Crazy Homies and Not-so-crazy Oxford

Just when we thought Saturday night couldn't get any worse, Crazy Homies came to the rescue. After waiting in the rain for hours and hours for a table at a Mexican restaurant, I finally found something to fill the Pepe's-shaped-hole in my life. Pepe's, for the uninitiated, was the Mexican restaurant where I practically grew up. Cheap, cheerful and my employer for a good five years, it pretty much single-handedly kept me and my student mates alive throughout university. Years and years later, I still crave Mexican on a weekly basis. (In fact, after looking forward to a Mexican dinner all day on Saturday, Erin spotted the washing up and texted me a suspicous message: 'Did you have Mexican for lunch?' 'Just avocado and cheese' I replied meekly).

Anyway, Crazy Homies took us in when no-one else would, sodden and grumpy and in dire need of elderflower margaritas. And it gets better - Nick Cave lives upstairs when in London and apparently eats (or, assumedly, drinks) at Crazy Homies four nights a week. I knew he was classy. I have a feeling it will become a recurring feature in our lives. Once upon a time, Mr Cave did me a great kindness (well it seemed that way for a misfit teenage girl) and so I would love to buy him a burrito to say thanks.

Meanwhile I also went to visit old friend Lachlan in Oxford where we dined genteely upon scones and clotted cream at the university (one of the elderly attendants told us the scones were left over from the floods last week, we weren't quite sure if he was joking or not). Lachie, being an athlete, gave me a brisk walking tour of the town so at least I probably walked off most of the scones. And fish and chips. And burger. And ice-cream. And Crazy Homies.

Lunchlady Doris and the parallel universe

Yesterday my soul decided to take a trip into a few parallel dimensions before being forcefully yanked back into my body, which at that point was sprawled on a doctors surgery floor. Those of you who know me will know my irrational fear of doctors*, in particular, doctors with blood pressure monitors (one of my colleagues informs me that she actually LOVES getting her blood pressure taken... which for one moment prompted the hatchling of an evil plan, but I guess it's just too much to hope that the doctor wouldn't notice a switch after the havoc I caused yesterday morning).

On a routine visit to the doctor they wanted to test my blood pressure. I warned the matronly nurse that I may faint, and that she should have a glass of water to hand. She began to cheerily tell me about her own aversion to needles and various details about her tonsilectomy, which patently did not help the situation. So down I went, and if you've never fainted you might not be able to imagine the strange state between waking and dreaming (Christian I believe I met you in some parallel dimension for a whisky or two). Opening my eyes, my first thought was: Am I in Australia? No. Am I in Sweden? No. Am I in England? Hmm...yes I think so. Only England could have carpet like this in a doctor's surgery... And then I noticed this huge face leaning over me, she looked familiar...then it hit me - it was a human version of Lunchlady Doris from the Simpsons. 'Are you alwrigh'?' she asked in an accent which left me in no doubt what country I was in, but was kind of confusing because last time I checked, the Simpsons wasn't set in East London.

My instinctive response (apart from, 'Oh my God, you're ALIVE?') was, 'Who the HELL are you?' but I kept my mouth shut until I could stumble outside and Mia came to get me and fed me numerous cups of hot tea. I felt literally beside myself for the rest of the day. Mum tells me that when I was a baby (born mind-boggling early) I spent the first two months of my life in hospital, and my heart actually stopped several times. This has quite shocked me - I mean obviously I remember going to the hospital incessantly, but I never knew quite how touch and go it was. So that put a hell of a lot in perspective - a student house and soggy summer are no match for me.

Later I met Simon who I haven't seen since I left Amsterdam. It was strange to catch up, but obviously my soul had left a bit of its alcohol-processing ability in some far-off multiverse (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) and I fear after a few red wines I blabbed incoherently at him for four hours.

Meanwhile, my brush with oblivion has also put work in perspective, and I am far more inspired at the media corporation. I have even written my first pitch for a tv show as part of a staff competition, and if I get to work on that, then life-changing plan A (national fame, instant new career, famous husband and holiday house in Stockholm archipelago) might just come off in time for Christmas...

p.s. Queens Park update: celebrity resident list now includes Daniel 'James Bond' Craig, spotted last week at the local Starbucks.

*Fear of doctors does not apply to The Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM)

Oh what a weekend

Today I had my first dealings with the UK health system since 2003 when I took my ex-boyfriend to hospital thinking he was having a heart attack and unfortunately his rather feminine first name made the doctors try and sedate me... but I digress. As a certain singing nun with a penchant for clothing made from drapery would say, let's start at the very beginning.

Last night, Mia and I met the remains of Team London in Notting Hill to 'get out of the house'. This of course turned into a bit of an extravaganza and despite me accidentally kissing JonJon's flatmate again, poor Mia took the cake as far as dramatic evenings go. After a few Mojitos anyone would be a bit tipsy, but suddenly her legs fell out from under her and she threw up prolifically - Linda Blair herself would have been horrified. By this stage, my feet in uncharacteristic heels were killing me, but I miraculously managed to get Mia up the stairs in one piece where we hailed that cornerstone of British life, the mini-cab. My faith in Londoners was further eroded when the cab driver decided he did not want to risk having poor Mia in the car and abandoned us at a service station somewhere in the dark, tumble-weed ridden terrain of north London (ok the tumbleweed is just a special effect). 'Are you REALLY going to be this irresponsible?' I asked him, Greenpeace-interrogation style. "Yes I am,' he said coolly and drove off. Times like that you desperately need a Simpsons scriptwriter to put a biting response in your mouth.

We finally got home via a much nicer minicab driver who even helped me propel Mia inside (heels had gone flying down the stairs by this point). This morning, she awoke in a panic, and told me she thought her drink had been spiked. She had no memory at all of getting home. Erin and I rang the hospital - and this is the bit where I was considering a plane bound for Sydney (or Stockholm).

Apparently, the UK doesn't really believe in drink spiking. You see, whenever they test these women, they just have alcohol in their bloodstream. I think I have an explanation for that: namely, they don't test you until you have been in a hospital waiting room for the better part of a millenium and convinced the nurse that you are not in fact an alcoholic or a tramp (despite the fact you may have lost your painful high heels in the process), and you are then shunted off to a police station since the NHS refuses to test you. In Australia you can buy drink-testing kits, call advice lines and go to efficient 24-hour medical centres (...on second thoughts, maybe that says more about Australian men than British ones!) In the UK, you are basically accused of having had a few too many vodkas and given an injection. Admittedly, we finally convinced the well-meaning nurse at the hospital. 'I would put you in a bed for monitoring,' she said ruefully, 'But we don't actually have any'.

But after a large pizza, strawberry Haagen Daaz and a highly therapeutic dose of David Tennant, I think Mia's on the road to recovery. And one thing's for sure, we sure as hell got out of the house this weekend.

p.s. The Mac is back - yay! - life's a bit better (something to do with new shoes perhaps?), and, despite positively apocalyptic weather, London life is at least a lot more interesting - and not only in medical-emergency ways.

Fortuna

Where to start? Forgive my infrequent posts. My beloved Mac, Audrey, is in Mac hospital, leaving bereaved iPod Marvin and me with only an archaic pen to blog with. But that is the least of my woes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be honest and say my entire life seems to have taken a sharp turn for the worse.

I have been forced to return to what I eupemistically (and that's scary enough in itself) term the Youth Hostel, my six (or sometimes seven) person household, to my tiny barely-furnished room. Upon arrival yesterday, I was greeted by a seemingly mute goth guy forlornly eating pizza in the kitchen. I don't know who he is, no-one has bothered to explain, but his long black hair is all over my bathroom sink, his collection of Metallica shirts hanging in the kitchen, and he is sleeping in the living room. I have a terrible suspicion he was previously sleeping in my bed before I got back.

The lamp in my room has mysteriously disappeared, so although I planned to waste away the next miserable four weeks reading, it will be in the prison-cell-like glare of my ceiling bulb. My room is so small that my bed turns it, appropriately, into a kind of padded cell, which combined with the harsh light is definintely an interior-decorating tip to avoid like the plague.

My clothes (the ones that aren't in Ben and Erin's house, Stockholm, Brisbane or Sydney) are in an impenetrable pile and I have to lean against the cupboard and duck down to see the mirror while I use my bed as a makeup table. I won't use the dimly-lit bathroom to apply makeup since it apparently hasn't been cleaned since I left as I discovered to considerable horror last night, and someone has broken the shower head (I don't even want to think about how...but then again, it could have been the dodgy Polish builders who would turn up without notice and inform us belatedly that the bath was about to go through the floor - an undignified death I guess I should be grateful to have avoided so far) so I have to lean into the slimy shower curtain. I hate my job, but I go there early to escape the house, where I can't even watch tv since there will be random people in the living room or French flatmates who sleep all day complaining about the sound through the paper-thin walls.

The constant moving (countries and houses), desperate attempts to avoid being at home, and lack of routine has depleted my finances. Considering that, combined with the odd combinations of clothing that I am no doubt leaving the house in, it's not really surprising that I'm still hopelessly single (despite rumours of my ongoing secret affair with a certain BBC actor, which will only actually happen if Queens Park vegetable market comes up trumps - not entirely out of the realms of possibility and certainly more likely than someone other than me cleaning the bath tub any time soon). Although the vege market has been a bit deprived of celebrities lately, even Alex Lloyd hasn't turned up. Had champagne with Terry Wogan the other night (no really I did, my life is weird), even that couldn't lift my spirits. And without my Mac even Jake Gyllenhaal can't comfort me.

So...I nervously await the results of last week's job interview and hope that one more country, house and job might bring me some kind of happiness. As my dubious hero Ignatius J. Reilly would advise, I patiently wait for Fortuna to spin her wheel. Midnight is where the day begins and all that. Strangely, I'm not actually that depressed, I'm clinging to the feeling that this is all very temporary and some crazy miracle is about to change everything.

I think I should go back to my padded cell.

End of miserable rant.

p.s. just found out I didn't get the job either. i have no idea what to do next. now i'm depressed.

Living out of a suitcase

Health Warning: this will be a rather haphazard posting for the sole reason that I'm incredibly slack. Still camping at Ben and Erin's and still with belongings strewn across three houses. Not much to report except that temporary flatmate Mia has become addicted to Pacman, Sophie Dahl shops at our vegetable market and I have started ballet again. Yes, Missy M returns to the stage after a 12 year hiatus. Well okay I've just been doing ballet at home but I'm remembering how much I love it. When I feel comfortable enough appearing in front of other grown women in a leotard I will consider a class (that will be never then).

I've been lying low since Sweden and trying to get through the daily grind, which no matter how positive I am or how much Green & Blacks' chocolate I keep in my desk drawer, just doesn't get better. It's become more and more obvious that unless I suddenly get a starring role - or more realistically, a lackey job...and then starring role - on Doctor Who, London is not really the place for me.

But a chink of light at the end of the tunnel - I got a phone call from my dream company on Monday. If all goes well, I may be either returning to Stockholm or moving to New York very soon. I don't actually know many people in New York, unless you count the Soup Nazi. I won't give details in case I jinx it but it sounds like the perfect job: including ski trips, no shoes policy and daily fika (that's Swedish afternoon tea - even in the New York office). If I thought it would help I'd pray but small daily sacrifices and obsessive-compulsive gestures aren't out of the question. If that fails, I guess it's back to finding a creative outlet here. I don't know why they just don't film the farmer's market here in Queen's Park where most of the city's cast and crew appear to live or at least shop for vegetables - Mia and I have taken to donning sunglasses and spending more time ogling stars than onions on Sunday mornings.

But it's not just about the job, I need to find a place where I love living. It will be good to get out of Britain - where the conservatives are about to propose tax breaks for married people (the solution to all of Britain's problems, apparently - force everyone to get married for cash, yes, that will make for a stable and happy society, well done!), Al Qaeda is all worked up about Salman Rushdie and as far as I know John Travolta is still calling up BBC management about scientology (I'm serious).

So...fingers and toes, as they say back home. And I promise more regular updates soon, if anything exciting would happen. Next week promises a meeting with 'The Google Guy' who I have emailed for years but never met in person, and possibly a speed-dating extravaganza with some single pals. I know I know, but never say never...

Sweden: the aftermath

Well, back in Blighty, after some exceptional juggling between airports by SAS (no they don't pay me to say that, but seriously, if I had've been flying KLM today I'd still be in Gothenburg looking for my bag).

Impressively, London is extremely calm despite the near-miss bombings, Heathrow was possibly even calmer than usual. I did however sit next to a strange man on the tube on the way in who, while consuming his 'dinner', consisting of an entire packet of dried spiced peas, told me to seek spiritual assistance. I had chosen the seat in order to chat to the nice Swedish guy sitting opposite, but he wisely averted eye contact and left me stuck with the pea man, who went on to offer me a job as his secretary, and told me that I was better looking than Kylie Minogue and could I please send Kylie back to Australia. Maybe it was a sign of some sort... but I took it as a sign to change tubes three stops early.

This morning, after hankering for American pancakes for three days, Irina and I went to treat ourselves to brunch at Stockholm's Folkoperan. Of course, American pancakes were off the menu this morning, causing much gnashing of teeth. We made do with a rather strange combination of vegetarian sausages, baked beans, coleslaw and sliced oranges. 'Geez, that looks like Pommie food,' remarked Mr Unrequited who had joined us - and was very proud of his Australian vocabulary. I am so glad that against all odds, Mr U and I can actually talk now, I left Sweden feeling calm and happy and am determined to go back for good - as soon as possible. (Anyone out there who wants to offer me a job in Stockholm please do. Preferably not as a secretary and preferably not while consuming a packet of dried spicy peas).

It's been a hectic, liver-damaging week of catching up on life among my Swedish friends. Ludvig kindly invited the Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM) to a beery event which while I managed to speak a mere three words to him, did restore my faith that there are actually attractive men out there, albeit usually married, unrequited or averting their eye contact on trains and abandoning me to the attentions of men whose mental faculties are slightly questionable.

Meanwhile back in Queen's Park Mia has upped the Celebrity Resident list, which now consists of David 'Dr Who' Tennant, Thandie 'Chick from Mission Impossible' Newton, Cillian 'Guy from 28 Days Later' Murphy, David 'multipurpose tv host' Baddiel and Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard. However Lloyd is probably down at Hugo's restaurant having spicy peas and unfortunately Mr Tennant is still averting his eyes, metaphorically speaking.