It doesn’t take much to fuck me off, but I do find some things are more successful than others at ratcheting me up to 100 on the Pissy Scale. (Copyright term, Ms Hush-Hush, 2008.)

Sadly God didn’t see fit to bestow me with an outer wrapping that turns golden brown the moment the UV hits. No, I was at the shallow end of that particular gene pool. Instead, I was to be found frolicking neck-deep in the puddle responsible for dishing out pale skin, dark hair and a vaguely rosy complexion. Stick on a pair of green eyes and what have you got? Irish colouring.

It’s not so bad; I’m sure the albinos have it far worse. Or indeed veal calves. I’m like the Asda version of the The Corrs (minus the minging brother), all rolled into one human. So far, so Maureen O’Hara. But then along comes the melted-fudge-mess of a London summer and fucks with my look.

I’ll be clear: I don’t do well in the heat. My face goes red and I sweat. I get pissed off and irritable. I don’t like people to touch me. I choke myself with excessive deodorant use and snooze at my desk when (I think) no one is looking. In short, the heat makes me envy all olive-skinned, non-perspiring goddess types.

But if my lot is to be pasty and tepid, then so be it. I can take it. Except for when certain people come right up in my sweaty and blotchy red face and say at the top of their voice:

“You’re really red in the face aren’t you? Why is your face so red?”

Then they peer at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, and the whole of London stops and stares in anticipation of my reply.

“Well, I don’t know but what is that green thing hanging down from your nose?” is what I did not say.

Confidence-withering fool, you ruin my day.

Behold. The results…

Chinese cupping is kooky shit, but it irons out all the aches, leaving you with a zingy, energized feeling and the appetite of a trojan horse.

They do it here if you fancy a go. (If you think you’re hard enough.)

I’m preternaturally excited.

My friend The Blonde is one of the dearest and most wonderful and bestest women ever in the world. She is marrying Mr Macclesfield next August and I am to be one of her bridesmaids. Hop, skip, etc.

I’ve never been one before. I was asked once, when I was about 10, but the couple split acrimoniously before I’d even had my second dress fitting. I’m not sad though: the silly cow was going to dress me in swathes of peach taffeta. I call that a lucky escape from certain sartorial death.

Given this near brush with style disaster, I’m wary of weddings and all who sail in them. Particularly when you consider some of the billowing, sea-worthy creations some women cram themselves into.

So it’s with great relief that I learn that The Blonde plans to a) dress herself in something gorgeous and slinky and b) us bridesmaids are to wear whatever we like and just carry a posey.

Not a slither of peach taffeta in sight.

Holy crap, I’m sure there’s just been a earthquake in Tooting.

The floor just went all shakey and the wardrobe wobbled and everything. I expect this breaking news to hit the BBC any minute now. Either that or my crumby flat is finally giving up the ghost after one too many door-slams from the downstairs neighbours.

Of course, I’m moving to Hove in October so irritants like city earthquakes and loathsome neighbours will be a thing of the past. That’s the plan anyway and in the meantime I’m slinging the employment net far and wide to see if anyone needs a contract web editor in Brighton.

God, job hunting is a ball ache and a half. My inner pendulum swings between confident and excited to crippling paranoia that I have zero skills and no sane person will ever employ me. That’s clearly what tinkering around on the internet as a freelancer does for you: obliterates your ability to slot back into a normal working environment.

I’ve got until the beginning of September to sort myself out and I’m convinced I’m royally fucked. There’s an insidious voice in my head that keeps telling me the last 27 years have been building up to one great big fuck-off car crash. My friend Richard says the fear is good, but it’s making me pace the living room like a caged cat.

So, scrap that earlier plug. If anyone anyone needs a contract mentalist in Brighton, just send ‘em my way.

Newton Faulkner revolts me.

FACT.

I’m not racialist against the gingers, ho no no.

It’s the disgusting dreadlocks and his butchering of Massive Attack’s gorgeous Teardrops that makes my toes curl.

Get thee gone, Devil in hippy disguise.

Hmmmm. Interesting goings on in the Ladyshambles bathroom this morning.

Last night, I and a group of fabulously talented ex-colleagues and dear friends, known collectively for the sake of this blog as The Lab Rats, visited vegetarian gastric outpost Manna Restaurant.

You see, one of our party is a vegetarian. He is a bilker of burgers; he cold shoulders the cutlets. Steaks? Eschewed and unchewed. But since the last venue for our soiree was one of London’s finest meat emporiums, we thought it only fair to sample the delights of all things herbivore.

While the food was surprisingly good - the kitchen positively excelled itself with the organic fruit crumble - this morning it appears we’re all suffering from a force eight gale in the bowel and more burn than even Jane Fonda would recommend.

I’m afraid as lovely as this carnivore’s jaunt down the tofu track was, I’m heading back to commune with the cows.

It might take up to three days for a juicy slab of sirloin to wend its way through my colon, but quite frankly, when it comes to digestion, I’ll eat the hare and hitch a ride with the tortoise.

Wotcha.

Just back from fabulous skiing. No shattered bones. Lovely.

Now I’m in the office.

More when I am not crippled by horrendous holiday blues…

——————–

However, on a lighter note, The German and I witnessed the following exchange the Saturday before last, while checking in for our outbound flight:

Irate Traveller, turning unhealthy shade of puce, spits: “I did not swear. I did not!”

Help Desk Monkey, sporting outsize smirk, retorts: “Er, I’m pretty sure you did actually. Sir.”

Brightened up my morning, that.

I live my life by a simple rule: my Dad can fix everything. This is the Rule of Dad. He can just do stuff. It comes with the territory and I shall live all my days believing it, because it is truth.

This same truth was born out over a teary phone call this morning to my fix-all, know-all Dad.

I shall not bore you with details, but let’s just say Ladyshambles was at the end of her tether, feeling ill and despite all efforts, was failing miserably at being stoic and positive. So I phoned my Dad.

Cut to half an hour later and the tears are dried and I’m just about back on track, albeit a bit wobbly and perhaps still in need of some stabilisers. (This is where my lovely Mum comes in, who is going to phone later to seal the deal.)

So to my Dad: Considering how little tether I have had of late, you have done a truly miraculous job with picking me up, dusting me down and sending me once more on my way. I s’pose your job never really changed in that respect, did it? I’m just a bit taller than you now.

Thank you. I love you loads.

PS If you find a way to bottle this Dad stuff and sell it, then I want a cut. Capisce?

PPS Mum - you’re equally ace and I love you loads too. Talk to you later.

I’m not given to overly elaborate descriptions of things deemed ‘gross’.

But sometimes, something is so eye-wateringly, bottom-clenchingly, mouth-puckeringly horrid, I am compelled against my better judgement to share.

On Friday night I fell victim to what I fondly like to call The Scourge of Woman - a UTI, aka urinary tract infection or if you prefer: cystitis. Doesn’t just the name of it conjure up images of Geri Halliwell’s demonic little face?

Now then, a quiet word in the shell-like of men before I go on. Imagine your undercarriage were a Catholic heretic during the reign of Henry VIII. Imagine Lord Cromwell ordered you off to the Tower and after a spell on the rack, you were sent off to be killed to death by burning at the stake. Then imagine pissing razor blades while all that’s going on. Vivid? Good. Keep imagining, boys. Feel free to go ahead and stick some lighter fluid up your japs eye and take a naked flame to it, just to get the true sensation.

My failure to beat this wretched, cursed thing now means I’m halfway to a raging kidney infection. After a trip to the doctor, I’m medicated up to the eyeballs with paracetamol, ibuprofen and some sort of elephant tranquilising antibiotic.

God’s death. Sometimes I truly envy men. They might possess untidy genitalia and have the infuriating habit of shoving your head under the duvet when they fart, but they also metabolise booze quicker than us birds do, they don’t have periods and (most of them) have never, and will never, experience cystitis.

I do like boys. Just not very much at the moment.

I’m feeling slightly hard done by. I think I have good reason. It’s Sunday, I’m in the office and I drank ALOT of red wine last night. Which considering I knew I was coming into work, was a woefully inadvised decision.

I’m sure I’ll be fine once the painkillers kick in.

Or not… I’m getting too old for this shit.