run down

I fucking jinxed myself.

I have 'flu. My skin is still in tact, but my face feels like it's falling off.

Burning candle at both ends, big nights, and Blatic temperatures. Plus grief and stress.
Standing in bus shelters when it's -8 outside, flitting between hospital and the office to see my aunt and hold her hand.

The excitement of knowing that this time next week I'll be in South Africa. Then immediately jaded by the concept that I'll need to say goodbye to my aunt. Forever.

Few weeks have been so bittersweet.

And flu-riddled. Again.

Those cute looking yellow things will do some damage.

Like I needed another excuse not to touch public handrails. Or mingle with commoners under the Earth's crust.

Mingling with flu-fraught sneezers above the Earth's crust is a painful experience, nevermind underneath the actual city.

Dude. There's a flesh-eating virus doing the rounds on the Underground.

Did you read that? Not flu revolving around farm animals like chickens and pigs, but [New! Improved!] flu viros that starts eating away at your flesh.

Christ Almighty, what levels of depravity can't the flu virus sink to? Fucking humans, sneezing, dripping, touching things - oh my GOD, I need a bio-hazard suit for my daily commute.

(Could there be a song in that? Drop a beat, I need a fuckin' bio-hazard suit, yeah yeah baby, for my daily commute, dog....)

Not that the Metro doesn't sensationalise any of their shit, but when you're standing on a train reading this article, you're going to take precautions.

Especially if you're an OCD 'I don't fondle stuff outside of my house' - person like me.

Anyway. So if I can try and avoid taking a tube for the next week (then I fly to South Africa, where all I have to be weary of is AIDS and in extremely rare cases, malaria).

The problem is, when I return from my jolly jaunt down south, our office is moving. We are moving to our other London site in Soho.

Great location, shit commute. I have to take a tube to work from March onwards.

Not a train, with windows and air and stuff, a fucking tube.

Right. So now that I'm fully having a panic attack at my desk, I'm going to step away and not imagine hand railings pocked with a flesh-eating virus.

train commentators and karaokegate

It's amazing what a sprightly train driver can do for a journey.

There I was, last train home after visiting my aunt in hospital, followed by more drinking in Belgravia with my European colleagues, (posh gin and tonics. With grapefruit slices in them, in case you're wondering).

Not completely shitfaced this time, more Sensible Drunk. (Which is kind of right on target for the sweet spot. Drunk but not stupid. This is what you should aim for at 31.)For the first time this week, I actually got it right.

Anyway two things happened, worthy of description.

The first was mortifying. The second was just funny.

The Europeans are over for a conference this week, and so mass binge drinking ensued. As I've become known as the bitch who sings Usher's Love In This Club and this unfortunate infamy is now turning into tradition, I eventually took up the offer of the mic (again, was Sensible Drunk, so I [uncharacteristically] needed a lot of coercion).

So, office karaoke. Not a good springboard for one's career, sure. Except if you're singing in a whole group, everyone's festive - from the MD down to the trainee assistant - everyone's voices blend together and it's all a bit of comaraderie and fun.

Then there's what happened to me. I was singing away in the group, alongside She Who Loves Tweed, giving it some real horns. You know, really accentuating the magical words, I wanna make love in dis club..in dis club,, while putting on my best RnB gangsta voice for prize lines like, I wanna bag you like some groceries...on the floor, on the couch...on the table...I'm watcha you want, whatcha need....

I was singing into this yellow microphone, Tweedy next to me was singing into a red one.

After the song was finished, high fived and started strolling to the bar.

When, "Dude. Do you realise that your voice was coming through the rest of the building."

Peas: No, what are you talking about?

Group of people: "Dude. That microphone you were signing on? Is tuned so that your voice gets relayed to speakers beyond this room. So down there, reception area, the meeting rooms..."

Peas: I don't think I quite understand. My voice, singing by itself? Across the entire building? [squeaking]...while singing about shagging in a club?

Group: Yup. Your lines making love song, interrupted an important conversation all the exces were having down there.

Peas:...And no-one else's were heard?! Could they hear the music or just my voice?!

Group: Just your voice.

So yeah. That was fucking mortifying.

Had a drown my embarrassment somewhat, and then headed home on the last train, where I think the train driver was drunk.

Luckily, rails force the wheels to literally stay on track, but it was his awesome approach to the announcements that I loved. And he was very posh.

"Lllllllllladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard my train! Hurry up and get inside, stop jamming up the platform. Get inside and come with me to....East Croydon! Via....Norbury!"

He kept going throughout the duration of my journey:

"Llllladies and gentlemen! We are approaching...Battersea Park! Home to the dogs and cats home and ....Battersea Park! If you get off, mind the platform. Or don't Because I don't care!"

"Lllllladies and gentlemen! Let's get going and get to East Croydon! Stop scooting, or is that skating? On the platform! It's unsightly and dangerous! But mostly unsightly!"


When I got out, I went to his window and gave him a thumbs up. He looked like he was 18. So clearly practicing for his career in the West End.

Now to deal with Bridget Jones Karaoke Fuck Upgate.

on white wine

"Mommy" being Aunty Peas..

Dude.

I haven't really been drunk drunk - drunk like I was 25 - since New Year's eve. And even then, I wasn't seeing double and I do vaguely remember how we got home.

Friday changed that. There comes a point, where your workload and propensity for tolerance start to form their own Pythagoras.

I'd draw the graph, but I can't be fucked.
It's a triangle, based on axes x and y, and they invariably meet.

Getting to grips with how sick my aunt is at the moment, and how quickly she's suddenly turned, coupled with the thoughts around what happens next, and visits to the hospital every other day, is all very devastating to me and the rest of the family.

If there's one window of opportunity to block out these thoughts - even for a few hours - as well as thoughts around how I'll get all my work done before going to South Africa - I'll take it.

So I went out with the team on Friday. Devoured a bottle of white white with She Who Loves Tweed, and then continued to consume a string of gin and tonics at a place called "The Sapphire Lounge," which had a bar counter stickier than the tip of Russell Brand's dick.

It was superb. To be so thoroughly shitfaced, that I don't remember which train (or was it even a train?) took me home, or how I got from the station to the front door.

I don't really get drunk these days. Caveat, I don't really get drunk-drunk these days. 'These days' being the last 6 months or so. Unless the situation really calls for it, most of the time I aim for the sweet spot.

The sweet spot is that point between three glasses of champagne and four. You're teetering, but you know the next glass will make you want a cigarette, and you know that the fourth glass is the fine line between a hangover and just Monday morning.

It's part of being 31. Being strategic about who you get drunk with, and how you get drunk.

Anyway, so on Friday I got drunk. It was absolutely fucking glorious. I couldn't feel my fingers I absolutely loved fucking everyone.

I made a new best gay friend. (This happens from time to time. I'm very 'gay fickle.')

The Brit luckily - and strategically - managed to merge his evening nicely so that we collided on hangover.

And spent the whole of Saturday - from start to fucking finish - lying in bed, necking paracetamol (and each other). The entire day was dedicated to Chez Duvet. Rendered useless, thanks to white wine hangover. (I'm a fuckstick for choosing such a stupid alcohol.)

Sunday was dedicated to my aunt. This is all very hard.

hair, tea & red trousers [again]

Henri, the toff who snaps people wearing red pants.

There's this dude - Sir Henri de Pantalon Rouge - who runs a blog solely dedicated to red trouser action.
So impressed and tickled am I, I found him elsewhere too.

Now I have a pair of red pants and a pair of red tights. Apparently they're not interchangeable, and the red tights do not hold as much gravitas as the pants.

But Red Trouser Finding Machine Man - Henri Pants - did snap this. With a warning to brace yourself.

Think it's fair to say:
1) I won't be wearing my red tights ever again, in fear that I might look even 1% like this
2) This woman has to be from the Ukraine. Right?

She Who Also Loves Tweed reckons they're red jeggings. I reckon her name is Olga from Lviv, wearing the Sergey 3000s.

But my red jeans? The most amazeballs piece of attire I've ever owned. This year.

-------------

Welsh people with British-like tea instructions (Is Wales a real country?)

Welsh colleague: "It's your turn to mek a brew."

Peas: Fine. How do you take your tea?

Welsh: "Rye-te. It must be the cull-er of a tea bis-kitt. Lyk-e when you come off a tan-ning bed. Tan in cull-er.

Peas: So lots of milk?

Welsh: Nor. Well yes, but nor.

Peas: Dude.

Welsh: And don't put the milk in be-forr the tea bag. It clogs up the horles.

Peas: I always put the milk in before the tea bag.

Welsh: Why is it that ornly peep-ul from the Yoo Keh can mek tea? It's such a sim-ple exer-cyze.

Peas: Dude it still brews and blends at the end of the day.

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out. Bag first, milk sec-ond. Cull-er of a tea bis-kitt.

Peas: Yer me? You mean hear me out right?

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out.


Apparently I can't make tea. Chaos and dis-acceptance prevails.

------------------
Male advice on hair - voluntarily given

The Quiet American: Dude. Isn't time to cut your hair?

Peas: And when would I have the time to do that?

[pause]

Hang on, what?

Quiet American: I'm merely saying that it might be time. You know, to try something new.

Peas: I don't 'do' new hair. Are you suggesting that it's crap? And I look like a raving Socialist?

Quiet American: No. I am just suggesting that you could try something maybe a little like this.

Peas: Eva Longoria? You ralise she has a stylist that travels with her everywhere and does all that shit for her, right?

Quiet American: It's more the layering.

Peas: Layering?

Quiet American: Yeah.

Peas: Right OK. You know you don't have hair right.

Quiet American: Yeah. but once someone told me to grow a beard. And I laughed in the face of facial hair for 6 months. Then I grew a beard and it changed my life.

Peas: Fair enough.

I've booked the appointment.

flat out nancy

I may be wearing red tights, but that doesn't mean I'm not serious about being serious.

It's about two weeks until I get to South Africa. Nerves and anxiety have been replaced - refreshingly - with pure, unadulterated excitement.

I don't really care if shit has changed or if shit hasn't - I'll be seeing mates, family and I'll be reintroducing my skin to an old friend called Sun.
I'll be celebrating Poen's wedding, and showing the Brit around new places.

I can't control what it's going to be like, I can only go home with an open mind.

It's just getting there without drowning in work before I do go.

While I'm all excited and happy for a holiday, I have a fuckload to do before I go. My calendar is filled with shit I have to finish at work, or stuff I have to handover while I'm away.
I have launches I need to rocket into space while away and when I'm back.

Shit has never been so chaotic and flat out. All in preparation for my trip away.

Being away for three weeks, is a lifetime, not a holiday. Three weeks without checking mail or taking calls from journalists? Now that's what I'm scared of. The length of time involved and whether the world will fall apart while I frollick along the Garden Route blissfully unaware of what is going down in London town.

But shit never really falls apart, the world continues to spin when you're away, someone has to step up in your absence and they always do.

My aunt has also taken a turn for the worse. My aunt has been battling with the Big Horrible C for a while now, but it's become crucial over the last year or so. And especially crucial now. I am her only family relative here, and I fear for her while I am away. So besides focusing on work, my mind is definitely on my aunt at the moment.

There's a lot to get through over the next two weeks. And it's emotional.

zurich

So Zurich was nice.

I mean, it's your classic banking city. I did prefer the French side of Switzerland. I used to love going to Geneva when I lived in France. It was a a more dramatic setting, with Mont Blanc rising out of the Alps in the background.

But Zurich isn't exactly ugly. It's just a little more random. And Swiss and straight-laced as to be expected.

It was fucking freezing, so the Brit and I didn't climb any mountains, but instead did chilled out stuff like amble the through the Old town (all European cities have an Old Town. So even if there's absolutely nothing to do, there's always an Old Town), eat a lot of cheese and get a couple of massages and do some thermal bathing.

Dude. Cheese and bathing? Perfect weekend.

The best was this thermal spa we found near the Brit's hotel. It's an old brewery-turned thermal spa, with a rooftop open air bubbling pool on the roof, with 360 degree views of the city.

The city is surrounded by mountains, and has a few spires poking out here and there (that's on thing England misses. Spires motherfucker), so the views weren't shabs at all.

You'd poke a toe out and because it was -1 outside, you'd immediately freeze, so as long as you kept most of your protrusions in the water you'd be fine.

Inside, people were walking around naked. You know, how people of Germanic nature tend to do. Jam out with their clams out. They won't jump a traffic light, but they'll walk around naked in public spaces.

Ate a fair bit of Lindt.

Ate my boyweight (before WeightWatchers) in cheese. A Swiss fondue consists of two things:
1) A pot of bubbling raclette cheese
2) An entire loaf of bread, cut up into saures for dipping

I used to be an extreme cheese eater. I ate cheese like I took breaths. We're talking sizeable quantities here.

Then cancer started running amok in my father's side of the family, I got diagnosed with endometriosis, and diary in general became the enemy and now don't eat any.

No milk, no yoghurt, no cream and [it's hard to even write this] no cheese.

Mostly. Life would be a prison sentence if I couldn't have cheese at least sometimes.
Well. The Brit and I shared an entire cooking pot full of cheese. And managed not to die, but it was hard. It was hardcore.

No cheese to a kilo of it.

How do the Swiss do it? Like, regularly? Cheese and bread, like twice a week?
It's extreme cheese eating, and they're not crazily obese either.

Anyway, that aside Zurich was great. The Brit gets home tonight. Yayballs.

palace & swiss

So. Not a normal Friday.

1) I'm going to the Royal household
2) [Then] I'm going to Switzerland

Best Friday ever?

I'm going to Buckingham Palace. Not for the changing of the guard or to wave a flag about. I'm going inside.

It's for work. It's days like these I really do love my job, even if it does take up 90% of my life.

I'm wearing a Kate Middleton-esque Zara dress (Cream. For virginity. Natch). And my signet ring on my pinkie finger to demonstrate...good breeding.

Mainly so that they know I am with the general palace vibe.

Oh my God, I'm actually nervous. I'm not meeting HRH or anyone like that, but I am nervous.

Then afterwards, I'm flying to Zurich. The Brit is there for work, and am going to meet him for the weekend. I have been to the French side of Switzerland, but never the German.

Besides banks and suits, I'm expecting snow and good food. And trains that run on time. And chocolate.

Eidelweiss (and er, how do you do?)

Better go check to see if there's anything in my teeth before heading to the palace.
Gak!

PS: Is this really happening to me?

how to bath for dummies

So, I'm bath-obsessed. Allow me the indulgence of a long post to geek out on this.

I usually write about having a bath at least once every two years, because some people just don't understand bath people.

Bath people are those who don't shower, they bath. They feel lost and incomplete if they don't have a bath at least once a day. Having a bath is £100-worth of therapy for them. They think about it hours before they actually do it, to the point of visceral excitement. Maybe some people get excited about having a shower, but I haven't met those people yet. Bath people are willing to spend large amounts of cold cash on the products and concoctions that go into their bath.

Packaging is very important for a bath snob. I pay for the packaging. Blatantly. It needs to look good on my bath shelf, bitch.

Bath people know that having a bath is more than getting clean.
Bath people know that having a bath means cooking up a recipe of essential oils, bath bombs, candles and music, and therein, watch all your days' troubles disappear into the steam.
It's time by yourself. It's the warm enveloping nature of warm water. It's fucking wonderful, that's what it is.

And most of the world doesn't bother to, have access to, or want to bath. Which is pretty sad. They have no idea how great the simple pleasure of lying horizontal in a tub full of hot, scented water actually is.

Having a bath is a fucking necessity for me. Especially when it's cold and dark outside. I won't rent or buy a house without a bath, because to me, that's like renting a house without a front door.

As a veteran member of the Bath Club, I am very particular with my bath. I have a cabinet dedicated to shit to throw in my bath. This country is filled with shops that sell amazing bath products, and I'm a willing client at most of them.

Every night is different, depending on my mood, and what I feel like.
But these are the essential essentials I always have:

Lush

The Brit is very good at bringing me home a bath bomb or creamy massage bar from Lush. It has the same effect as flowers.
You can crumble some of the products into the bath bit by bit, so it lasts ages. And always smells ridiculously good.

I love their creamy bars, especially after a good scrub.

Neal's Yard
I use their shampoo and conditioner, orange body wash, rose body scrub and their essential oils. I love Neal's Yrad. It's all natural and organic. Packaging is great, and always smells incredible.

No real bath addict would be seen without something from The Body Shop in their bathrooms. That would just be undignified.
My favourite bath products from them are their ginger shampoo, Vitamin C face spray for when you're finished, strawberry shower gel.

Then there's the unbridled territory. The luxury-end stuff that many fear to tread.
The products from individual stores that are usually wrapped in crepe paper with little bows.
My shop is on Northcote Road, a vintagey bath store run by an elderly lady, with products such as bath salts infused with Moroccan Rose and Honey, creamy honey bath oil.
I don't even know the name of this place.
But it sells some pretty sick bath shit. That kind of looks like this:

Dude. It's like the best stuff ever. I just wish I can remember what it is.

So I'll be sanctimonious and keep it to myself for now.

Aromatherapy oils


Dude. A few drops of these bad boys is meant to, like, change your life and relax your muscles.
Fuck it, even if they don't, whatever.

I put Epsom Salts - straight - into the bath with the essential oils. I like to think of it as a 'cocktail' of relaxation. Epsom Salts are meant to relax muscle tissues, so after a particularly arduous day, I'll make myself a bath cocktail using those ingredients.

Epsom Salts don't look very nice. I have to hide this bottle at the back of the cupboard. Someone up at Epsom Salts marketing could make a fortune if they made Epsom Salts look luxurious.

Burt's Bess
Totally amazeballs dude. Smells kind of like wood varnish, but then it's all natural and it makes you think it really does work. Comes in a nice tin with an old dude - Burt? - on the front too.

Posh candles

I always switch off all my lights and set ablaze a string of scented tea light candles (usually rose or vanilla) or a Yankee candle in the bath room.

Then make sure I can hear the Top 50 Love Ballads of All Time on MTV from the lounge.
Or dirty gangsta hip hop when I'm feeling bolshy.

This post wasn't meant to be a sales pitch for bath products. And oh my God look at the time.
I'm just saying, Fanatical Shower People, you're missing out on a whole hobby here.

horizontal theories

I'm back at my desk.

I'm on the pills, and there's a little party going on in my head, but am back at work.

It's good not to be horizontal. And have come up with a few theories in my delirious, deskbound state.

"Gym" is for Socialists and Satanics.
It's in inverted commas, because I believes it belongs in them. I'm sick of January, and I am sick of the word gym. They go hand-in-hand, so frankly I can't wait until everyone breaks their new Year's resolutions. It's such a ghastly thing, is the gym.

My New Year's resolutions. Speaking of
I still don't have any. But now that I have had plenty of time to think, and dribble, on myself, mostly, I have a few hard and fast ideas for 2012.

1) Buy an Audi
2) Go to Ukraine
3) Practice being nice, even if it's all a lie

On the Audi
This isn't a decision I have made in haste. I have wanted an Audi A3 since 2003. It's the turbo coupled with the fact that it has two doors and looks aesthetically pleasing, that I always said I'd own one once in my life. If I am to have babies one day, best I buy the fast, sexy car now before I have to drive a fucking Volvo.
My friends are having babies; I am having a quarter-and a half-life crisis. So the time and temperament is right for a German sports car.

Besides, the Brit and I will share it.

Having a car is independence. I think about driving everyday. In London you can survive quite happily without one, for years on end. The trouble is I don't want to survive, I want to drive.

Even if it means I pay congestion charges, can only drive it on weekends, have to change my driver's license.

It's time for less "where is the fucking bus, my Saturday is a-wastin'," and more "Vorsprung durch Technik," as far as I'm concerned.

It's going to have a mahoosive sound system. And we shall drive to France in it.

I'm still in pain
Did I mention the pills?

Holy shit. I'm going to South Africa in three weeks.
Three weeks! Jesus, how will I ever get the workload I'm carrying done before then?
I have four launches to organise.

I have a [classily non-orange] fake tan to get.

The one thing we have done, the Brit and I, is get our itinerary together for our road trip. We're hiring a Yaris and driving all over the Western Cape in it.

I saw two movies lately worthy of praise
Limitless - about a dude who pops a black market pill that raises his IQ/accesses his entire brain at once. Bradley Cooper, Robert de Niro. Gripping and fantastic.

The Iron Lady - I love Margaret Thatcher more than ever. To the point where the Brit has advised me to pipe down in front on Northerners. Inspiring and amazing, with a love story blockbusted in.

Both come highly recommended.