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.

Tomorrow the great abyss of unemployment starts. And so, in true fighting spirit, the solace of lunchtime binge drinking also begins.

I’m going to start off on a gin and tonic around 11am, then move onto a crisp white wine (perhaps a chilled Pinot) by 1pm. Then after that I’m sure a glass of fruity Merlot wouldn’t go amiss, before a strident march towards a large coffee accompanied by a port or three.

After this I may need a snooze, but I’ll set the alarm and crack straight on with a refreshing cider, before hitting the vodka and soda (with fresh lime squeezed in, not that cordial shit), before vomiting with gusto and starting all over again the following morning.

The question is how long until I’m skint, drinking dirty double strength lagers and weeing myself?

Inevitably, the Photoshoppers have been out in force. Just received this:

I laughed. I am going straight to hell: do not pass Go, do not collect £200.

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.

Tomorrow at 4pm I am visiting an alternative health emporium in south London (for the benefit of a certain free newspaper) to sample the delights of Chinese cupping.

Rather than wear out my fingers on the keyboard attempting to explain to you the consequences of this most mystic and ancient of arts, I think in this instance a picture paints a thousand words.

Honestly. The things I do to keep a roof over my head.

Mind you, despite looking like an American Hot for the best part of a week, I’m actually very much looking forward to trying this out. After all it’s not often one gets paid to be detoxed.

The only blot on my relaxation landscape is a rather fetching backless maxi dress I had planned on wearing to a wedding the weekend after next. The bastard marks had better fade, otherwise it’s going to take a trowel-load of body make up and/or an Outfit Plan B to rectify the mess.

Certainly the bride won’t thank me for stealing her thunder with the ‘beaten by a salami’ look.

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 know it’s not very genteel of me to say so, but I fucking hate my neighbours. You’ll soon see why.

Specimens 1 & 2

South African couple. Live downstairs. Play shit ‘world’ music at full volume. Shout at each other over shit ‘world’ music, instead of turning full volume down.

He and she leave for work at 7.25am and 7.30am respectively. He and she slam inner and front doors separately, in quick succession, as if in blind rage and attempting to rip doors from hinges. Wall behind inner door is now dented and about to crack like a Californian fault line. My alarm clock is rendered useless.

Fucking inconsiderate twunts.

Specimen 3

Unemployed, BNP voter next door. Married, one son, looks like a pitbull. Beats his wife. (Probably.)

Pride and joy is a vintage Jaguar. Dark blue, leather trim, walnut dash. Kept under wraps to presumably protect against scratching and vagaries of British weather.

Woke whole street up at 2am on Tuesday morning roaring, “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, YOU C*NT!!!” and bashing on the driver door of a Peugeot 206 parked outside his house.

Turns out Peugeot 206 had accidentally nudged gift-wrapped and beloved Jag. Pitbull continued intimidating shouting at full volume for 15 minutes, while attempting to drag Peugeot driver out of car, presumably to rip them to shreds with his bare hands.

And how did Pitbull see that Peugeot 206 had dared to breathe on his car at 2am?

Because he was sitting in his house, staring at the damn car like a demented watchman, that’s why. Just waiting for a reason to go absolutely fucking postal.

Atrocious, eardrum-perforating music and certified psychopaths. Welcome to my manor, readers.

I’m fucked, aren’t I?

So, some news reports suggest that Cheryl Cole may well be taking back errant husband, Ashley.

On a personal level I couldn’t give a shit. I don’t spend a great deal of time fretting about the dirty washing of others (except when the neighbours start throwing stuff at each other - then I’m glued to a glass against the wall). But in the grand scheme of things, when adultery threatens a marriage there are definitely a variety of options to choose from, each boasting equally persuasive arguments.

We always hear old people banging on about how young people don’t stick at marriages these days. It’s all too easy to get your solicitor on speed dial after therapy fails to tell you why he can’t fuck you right, why the children divorced you both before you got to divorce each other, why she got fat, why he spends all his time in the shed, ad infinitum.

By the same token, no one is going to expect you to stay with a man who after 20 years of marriage, comes screaming out of the closet, equipped with feather boa and 19-year old boyfriend.

I think in this instance, the old fashioned adage of sticking together is perhaps somewhat out-moded.

However (and it is a BIG however), when His Nibs falls accidentally-on-purpose on top of the nearest fame-hungry harlot, it’s an entirely different kettle of fish.

Do you stand by your man and honour your wedding vows? Since he clearly forgot all about those promises when he stuck his old chap into some cheap slag who wants a boob job and her acrylic nail fill-ins doing, it either takes great bravery or stupidity - I’m not sure which.

Or do you tell the cheating toerag to sling his hook, have a bloody good cry and stoically piece your life back together?

When I’m wearing my Benevolent Hat, I admire the women who go for the first option. I think if you can make it work after adultery threatens to topple your whole world over Pisa-style, then fair fucks. I salute you.

But when I’m wearing all of my other Hats (and there are many including Blind Rage, Ranting and Just A Bit Narky), I am definitely of the ‘Sling Your Hook You Waste-Of-Skin, Useless Twat Of A Husband’ school of thought.

So, I guess The German knows where he stands if there’s ever an indiscretion in our house…

But really, the bottom line for me on this stance is thus: once a cheat, always a cheat. You let that genie out of the bottle and you’re setting yourself up for a lifetime of heartache from a man who doesn’t deserve you.

So good luck to Cheryl if the news is true. But I reckon she’ll be rinsing that rat through the divorce courts before she turns 30.

Before you all go thinking The Guardian is the last bastion of quality, think again.

Clearly something, or should I say someone, has slipped through the tightly guarded net so we can be treated to hot and cold running drivel.

This is Max. He’s 19-years old and he’s bagged himself a blog spot with The Guardian, so he can regale us all with tales of his gap year trip to India. Riveting, no?

Ooooh, and I forgot to mention. Max is a jumped up little prick of negligible talent, whose Daddy clearly flashed the cash at a commissioning editor, who should be strung up for allowing such crap writing to sully the good name of said paper.

Sweeping generalisations and startlingly antiquated views on snake-riddled continents abound, but my favourite bit is when he writes, ‘I’m doing India on my own.’ You’re ‘doing‘ India are you? ‘DOING‘ India?? Perhaps this means that in between rearranging the plums in his silver-lined gob, Max the teenage spunk bag will be taking deepest darkest India from behind when its not looking. Who knows?

I wouldn’t mind so much if he was doing something out of the ordinary, or was mesmerizing me with wit and humour beyond his years. But since he’s doing neither, I’m simply disgusted at The Guardian for peddling this dross.

I could go on with lambasting Max, but I needn’t. Lots of other people have done it for me in the comments section underneath his post. I’ve never seen such a well deserved drubbing.

He’ll be begging Daddy to disable the page before the week is out, mark my words.

I have had it up to here (vehemently jabs space above head) with people, in particular strange men, babbling codswallop at me.

This morning the man in the coffee shop tried to tell me, in heavily accented English, that being tall is just like being short, except you know… it’s tall instead. Because apparently the two are one and the same.

I despise this aimless and nonsensical approach to conversation. It would piss me off even if it wasn’t 8.45am, but pre-caffeine it’s akin to navigating a confabulatory assault course. I am simply not up to such exertions.

Then at lunchtime the man in the shoe shop practically ripped my left thumb from its socket. He was allegedly trying get a closer look at the ring I wear on that particular digit. (FYI it’s a simple, chunky silver affair.) He then embarked on a one-man soliloquy about finding great beauty in simplicity. Hell’s teeth, I went there to buy shoes, not throw up on yours, pal.

How I would gladly take an electric cattle prod to the behind of such bargain bucket philosophers.