High points and low points from a weekend of festivities:

LOW: Realising, several hours into the night, that doing my makeup in the back of a moving taxi and without a mirror had yielded results there were more "streaky racoon" than "stunning temptress".

HIGH: Discovering that I still know the lyrics from that Butterly Effect song that was really big years and years ago. Come on, you know the one.

LOW: Hour-long car ride to a family-do The Morning After with a stinking hangover.

HIGH Having one of those magical taxi experiences when you are walking towards a (packed) taxi rank and pass by one with its light on, which immediately pulls over for you. Double points for not having a creepy driver with a rapist vibe!

LOW Thinking I looked pretty good right up until the point I walked out of the bathroom stall to find one of the hottest girls I have ever seen in my entire life admiring her arse in the mirror. Fuck, if I had an arse like that I'd never stray far from the mirror either.

For the recently dumped

I don't usually link to the lovely Nick Lezard's column, because there's already a link sitting on the right-hand-side of this blog and I figure you can click on it any old time you like. That much said, his latest column is a charmer and worth your time, particularly for the recently dumped.

An open letter to the prick who tried to steal my car,

Dear Hoodlum,

First of all, congratulations on your fine choice of automobile. Most people look at my car and see a shitty and somewhat-dented hatchback. You looked at it and saw what I see: a sweet ride that runs like a dream, asks little for little in the way of maintenance and never breaks down in a crisis. Granted, neither the air-conditioning or heating are what they used to be (ie: functional) but the windows roll down easily and the radio is in excellent working order at least 95 per cent of the time.

And yet.

I don't mean to be cruel but if you're not able to successfully steal an unattended 1986 Ford Laser with one broken lock perhaps you should, dare I say it, look into a new line of work. Yes, I agree, you did manage to prise the little metal casing off from the ignition but it would appear that - judging by the fact I still have my car - the operation went somewhat pear shaped right about then. What went wrong? Was it that the ignition lock proved more complex than you had imagined or was it simply that you failed to come prepared with a suitable array of tools at your disposal?

Worse still, you showed a complete lack of initiative. The backseat of my car contained a box stuffed with a delightful array of trashy novels - inclduing the complete Sookie Stackhouse series, which is a rolickingly good read - but you left them untouched. The front seat contained a bag of Felicity DVDs (all four seasons), which you also left behind. Is it that you don't care for American 90s college dramas starring Keri Russell or is it that you're simply unable to think on your feet and take advantage of a situation?

In closing, while I share your fondness for my beloved vehicle I feel obliged to strongly recommend that you give up the car-stealing business, as it is a trade in which you show very little skill or willingness to learn. If you're not prepared to put in the yard hards and acquire some suitable tools or training I'm afraid I see very little future for you in this business.

Also, while it pains me to be cruel to a fello Laser Hatchback enthusiast I must also warn you that if I ever find you trying to steal my baby again I'll run you down in the fucking street.

Best Wishes etc.

Cocks of the Week

I did want to write something about what went on in Northam yesterday. But I fear my profanity may frighten the little ones.

The Pumpkin Incident

Halloween, as everyone knows, is an excuse for girls to dress like sluts and not get called sluts. It's a wonderful thing. I typed "as everyone knows" but this is, perhaps, inaccurate. It would have been more accurate to say "as everyone finds out one day". For me that day was about 15 years ago at a Halloween party when I was on the cusp of my teenage years.

The Halloween party was being thrown by a neighbourhood friend of mine who was a year or two older than me and much, much more mature. I, for instance, did not then know that Halloween was an excuse to doll myself up in something black, skin-tight and as revealing as was logistically possible.

Hence my decision to dress up as a pumpkin.

The costume was a simple: I stuffed a lurid oversized orange t-shirt with an old bed sheet, cinched it in at the waist with a belt and poked my scrawny pre-pubsecent legs into a pair of green leggings. A green ice-cream container, jammed onto my head, completed the winning ensemble. Sadly no photos of the event survive to this day but I looked, I can only presume, like an obese 8-year-old with jaundice. My Mum said I looked great.

I realised I had made a mistake only when I arrived at the party to discover two things:

1. There were boys at this party.
2. Almost every single other girl at the party was dressed as a slutty witch.

This was not like any of the parties I had attended to date, where parents oversaw wholesome party games involving balloons, everyone was included and the worst that could happen was a bad red creaming soda spill. Here, girls giggled together in groups, ignoring plates of sausage rolls, flicking their hair and flashing glances towards the groups of boys who frankly looked as bemused as I did.

These girls were not like the girls I knew: their hair was shiny and styled, their barely blossoming boobs pointed skyward with the aid of push-up bras and their red lips and black eyes revealed that they, unlike I, had known the touch of a make-up brush. To me, waddling across the room in my pumpkin finery, they appeared not like girls at all but minature women.

Needless to say they terrified me.

Even so I did not actually flee the scene until someone decided that a game of Spin The Bottle was just what the balmy spring evening called for. In vain I looked for a parental figure to intervene and suggest a rousing game of Pass the Parcel, or perhaps just a round of cold showers, instead. But my friends parents simply smiled indulgently and disappeared to another part of house, upping the volume on Hey, Hey It's Saturday to drown out the sound of teenage hormones zinging through the air. Silently I fumed at their idea of responsible parenting, thinking to myself that if one or all of their daughters wound up impregnated by a douchebag called "Stevo" by their 16th birthday they would have nobody to blame but themselves.

Then - and only then - did I flee.

Which all goes to explain what happened this weekend when I donned a short black dress, threw on some slap and plaited my hair to attend a Halloween party. What the hell was I supposed to be exactly? I was calling it 'Slutty Wednesday Adams'.

Naturally my costume was put to absolute shame by many of the others, particularly the brave fellow who dresed as a triffid from John Wyndham's charming novel, Day of the Triffids. Unsurprisingly, however, I blended in perfectly well among the gaggle of other women. Lo here a sexy spy (short Stella McCartney-for-Target black dress, big blonde hair, legs up to her armpits), yonder there a Saucy Catwoman (skin-tight leggings, come-fuck-me boots and a token pair of cat ears).

And, hey, it only took me 15-odd years to learn that lesson.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Riccardo Scamarcio

I KNOW that Italian men cannot possibly be as universally hot as the world of cinema would have me believe.

And yet if they all looked like Riccardo Scamarcio I'd be on a plane right now.

The problem with Scamarcio is that he doesn't look like he's all that in a still photo: he's one of those token smokin' hotties who really has to be seen on the screen to be appreciated. I came up against him in the film Loose Cannons* last night. It was a pretty so-so film made less endurable by the fact that I was sitting with the world's most annoying people on either side of me (on the left: two shrieking nutbars, on the right: the world's loudest and most disgusting popcorn eater ever. Plus there was a guy behind me who kept scratching himself for a good 5 minutes at a time. Weird. ).

And yet, although the film was not that great and in spite of the fact that it also featured the sublime Giorgio Marchesi I could not take my eyes off Scamarcio. He has - to steal an expression from my friend Nick - gravitas. In spades. It's not just the way he moves, although there is something there: it's his face. He has one of those faces you feel you could just look at for hours and hours. Not everyone has a face like that: James Franco, who is one of the most attractive people I can think of, does not. Benicio Del Toro, who isn't conventionally all that great, does. Orlando Bloom - again in theory very pretty - doesn't. Marlon Brandon did.

Scamarcio also, bizarely, has the ability to look about 16-years-old at one moment and 35 in the next. That might sound like an insult but given that he is 31 in real life I mean it as a compliment. There were moments in the film when he was romping around in bathers that I thought 'how YOUNG is this kid?' and then other moments when he was squinting into the sun, all linen shirt and pressed trousers, when I thought I'd got him wrong entirely.

Either way, I'm glad he's not 16 because a)that would make me feel a bit weird writing this because fancying a teenager seems a bit wring; and b)he's not at risk of growing out of his teenage beauty into a pudgy, bloaty 20-something. Stay gold Scamarcio, stay gold...



* As an off-topic aside I would like to express my frustration at the fact that this uneven Italian movie (starts well but goes nowhere fast) rates higher than two of my favourite films: Ladyhawke and Fletch, according to the Internet Movie Database. This is pro-European snobbery of the worst kind.

Paint it Black: Worst 5 moments experienced while painting my apartment this week

1. Trying to distinguish between 18 different shades of off-white with names like "eggshell", "ocean caps" and "chilled breeze". Lengthy exposure to those little paint cards is more paranoia-inducing than a tray of hash muffins: you start thinking am I crazy or are they all just kinda fucking off-white?

2. Accidentally painting over the light switch. Yeah doesn't seem like a big deal now but at the time I think I may actually have wept.

3. The fifth trip to Bunnings and the knowing stares from the guys in the paint department. Oh those knowing stares...

4. Getting a massage on the second day of painting and hearing the masseuse say "um, you have a lot of paint on you" in much the same tone you or I might use to inform someone "I think you have leprosy - your left hand just fell off in my soup".

5. The fumes. People, I can't emphasise this enough: when you start to giggle at nothing in particular and you're halfway up a ladder, having painted for 5 hours straight, you are already high as a kite from the fumes. Crack a window, open a door: do not breathe in.

Breathe Deeply

One of the best bits of relationship advice I ever got was from my dear and wise friend Lindsay. If you're going to do something a bit messed up, she said, then cover your tracks.

The beauty of this piece of advice - which sounds utterly obvious but really isn't always - is that it can be applied to a great number of situations. If, for instance (and obviously I'm talking PURELY hypothetically here) you are going to have a fucking BREAKDOWN about the growing suspicion that your girlfriend's enthusiasm for the relationship might be waning, it is a good idea to have said breakdown in the privacy of your own bedroom instead of, say, on the university campus in front of a whole bunch of curious people very pointedly Not Staring At The Car Crash But Actually Very Obviously Staring At the Car Crash.

Similarly, if you're going to read your sister's diary you should remember where you got the diary from in the first place and replace it, not casually leave it open on the desk to the part where your sister was (over)analysing the two minute conversation she had with Beautiful James by the stairs and wondering whether what he meant by "see you in History" was something closer to "the combination of your glasses, braces and orthodics enchants me - take me now, by the D-block lockers".

Which brings me to my friend. Let's call him... Wooster.

Before I go on, a brief disclaimer. Wooster would like it to be known that he is NOT a habitual sniffer of womens dirty underwear. Nevertheless, the facts are these:

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's dirty knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.
4. He was caught.
5. He is now in trouble with his girlfriend.

Leaving aside your views on knicker huffing (for the record I think it ranks fairly tamely on a spectrum of kink that includes pegging and scat) what's important to recognise is that Wooster ran into his current troubles because he forgot The Lindsay Principle: if you're going to do something a bit messed up then cover your tracks.

Here's how it could have played out.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did not leave the knickers on the bed.
4. His girlfriend never needed to trouble her pretty little head about it.
5. Wooster did get to have sex with his girlfriend again.

But accidents happen. I should know: I once dyed my dear friend Ali's hair ginger. So sometimes 'covering your tracks' doesn't cut it. You did something a bit messed up and now you need to deal with it.

Or do you? Have you met my friend denial?

I met denial back in primary school when, for reasons that still remain slightly unclear to me, I at some point decided that to turn up at school IN MY PAJAMAS AND DRESSING GOWN was not a terrible idea. It's not quite as bad as it sounds: our school was having its annual musical and my Mum was driving to school to pick up my sister, who had been doing backstage work... or something. Anyway, I went along for the ride and only decided to get out of the car on a whim... for some reason. Obviously I immediately ran into a huge number of my classmates who, strangely enough, did not spontaneously forget this fact by the following day. Never overburdened by popularity I was unwilling to make the jump to fully fledged social outcast. And so I lied. Or rather I denied. It went something like this.

CLASSMATE: Why were you at school in your dressing gown?

ME: (Casually eating an apple as though to demonstrate just how ludicrous such a suggestion is) I wasn't.

CLASSMATE: But I saw you.

ME: (Chewing ponderously) No you didn't.

CLASSMATE: Yeah I did. So did other people.

ME: (Now starting to run out of apple) No they didn't.

CLASSMATE: We all did.

ME: I think not.

I wasn't entirely successful. (Marlon Brando I was not - I was more like... Tom Brando). But as a strategy the idea that you could simply deny something, just will it out of existence, was very appealing and I never forgot it (just as I assume certain classmates never forgot the sight of me in my Noel Coward dressing gown and pajama pants racing across the carpark, the over-long cord of my dressing gown trailing behind me to give the impression I was enjoying a spot of nighttime kite flying).

With this in mind, let's take another quick look back at how Wooster might have fared had he failed on The Lindsay Principle but remembered to deny, deny, deny.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.
4. He was caught.
5. The following scene ensued.

GIRLFRIEND: Wooster, uh why is there a pair of knickers on my bed?

WOOSTER: (Also eating an apple in the misguided belief that it makes him appear nonchalant) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: I put them in the laundry this morning.

WOOSTER: (Smacking his lips) Oh really?

GIRLFRIEND: Yes really. Did you take them out?

WOOSTER: No.

GIRLFRIEND: So how did they get on the bed?

WOOSTER: (Chewing a bit faster) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: Well, if I didn't do it then who else do you think took them out of the laundry and put them on the bed? On your side of the bed? Any thoughts?

WOOSTER: (Taking increasingly big bites of the apple) Nope.

GIRLFRIEND: I know it was you!

WOOSTER: (Mouth full of apple) Fjkdfkjdfkljf

GIRLFRIEND: What?

WOOSTER (Mouth really very very full of apple): dfskjsdflkjdsf

GIRLFRIEND: WHAT?!

WOOSTER: (Barely intelligible among all the apple) I'm... choking.

Because this is the second great piece of relationship advice everyone should know: that when you paint yourself into a corner and there is absolutely no other way out, having tried but failed to deploy The Lindsay Principle and a generous serve of denial, it is perfectly acceptable to fake a near death experience, provided that you at no point allow an ambulance to be called. We're calling this The Wooster Principle and I hope for all of your sakes, dear readers, that you never need to use it.



POSTSCRIPT: My charming boyfriend would like me to point out to those who know us that "Wooster" is not him. I do so gladly, though I may say he is welcome to sniff my knickers if he cares to. I also add that, although this story is real, Wooster is not his real name, though it would be a good one.

Happy drinking: 8 Perth Pubs in 3 hours

Let me say first, that this binge is For Work*. The fact that I'm blogging about it is just for fun and possibly to pass onto my doctor when my liver ultimately explodes.

11.37am: Waiting for my pick-up, thinking that 11.37am seems like a very early time to start drinking. This realisation is, I think, a good thing, because it clearly proves I am not an alcoholic.

1.50pm: Bartender at MUST bar in Beaufort Street is impossibly dreamy. Looks like some sort of Spanish prince, speaks like an English public school boy. Also knows what he is talking about. Feel like a prick for leaving half my wine but important to conserve stamina.

1.55pm: Despite efforts to preserve stamina am feeling distinctly squiffy. Wish had eaten more than chocolate croissant today.

2.14pm: Hotel Northbridge still most depressing pub in Perth. Good to know. Oh and sorry to nice dude with a ponytail at Briabane. The wine was delicious - I was just in a hurry.

2.50pm: Asking bartenders for alcohol content in wine = a new low. There is simply no good explanation for doing so. Honeyuckle accented win at the Merchant on Beaufort Street FTW.

3.30pm: Blerg! Good bread at The Suite, I must say. Guy behind the bar super suspicious about what we are doing here though. Like the look of Lindsay's prosecco but my... whatever is quite delicious.

3.40pm: Chocolate brownie!

5.29pm: Drinking in the afternoon is awesome and all but the evening booze blues is the worst.

8pm: Snoozed in car for half hour, make small talk at book launch, half asleep on the couch already. Result.



* Actually for someone else's work but it's practically the same thing.

Death of a friendship: Overheard in the David Jones change room

GIRL 1: Do you want to try on this red dress?

GIRL 2: Which one?

GIRL 1: The shortish red one.

GIRL 2: I don't think it'll fit. What size is it?

GIRL 1: 8

GIRL 2: I can't fit into a size 8.

GIRL 1: Oh. Really?

GIRL 2: Did you try it on?

GIRL 1: Yeah. It was too big.

It is a truth that really ought to be universally acknowledged...

... that a man could get away with murder in a dressing gown this fine.

An open letter to the New Oxford American Dictionary,

I am reliably informed that your latest edition will be including a slew of new and 'exciting' additions. These include - but are not limited to - bromance, BFF (best friends forever), little black dress, tramp stamp (I'm really not sure if that's one word or two) and unfriend.

What the fuck, dictionary?

Are you trying to say that if I'm playing scrabble and put down BFF on a triple word score that I deserve the points? For shame - I would deserve nothing.

Watching this kind of shit make it into the dictionary doesn't make the dictionary cool. The dictionary is already cool to those of us whose idea of a good time is playing the game 'dictionary' on a Saturday night (don't be a judger: it's awesome) and impossibly dull to pretty much everyone else.

Finding the 'word' "BFF" in the dictionary sandwiched between, I don't know, "bezel" (a sloping face or edge of a chisel or other cutting tool) and "bhang" (an Indian hemp plant, apparently) makes me want to weep. It's like being forced to watch your highly-respected English tutor try to break dance at an end-of-year university function.

I hope to see you pull your socks up and purge some of this shit next year. You know the stuff I'm talking about: when I look up the word "cougar" I only want to see a definition with the words "big cat" in it.

Regards,

All work and no blog make Kate a dull girl

I've been told twice in two days that I should be writing on here again and I agree. I miss this stupid blog and the opportunity to vent when I'm not being paid to do so and don't have to take things seriously and, you know, pretend I can spell. Coming back is always hard, though. It's like trying to end a fight with someone: once the first couple of words are out and you've had a post-fight conversation it's ok but being the one to apologise or break the cold shoulder thing you've got going on is a real bitch.

So, to jump back in via the wussiest of means, I thought I'd make a list of a few of the things I've learned since the last time I posted. Bear in my mind reader(s) that I am a moron and thus much of what appears below is stuff you've known since you were old enough to see your face in the bathroom mirror without the aid of a stool.

Realisation One: Never start a sentence "All I'm saying is…" when you're having an argument. This phrase doesn't end fights - it starts them. All I'm saying is that if you don't believe me, you're a dick.

Realisation Two: It's okay to half-arse it at work sometimes. Wait, allow me to clarify: should anyone from work be reading this then, obviously, it goes without saying that this half-arse stuff isn't something I would do PERSONALLY. I am, of course, speaking hypothetically. But, really, the odd bout of not earning your wage can be a wonderful thing.

Realisation Three: You shouldn't keep a sharpened axe in the fireplace. Sure, it was there when you moved in but now it just looks creepy.

Realisation Four:There's nothing wrong with popping a (metaphorical) pan on the (metaphorical) back-burner with a low flame, just in case. You'd go fucking MAD if you didn't.

Realisation Five: Despite some apparent concerns (if concern is the right word, which I don't think it is) from a family member during my teenage years, I must be the straightest girl in the world, based on the amount of time I fritter away thinking about boys. Boys, boys, boys. Yeah, they're not bad.

Realisation Six: It's possible to change your mind about very fundamental things. I mean, five years ago I would never have conceded that Mark Ruffalo is a stone cold fox. And yet...

Realisation Seven: Seriously, the axe? It's got to go.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Ian Somerhalder

I'm not saying I have kidnapped Ian Somerhalder and hidden him in the crawl space where I can get lost in his eyes whenever I damn well please. But I am saying that if Somerhalder disappears in the immediate future this conversation never happened...

Lolcats are giving everyone a bad name

What's that you say Alezander Skarsgaard...?

...I've been a bad, bad girl for not blogging more often and you're going to punish me? Um.... go for it?

I never thought I was a particularly acquisitive person and yet...

... if I do not acquire this dress I may die.

I received an interesting email today...

Dear Employer!

Why thankyou. I mean, I don't actually have any 'employees' so I'm not sure you can call me an employer but I appreciate the fact you obviously consider me a high-powered business-type-person.

We are glad to inform you of beginning staff recruitment for the position of the Financial Agent in Australia. We are looking for the best candidates meeting the demands of our clients. The number of vacancies for this position is limited, that's why the recruitment takes place on a competition basis.

Yes, but perhaps I should repeat myself: I don't actually...

We select the best employees and, probably, you are the one whom we are looking for!

Me?! I won! Are you... sure? I mean I'm flattered of course.

You should clearly conform to the requirements of our Company:

Clearly

Interpersonal skills

Check

Conversational English knowledge

You know it.

PC user.

I'm using one right now.

Responsible approach to work

...sure

Salary - from EUR 2500.

A month? A week? A day? An...hour?

Zdravstvujte! My rady soobwit' Vam, ob otkrytii nabora sotrudnikov na post Finansovogo Agenta v Australia. Nasha rol' najti, luchshih kandidatov, udovletvorjajuwih potrebnosti nashih klientov. Kolichestvo mest na dannuju dolzhnost' ogranichenno, pojetomu nabor vedetsja na konkursnoj osnove, my otbiraem luchshih sotrudnikov i vozmozhno vy tot,kogo my iwem! Vy dolzhny chetko sootvetstvovat' trebovanijam nashej
kompanii:
Kommunikabel'nost'
Znanie razgovornogo anglijskogo jazyka
Vladenie komp'juterom na urovne pol'zovatelja.
Otvetstvennyj podhod k rabote
Zarabotnaja plata ot 2500 evro.
Za bolee podrobnoj informaciej obrawajtes' na e-mail: job@glltd.net

Yes, thankyou. I had it cut the other day.

You know how it is...

... sometimes you think you've done well to overcome your short fuse and hot temper by not saying anything. Other times you find yourself wishing you actually had told so-and-so he was being a fucking prick. Which he was, FYI.

Goodbye Wisdom

As many of you probably know, I had my wisdom teeth yanked out on Wednesday. The actual surgery part was considerably more terrifying than I'd expected, pathetically enough, but the recovery has been quite delightful. Yes, my throat is weirdly sore. Yes, my jaw is aching like a mo-fo and YES I might be hooked on Panadeine Forte but what price that feeling you get waking up on a Friday morning and knowing you don't have to get out of bed, eh? Eh? If somebody could drop off a bottle of wine and a straw I would be SORTED.