the bush. So now, I've only got a few days left before I leave Sydney and summer and head for the cooler climes of Old Blighty.

Should also report that this weekend has not seen any manic smoothie making, but then again I've not had a chance to blog either, until now that is. I guess there are a few hours left of today when a smoothie attack might strike.

smoothie v blog standoff

thought i'd best log the smoothie v blog status. proud to announce there was only one smoothie made today. actually i don't think it was technically a smoothie. do iced mochas come another category such as milkshakes? anyway it was still made with the aid of a blender my second favourite kitchen tool. second only to a hand-held magi-mixer. sadly left my last magi-mixer in ny. but at least i left him in the good safe hands of my friends r & j.

flexing muscles

who said the gym was dead as a pick-up venue? have now found an untapped source for potential keepers if the current keeper turns out to be a dud. have been a member of a certain yacht club in sydney for a couple of years but due to the fact that i lived in new york, i reaped the benefits of membership perhaps twice a year. benefits include a fab pool which overlooks a bay full of suprisingly not - boats.

since becoming a relatively permanent resident of sydney as of early december 03 i've discovered the gym of which i am the princess. it would seem that if i want unlimited male attention all i need do is turn up between the hours of 4pm and 8pm. that's a good wack of time indeed. between such hours i can look as sweaty, uncoordinated and without matching gym attire as possible and without fail i'll be drawn into a conversation with at least one man per workout session.

the only drawback it would appear is that the median age of these pump and grind boys is about 50. today's suitor was closer to 70 but yesterday's was a spotty 15 year old and thus i believe this averages things out to about 50.

yum cha (dim sum to the rest of the world)

chinese new year seems like a suitable day for undertaking a new year's resolution. have decided to blog as a tool to engage my brain in some creative activity. am also using it as a tool of procrastination. over the past few years my most favourite way to whittle away time was smoothie making. i'm curious to see if blogging takes poll position. i'll keep you updated.

the need for a creative outlet is because i'm about to undertake the role of kept woman. am absolutely petrified that i'll end up on a multitude of charity boards and school advocacy groups. not that i have any children, but that's part of the grand plan of being kept.

am not unhappy about being cast as a new pet to look after as i'm also trying to write a book. this way i've figured that i'll be able to sleep peacefully at night, knowing i don't need to concern myself with any bills and devote all my time (except for smoothie making and blogging and a few other tasks i'll explore with you all later) to writing my book.

i decided to write a book towards the end of last year's european summer. i'd gone to italy on holiday and didn't really want to go back to new york and work. i felt it was inhuman to only be given 10 days holiday a year. aside from this i was sure my boss was hatching a plan to fire me. i wanted to get out before i was kicked out.

so i resigned and took a sabatical. my self-appointed end of sabatical was to be at the end of january this year. i'd decided to spend the remaining warm summer days in europe. went back to ny in the autumn to give away all my worldly possessions - not that they amounted to much; sublet my appartment and flitted about ny for a few weeks. then popped over to london before coming home to sydney for the summer festivities.

have just been happily interrupted by friends who are going back to los angeles tomorrow and are staying with me on their last night. some socialising is thus required. another fabulous procastination tool.