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.