I have an objection.

This is to being called ‘babe’ by the man in the newsagents when I enter his premises to purchase fags and soya sauce. (Staples of a freelance life, you know. Along with Diagnosis Murder and Haribo.)

I am no one’s ‘babe’. Not even The German’s. Being given such a moniker is an unsavoury reminder of a vile ex boyfriend and the fact that when it comes to the endless battle to enforce appropriate behaviour, some men clearly need their trenches redigging.

Apparently this overfamiliarity is a sign of the times. More a folded down corner on the cultural page than a direct attempt to piss me off.

But just because someone else is jumping of a cliff into an abyss of social incongruity, does not mean I have to as well.

Eyes front and hands where I can see ‘em, boys.

Good God. A whole week has gone by. Just like that.

*Makes Formula 1 racing car noise for effect*

I watched Atonement t’other night. For those of you who haven’t seen it and would not like me to ruin it for you, skip the italics…

To the rest of you, it was bloody good stuff but hand me a noose, it turned me a freshly bruised shade of melancholy for nearly 24 hours. I know the ending is redemptive, blah blah blah, but I’d recommend you read the book for a slower drip-drip-drip on the sadness. Rather than full-frontal glumity.

Right, are we all back in the room? Gooooood.

I read in the Metro today that Kylie invited a stack of people to her Brits party at wank-fest Movida, but then snubbed them while she swanned around drinking some 35k cocktail in the VIP area. Erm, call me a bitch (and many have) but it just confirms what I’ve always thought*: Ms Minogue is a stuck up priss with negligible talent. Never mistake sticking power with ability. Especially when it sounds like a chipmunk sucking on helium.

Vitriol done.

*When the pint-sized popstrel was still dating Gallic walking erection Olivier Martinez (the first time round), my cousin and I were dining in Nobu when the two of them were shown to the table next to us. (Eyes were rapidly placed back in their sockets, while pointy fingers were slapped down reproachfully.) Kylie alternated between whining to the waiters and sending food back, and moody silence. Then she kicked off her shoes, wound herself around Martinez like a baby python and started whispering in his ear. I don’t give a fuck who she is: inappropriate behaviour at the dinner table is unacceptable. And so is acting like a clinging, whinging eejit of a girlfriend. No wonder he dumped her.

Later: Ladyshambles is heading straight to hell for that last comment. But quite frankly, my dear, she doesn’t give a damn.

Truth hurts, innit?

I am being spammed into the stratosphere.

First up is discounted Viagra. It would appear nothing escapes the January sales.

In at number two are the various ways to enlarge one’s penis. There are no words.

And finally, my personal favourite: the clunky seduction attempts of the latest batch of fresh-off-the-boat Svetlanas. In their discordant, broken English they make a daily bid to lure me into bankruptcy with smutty web chat and promises of girl-on-girl rudity. Devils, get thee gone.

Although my current hit rate might tell you otherwise, I fall firmly into a demographic unburdened by the bedroom dysfunction/dubious proclivities which these prurient messages claim to rectify/satiate.

So why the fuck is my Spam folder such a busy thoroughfare for this dross? Don’t they market research? Or maybe that’s the whole point of spamming; scatter gun it and eventually the laws of probability will out.

I say simply this:

Spammers of Great Britain and beyond: Know your audience.

There is a sniffer in my midst.

Kleenex and a sharp word have been administered.

Aaaaaand, relaaaaaaax.

This morning, while tubing my way to the office, I turned into one of the people I despise.

I turned into a sniffer.

My mother was, and still is, a tissue zealot. The ringing sounds of, “Blow, don’t sniff!” echo perpetually through the corridors of my childhood. That and various stern entreaties to get my elbows off the table and eat like a human being, not a cement mixer, but that’s another post altogether.

Sneezes, coughs, germs and diseases were treated equally in our house and an approach bordering on fascism was adopted. Sniffing, particularly when accompanied with the dragging of one’s sleeve underneath dripping nostrils, was in the Top Five ways to rebel against the Administration. Particularly when accompanied by a defiant glare.

And quite right too. Sniffing is rude, irritating and more than vaguely disgusting. Thank God I was taught to be a blower and a habitual paper hanky junkie. Such is my irritation at the general population’s inability to blow their noses, I have frequently resorted to impatiently waving a tissue under the worst offenders’ noses, with a look that says, “Blow, or else.” No one has objected.

But this morning, I was left with no other choice than to join in the snot-fest after running out of tissues. The Northern line was just too damn quiet to hide the shame of snuffling like an out of tune brass section, so thank Christ the Victoria line is so frickin’ noisy you can barely hear yourself think, let alone sniff.

The problem is that boarding warm and stuffy public transport after freezing your proboscis in the chilly November air, is like applying super effective plug hole unblocker to the offending orofice. The resultant over-enthusiastic inhalation leads to some quite special hocking and coughing. You’d be forgiven for thinking you were travelling to work on a mobile TB ward.

So to all you sniffy travellers, remember this as you go about your business sans hankerchief. Next time a tall brunette with a fanatical glint in her eye offers you a fistful of tissues, take them and don’t argue.

I’m watching you.

Yours without mucus,

Ladyshambles (Sponsored by Kleenex)