All I seem to do these days is blog sporadically about various employment-related subject matter, but before I bore you all to terminal tears, just stick it out for one more post and then I promise I’ll get a second string to my woefully beleaguered bow.

Now then. Since landing the job with the drinks cabinet and the boardroom (result), I have in the meantime been thrashing out the salary stuff (cringe). Result? Delayed start date. So to keep my fingers out the biscuit jar and the boredom porn off the box, I have managed to blag my way into super-wanky ad agency, Bartle Bogle Hegarty, for a spot of contract ‘copy writing’ (read arsing around smoking fags and drawling ‘daaaaahling’ at everyone from the tea boy to Mr Bogle).

This whole escapade is amusing for two reasons:

1) I am no copy writer. I don’t really know what this breed of being does, but I’m winging it to within an inch of my life. So far, not busted.

2) I’ve never been in such a litigious environment. All they talk about is getting the lawyers in. And believe you me, I shat myself when I read the T&Cs on my contract. Fucking hell, they’ll be after my grandmother’s boney bottom to have their pound of flesh if I don’t fulfill.

So far they’re buying my bullshit and I’m banking on being out by Wednesday, well before anyone notices I fucked up the Five website proofs.

It would seem a blogger does not an award-winning word wizard make.

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.)

Following on from yesterday’s post, who the fuck would have thought terminal velocity would invert the human mammary?

Not I and yet the evidence is plain to see.

Enjoy.

Lately, I’ve been all over the shop, behaving like a whirligig on speed.

I went to Madrid on a hen do. Fuck me, what a knees up eh? I drank enough to make my liver implode but there were no penis straws and Madrid is one hell of a wicked city. Oh, and given that 10 women spent three straight days with each other, we all behaved impeccably and there were no murders committed. Give it another day though and who knows what any of us might have done… especially after Tin Pot Airways delayed our flight by about six hours.

Upon return to the UK, The German and I went to the Lake District. Beautiful up there you know, although when you’re approximately 30-years younger than everyone within a 12 mile radius, it makes the view a little more craggy than one would expect.

Day 1: We motored seven miles round Ullswater in two hours and 20 minutes, earning ourselves blisters the size of golf balls and many, many pints. Devoured slabs of Kendal mint cake. Wondered why roof of mouth felt like the inside of Willy Wonka’s Y-fronts.

Day 2: We awoke to wazzing rain and came back home early. Popped blister. Good holiday eh?

Since then I’ve been interviewing for jobs and trying to sort my life out. God, I hate flux. It makes me erratic and prone to the drink. Yes, yes - even more so than normal.

So, amongst the dizzying freneticism of daily fake tanning disasters and laundry (oh, the glamour), my do to list now includes:

1) Land a shit hot and well paid job when London teeters on the brink of recession. Crunch me baby, crunch me.

2) Pack in the fags and stop being a drink-addled tart so my fertility isn’t ruined and I render myself a useless, barren husk of a woman. (Thank you Grazia - I’m starting to deeply regret my subscription after the 100th dull as fuck/frightening as fuck article about infertility in women who go out drinking and smoking, just like me.)

3) Move to the seaside in a vain attempt to suck in air that isn’t riddled with chemicals, exhaust fumes and other people’s body odour 24/7. (Also see point two.)

Good then. I don’t feel overwhelmed in the slightest. Not a heart palpitation in sight.

*impersonates rabbit trapped in headlights*

*thud*

I’ve just returned from the most marvellous session with my chiropractor.

My neck has been crunched four times, the back three times and my right hip once.

However, there was a small moment of horror when he told me that adjustments to the neck have an approximate one in five million chance of causing a stroke.

I still signed the consent form, but I can’t pretend my stomach didn’t somersault at the thought of coming home with a face like melted wax.

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.

In the 26 and three quarter years I have trodden God’s green Earth, it’s been quite plain that my maternal streak may need a little coaxing from its hiding place.

Children are like farts: you love your own (yes, you do!) but other people’s? No ta.

I’d love to have kiddies with The German. He would be a top drawer Dad, truly wonderful (and he’d look right gorgeous with a small one in those strap-them-to-your-chest sling affairs). In fact, if it weren’t for him, I would actively dismiss my part in procreation as utter bobbins and waste no more time thinking about it.

Despite nurturing these tiny thought-foetuses regarding Teutonic-influenced nesting, they live in a dim and distant land called Early to Mid Thirties. So you can imagine my overwhelming shock when my ovaries started to gently hum the day before yesterday.

I was in the GP waiting room. A woman sat down in front of me and extracted from an industrial sized pram, one of the most gorgeous babies I have ever clapped eyes on. I went all like a marshmallow for a bit, which being the first time this has ever happened, made me feel a little odd.

Thankfully it passed reasonably rapidly, but I needn’t have worried even if it hadn’t. The reason? Misssy M Misssives and her triumphant blog post describing what childbirth is really like, in all its glorious Hammer horror technicolour.

This good and truthful woman not only made me roar with laughter, but she has also silenced my ovaries. They can start jigging about again in 2013.

And not a moment sooner.

I got ’spotted’ by a modeling agency last night, outside Topshop on Oxford Street.

While the scout-man was trotting out the usual ‘you’ve got a great look, blah, blah, blah’ stuff, inside I was silently screaming: “I’M TOO OLD AND I’VE GOT CELLULITE!!!”

The moment they find out I’m a dress size 12-14 with a rack to match, they’ll be shoe horning me out the door faster than you can say ‘laxatives’.

Which is not to say it didn’t make me feel a bit smug for five minutes, before tucking into a very greasy and very gorgeous extra large bag of fish and chips for tea.

I just don’t think the fashion world is quite ready for Ladyshambles.

I am aghast. I just found out what a douchebag is and it’s absolutely not what I thought it was.

For those of you as naive as I, you may find out what a douchbag is by clicking here. If you wish to remain unfettered with such knowledge, I advise you step away from your mouse right this minute.

My friend Giles informs me this is Kelly Osbourne’s favourite word. This explains a lot. I caught her on a kids’ TV programme many moons ago calling someone a douchebag. The giggly presenter asked her to explain what a douchebag was, to which she replied it was a waterproof receptacle for carrying with you into a shower. Ah ha! A washbag then. Perfectly plausible.

It is actually nothing of the sort. I’m sure many of you already know this.

I’m genuinely shocked that such items exist. I mean, I think bidets are unnecessary. Getting to grips with what a douchebag can do leaves me doused in disbelief.

I feel sullied.

I am fully freaked out.

You know the classic anxiety dream where your teeth are crumbling and falling out?

Well last night, I had the gnasher dream. And when I woke up, I was clutching my mouth because my teeth were falling out in real life.

Well, not all of them. But I was grinding those babies so vigorously that I’ve knocked a cap out.

Now what the fuck does this mean? (Apart from the fact it would be a wise decision to go and get a gum shield fitted.) Are the demons winning?? Am I eternally damned by self-fulfilling prophesies of doom???

I mean, I want my dreams to come true, but not like this… I can’t afford the dentistry.