secret ingredient

It's cool when people that are new in their jobs give away trade secrets. Like, now I know what the secret ingredient in Café Nero's frappe latte is. It's condensed milk. Revealed to my by barista in training. Just thought you might like to know. Just a little bite for you until stories of my life on Crack Street begin. Saturday is the day. We're moving into a flat with blue carpets in downtown SW2, and much to Spikey's horror, when I took him there to show him my new street, people were standing by the back entrance to the library smoking crack. Cute.

COMING SOON...

...real life stories from Crack Town!!! Stay tuned...

crazy days

I might not be a proper Londoner yet (I'm not desperate to get out of the city), but I think I am qualified to say this: Nothing has been achieved, Londoners aren't scared, they go on with their lives and those terrorists who think they can scare us are pathetic, absolutely pathetic. And that's what I've got to say about that, and I'll turn my attention to other (and absolutely trivial) matters.

Right. So my birthday came and went. I think I'm not over-stating it if I say that the world went bonkers around that day. It all started in the beginning of the weekend, when my recently dumped best friend came to visit, along with her recently dumping boyfriend. Or ex. Or whatever. (Sorry baby-b, so sorry.) At first it seemed like it was going to be a perfectly splendid weekend. But soon little hints started appearing. Like when we went to a café and had to wait for a whole hour for a cup of coffee (never got the coffee - we got up and left the crappy, but very posh, place). And another hint when we went to a restaurant and none of us got our food at the same time. Isn't it a commonly understood thing, that when four people go out to dinner together, that they want to actually eat together? We paid no notice and I went on with my usual routine - systematicly denying the inevitable by partying till eight in the morning, trying out yet another new substance (which was responsible for the extraordinary stamina - when did I ever party till eight in the morning?!), and just generally went about my way in a happy-go-lucky kind of manner, possibly with a slightly manic look in my eyes. Then something happened. Sunday evening came along, the eve of my birthday. In addition to the presents I had already received (some alcohol, a book, a CD, a lovely dinner, a superb shag...), I could now add Minor Assault to the list. Yes, the night between Sunday and Monday, some creep, some pervert, crawled through the window to Spikey's flat, I woke up with him standing right next to me, I woke up because I thought Spikey had woken up and wanted some more of that thing... need I say more? It took me a few seconds to wake properly and realise that it wasn't him, I screamed and woke him, he jumped up and shouted and that creep turned round and jumped out the window. So to my list of birthday presents, I could then add being questioned by the police, having my boyfriend's flat sealed off as a crime scene, complete with fingerprint dusting and DNA gathering, and getting a ride in a police car. Never tried any of those things before, wouldn't recommend them. Nope, definately wouldn't. I just hope they catch that sick bastard, he dropped his cap outside the window so there will definately be some DNA there. Fucking loser. Excuse my language. A few days went by and the world seemed to be returning to its usual sorry state, when on Thursday the bombings happened. At the time, I was doing a video-interview at the police station under the ABE (Achieve Best Evidence) scheme, and mummy and daddy were up in the air over Heathrow. My plans to just simply catch the Piccadilly line and go get them sort of went out the window. They got a cab to my place, fortunately Puma was there to let them in, and after waiting for a cab for three hours in north London I was on my way to join them. We had a great weekend, finally the world got over it - I'm thirty and there's nothing anyone can do about it!