That Friday Feeling

I was having a rubbish day.

My day has yet to improve in the area of client related activities but I have accomplished a few significant tasks namely:

- I have made it til 12 (trust me, it wasn't looking likely at around 9am);

- I have discovered that I am most like Superman in 'Which Superhero are you?' (I sadly rank poorly as Catwoman, merely 40% like the lycra clad role model, but then I never did look good in a catsuit, as I have regularly documented in this blog);

I was going to try and create a more substantial list but it looks sadly like that's about my limit of personal achievement so far today.

But what improved my day, what dragged it from the lost depths of disappointment and depression?
Tunes.

I won't detail what tunes, as I have been delving into the far reaches of my eclectic mix of mp3s in search of melodic enlightenment and they frankly haven't been the most intelligent musical accomplishments (I haven't had Bruce Springsteen on yet, but I'm sure it won't be too long).

But they make me smile.

And bounce in my seat (which probably looks like I have a bladder problem, or that I have drunk too much tea, which would most likely instigate a bladder problem, and which would probably be true, but the bouncing has its roots in the tunes).

And attempt to mouth the words (which I am sure I am getting consistently wrong but its only me who is privy to my lyrical mistakes as I have my headphones on).

When a track ends, I am abruptly faced with the OfficeNoise(TM) once again and the feeling of WebTerror floods over me swiftly, but with a careful piece of iTunes wizardry (called 'finding a new track'), I manage to immerse myself quickly once more (if I had been at all technical, I might have even created a playlist, but lets not get carried away here).

Its like falling back asleep to a beautiful dream.

Experience is everything

It seems that some omnipotent academic was reading through my most recent blog entry and felt that, whilst clearly substantial in emotion the post was somewhat lacking in any significant factual evidence.

And, thus, saw that divine intervention would create a more substantiated reasoning for my rant.
Now, if this ethereal force had merely mentioned this to me, I would have been able to haul out from the dusty depths of my memory a plethora of events that would have acted suitably as my sources throughout.

If it would help, I could even order them alphabetically.

Basically I would say that on the topic in question, that of general client trauma and work difficulties (and how I fail to deal with them rationally), I have surmounted a fair old whack of experience.

But no, apparently what I needed was to experience a new low, achieving previously unreached and untapped emotion, pushing the boundaries of pissedoffness.

I am traipsing through the remnants of my career in Web Design a. in order to save some money and b. because I was about to embark on one closing project, what I imagined would be a beautiful grand finale, the Web Design equivalent to the recent ending of the 2006 Melbourne Commonwealth Games (where 2000 people donned Dame Edna Everage accessories, obviously).

This was to be my baby, I'd created the proposal, bidded for it and won more money than I thought conceivable for my employers so I could take on this mini epic of a project.

And, most importantly, I'd get to make little Flash games.

But it was not to be.

In a client meeting yesterday, where I assumed we'd just agree a sign off of the timeline, I saw my project, while praised for being a brilliant proposal and idea, torn down til merely the foundations were left remaining, just a title left on a page.

And the meeting I thought was a kick off for the project, turned out to be just a meeting to decide when we were going to have another planning meeting in order to further destroy my creation before it had even taken breath or seen the light of client-unmeddled conception.

I should have known, I should have learnt by now.

I should not offer my creativity with such ignorant enthusiasm, with such wafer-thin skin that a few choice verbs and adjectives can perforate effortlessly.

I should remember, I should understand. When someone pays for your creative services, they pay for ownership of your creativity. They are granted the ability to manipulate the varying degrees of talent that their employee may have to offer.

And, like with all those parting with money and paying for a product or service, they are always right.

Or always have to have at least be instilled with the knowledge that they are right.

And their choices, unwise or foolhardy, or damn right ugly, as they may be, are meshed in an unsightly collage of poorly conceived ideas with the designer's original conception.

I am not saying that clients always have the wrong ideas. I am not a good enough designer to have faith in the beauty of my chosen artistic interpretations of whatever brief I may be handling.
I just use the assets I can pilfer and try my best. But with this one, I had ideas, I had vision, I had, above all, unreigned enthusiasm.

I even had delusions of future enjoyment of my web endeavours.

And my boyfriend's poor aunt had the unfortunate idea of asking me how my day was yesterday.
There ensued a lengthy rambling, sprinkled with regular apologies for my complaining followed by a continuation of what I was apologising for, and I felt terribly sorry for her while being unable to in any way restrain my verbal outpouring.

A glass of wine tonight, I think.

Silence is golden

It has been 1 month now since we made the move out of our flat.

During that time I can't think of a time that I was actually alone for any duration, other than my 25 minute run along by the river every day (yes, the extra five minutes made such a regular appearance, due to a physical magnetism repelling me away from my work, that it is now a permanent feature and I would feel all the more smug for it if my fat ring wasn't remaining wholly ignorant of this daily 5 minutes extra of rigorous (ahem) exercise that I am enduring in order to shift its cumbersome presence and if I had actually been doing more than 20 minutes a day prior to this addition, which probably is burning about as many calories as it takes to ingest a stick of celery).

Up until now, I have coped with this dramatic change in personal time and space.

But this morning, sat in my office surrounded by people whittering away to one another about work related activities (goddamn them trying to conduct their business in anything other than keystrokes), I nearly lost it.

I am, for want of a more attractive description of myself, not very good around people.

I am not a social creature, or at least not for prolonged periods of time, which explains why I chose a career where the only things I had to regularly converse with were a mouse and a keyboard, which are thankfully committed to lifetimes of silences and do not get offended by my frequent bouts of offensive expletives and regular strops, or if they do they don't complain about it, so I am happy in my ignorance of the suffering they endure at the hands, literally, of their WebStress.

It is also merely one of the vast oasis of factors that have led me to avoid utilising AOL's ISP facilities, as I don't appreciate my PC telling me that I have email in an unnervingly Joanna Lumley-esque voice (although I am surprised that my dad chose Tiscali over AOL for precisely this reason).

My work colleagues, in the past, have seen inflections of my temper, hints at my unstable nature, and other various nastinesses hidden in the nuances of my personality.

Largely, my anger usually subsides quickly, once I have vented to my project manager or anyone will listen (I haven't yet utilised the listening facilities of our security guard but I'm not beyond doing that, its good to have someone in reserve for when all my other resources have been exhausted, even if I will have to shout through my issues as he's getting on a bit and is a little deaf).

Upset takes a little longer, usually involving the employment of a friend or my sister via msn but still with near enough the same effects, as my sister in particular has managed to cultivate any tears into anger, motivation and productivity instead.

But my bad moods, they're a different story. I am aware that when I am in a bad mood, I omit an air of Black Death around me. Woe betide anyone who tries to break through my sullen aura, in need of help, or a response on a brief, or anything other than to offer me a cup of tea (and even that sometimes isn't treated with the curtiousy it should be).

I am aware, as my response comes hurtling across my tongue and expelled into the air, that I am not sounding particularly approachable, or lovely in anyway.

My poor junior, I am sorry to say, has been the unwitting receiver of a few accidental curt words, when I was interrupted from my private sulk that only the PC was privvy to up until that point.
In my defense, after my answer was completed and was left hanging in the air like an unpleasant bodily expulsion, leaving an altogether not wonderfully nice atmosphere, I did try to redeem myself by being overly nice and helpful (which is probably enough to put anyone who is receiving my advice wholly on edge).

Relating to a previous blog on my inability to be honest to the relevant people when I am upset or angry with them, it is rare that the hapless receiver of my temper has in any way triggered, or deserves, the response they are given.

But it isn't something I can really control, without having preparation time which, I find, can curb my emotion laden voice somewhat and, given space, can produce some reasonably pleasing sentence constructions and a fairly inoffensive tone.

And the affects can be lasting. My old flatmate has not forgotten the time when she asked how my day was and was literally, I am embarrassed to say, shouted into the corner by a string of expletives.

It had not been good.

Luckily, she has learnt to accept another of my foibles and finds it now quite funny.

This is probably because, once in a bad mood, I am more like an angry, aggressive little furby than a ferocious, fearsome lioness, which would probably be better put in the biscuit tin until it calmed down than humoured with a response of any sort.

(a glass of wine usually has the same effect, if anyone is to suffer the same fate as my old flatmate).

Perhaps this is why my boyfriend chooses to stay at work a good hour after his allotted time finishes.
Having been at the unfortunate end for several months of the response to 'how was your day' when I walked in from work, he now has the benefit of returning after I have had time to 'destress' and have had suitable preparation in developing an appropriate, calm and mature answer.

Either that or I say, through gritted teeth or eyes glistening with tears, 'you don't want to know'.

If that is the answer my boyfriend receives, it is likely that I have not managed to rid myself of the day's effects and only merely managed to surpress them, and during the course of the evening, at any given moment, he will endure a usually incomprehensible and hysterical outpouring.

Its a good job I just make websites and don't actually do anything that would be considered vaguely stressful with any real responsibility outside those that work in the world of the web who may (or, more realistically may not) recognise the frustrations that I endure.

I have found my only real vent is through exercise, where noone talks to me or, more the crux of the matter, I don't have to talk to anyone.

Or alcohol.

That usually works a treat (although this relief is slightly different as my cathartic release is usually vocally, rather than through perspiration, and has the additional negative aspect that I'll then whinge about my calorific intake at some point in the future, but hopefully whoever administered the alcoholic injection will be long gone).

So, a word of caution to those unfortunate souls that have to deal with the MoodStress, pick one of the above (I'd prefer them above the biscuit tin, if given an option).

I'm the one they all talk about

I think its true, I think I'm the one that smells in the office. The one they talk about in hushed whispers in the corridors. I wondered why we didn't have one. There's always one. It did cross my mind that there were no such mutterings in this company, that there was no employee that did smell.

I was wrong.

I think I can smell my feet. In fact, there is no I think about that. That would just be wishful thinking.

Admittedly, this is (at least hopefully) due to the fact I've just been out for a run and I've got holes in my trainers (another trip to TK MAXX is on the cards I feel) so they're not particularly delightful down there in the dark depth of my trainers. But my feet are a fair way away and I can smell them.

At least, I guess, I am not so accustomed to unholy odours that I am used to the smell. That is, I hope, some small blessing that I don't usually smell bad.

So not only do I have my sweat glands to keep under control as they relentlessly battle against my will to exude as much water as possible under all scenarios (the more embarrassing and humiliating the better, my glands appear to have a personal vendetta they are pursuing in order to mock me publicly as often as they see fit, it appears they like to flirt relentlessly with pissing me off), but I have to worry about my feet smelling too.

I'm going to have to Febreeze my trainers. Or else buy a second pair for running in (what any other, more hygienic and decent person would have done initially, thus preventing said humiliation through offensive odours). But that would mean buying two pairs of trainers. And I'll be damned if you can ever find two of anything in the MAXX (buying two different pairs, or visiting a sports shop, I should add, is completely out of the question therefore not even worth dignifying with a concern).

My personal hygiene, I thought, was quite high. I shower frequently, usually twice a day. I am, to all intents and purposes, clean.

My feet are clean. I had a shower just 2 hours ago post run. My trainers are telling a different story, announcing to me and the rest of my colleagues that I am in fact unclean and smell.

My clothes are joining my glands, uniting against the common enemy (me it seems) and rebelling against the sweet smells of cleaning products that I sacrifice to them.

Which is nice.

Oh and my productivity has actually retreated. I've decided the design I've done looks crap and in need of much attention by a real designer rather than the FraudStress that is attempting it at the moment. It needs a taste transplant and I've a feeling I'm not qualified to take on the task.

Blogs 4, productivity 0.

Imagination Generation and the Problems of Poor Productivity

I am not designing well today.

I am blaming my suffering skills on:

- the fact I didn't sleep well (caffeine improving alertness but deteriorating concentration and ability to sit still);
- having 'stuff on my mind' (there's no room for good design, even with clearing out the trash can of badly misinterpreted song lyrics);- the clocks being put forward (I'm out of synch, with what I don't know);
- the weather (well, I am English);
- being cross with the client (I have the 'why should I?' of a stroppy child installed);
- putting too much marmite in my sandwich (and ensuing sustained aftertaste);

While they may be weak in subject matter I can definitely justify my poor productivity levels with sheer volume of personal complaint.

But the problem is still present.

I am not being very creative. My work is just not very...good.

My short attention span and poor concentration is meaning that my usual productivity rate, which is usually my redeeming factor against average design work, is being diluted ten fold across other means of spending time, namely blog-writing and tea-making.

But the caffeine intake is also causing me to shake a little; my arms are tense and tingling and I'm generally quite on edge (possibly because I'm mildly concerned about my heart rate).

And, as the day is fast dwindling away and I'm point blank refusing to stay any later than my assigned hours today, the realisation that today is going to have to be resigned to an 'unproductive day' is gradually settling in.

I will get home and feel like I have not been an effective, productive, and ultimately good person today. I have not achieved. I have not done anything worthwhile. I feel guilty that my employers have not gained anywhere near the workload yield they should have out of their WebStress today.

I know people who daily do bugger all and don't feel an ounce of regret or remorse.

On the other end of the scale, I know those who crave for activity and I feel guilty. I feel like I'm taunting them; look I've got work and I don't even feel like doing it. To them I'd say, please understand, its not that I don't feel like doing it, its just if I do it I'm going to do it badly, so maybe I should just make a cup of tea and have a think about it before I begin in earnest.

I have an hour left to improve my yield before I head trainwards.

If I write another blog entry before I leave, you know I've failed.

Comfort in Battles

The importance of today's events highlight to me that it isn't merely that I feel my skills leave something to be desired and that I generally feel inadequate about my ability, that I hate my career.
No. If it were I could perhaps resolve the problem.

But my skill defect has overshadowed perhaps a much bigger problem lurking in the foundations of my career.

The Client.

This morning I received a brief that should have been supplied some weeks ago, but with the same deadlines in place, which is resulting in a much reduced work time but yielding a higher volume of work (work that one out) as additional pieces of the project have been added in.

I completed an urgent part of the brief that needed to be sent live by the client. They signed it off, I sent it live.

Then they told me that they wanted to change a key part of the graphic, now others had viewed it.

I succumbed to their whims, muttering internally about sign off meaning sign off.

They then signed off the amended graphic some hours after.

And then told me that, in fact, the colours should be cohesive with their print materials (that I didn't know existed until then).

So ensued much ramblings to my long-suffering project manager who is acting as unfortunate go-between between a frustrated designer and an impossible client.

I am currently awaiting sign off. Again.

This happens with unfaltering regularity, as does the flaring of my temper, and the ratio of whinge per project is unsettlingly high at present.

But at least it gives me comfort that my own anomolies are not the only reason I'm battling through the dregs of a failing career.

Confessions of a WebFraud

On Thursday, I'd go so far as to say that I had a good day.

No, wait, I actually enjoyed my work.

I'm pretty sure this can wholly be attributed to the fact that the work I was doing was not, in any way, connected to the work I should have been doing.

Not that I technically had any pressing deadlines; my 'to do' list was full of jobs that were self-motivating tasks, jobs that I am supposed to be inspired to attend to when I have no client enforced trauma.

This abandonment of my daily web duties took an enormous amount of coaxing and coercing (reducing to down-and-dirty bribing) of the conscientious guard that challenges any sort of deviation from work related activities whilst at my desk.

I effectively managed to wangle my way around my guilt through the justification that it was my birthday and I wasn't feeling wonderfully well and if I had been living at home I would have actually been in bed with Indiana Jones.

This enthusiasm surpassed all conceivable expectations. I even spent a large part of yesterday working.

All this unexplained passion for something that I'd promised myself I'd never commit to again:

The 'Website For An Unpaying Client'.

This 'client' is in fact my boyfriend who knows all too well the personal trauma associated with The Webstress and her medium. Thus, he treated the brief, and his partner, with the caution of a fractious mother and the child she was trying to nurture/battle with and, I think, he had a certain sense of foreboding about what he was commissioning.

So far though, things are rattling along fairly well. A design he likes has been implemented and I am currently coding PHP the only way a designer can: badly.

It looks like the product will meet its deadline and its owner will send it live with not too many more worry lines embedded into her already heavily grooved forehead. And, if things carry on as they are, I will have quite enjoyed it.

However, after my recent catastrophe of all of the sites I 'look after' collapsing on me dramatically and forcing me to wade hopelessly through reams of code I had hacked my way through 12 months earlier, searching blindly for a seemingly unpresentable solution, I still feel mildly apprehensive about what I am committing myself to.

You see, the web isn't like print. There is no 'sign-off'. There is no final commitment. The web's versatility and flexibility for growth and development, means there will forever be reams of amends and additions.

While these are a web designer's bread and butter when employed, these issues are a pain in the arse when they crop up for projects you may have developed 6, 12, 18 months ago.

First its the ftp details.

And I'm buggered if I know where they are. Organised text file filed somewhere intelligent? I don't think so. Embedded in an email pages back in a disused hotmail account, rammed in between various adverts for viagra and instant degrees? More likely.

Then the files. So you want a new button created? Okay. But when I formatted my machine last week did I make a back up of all the fonts?

Did I bollocks.

You may have noticed that so far, my issues could have been resolved by a little more organisation.

True.

But then they ask for something that has taken them 2 minutes to think about and will take you 2 days to implement. And that'd be if I wasn't employed full time.

For my friends, who well know that I'm not all that happy with my chosen career and who broach the topic uneasily and add gently, in order to ease my frantic mind, 'in your own time' I'll oblige when I get the chance, happy to develop a few rollovers when I get the time.

For those clients that I had the unfortunate idea of donating my services for free in order to build my portfolio, things are a different matter.

At least things are dying down a little now. I have informed the majority of past clients that I no longer have the time for obliging them with my services for free (after, usually, ignoring their emails for some embarrassing length of time).

The reason that I feel so rubbish when I stare at another email saying 'could you just...' is that I feel I've let someone down before I've even started the amend. Those endless client amends where I kick myself for thinking 'I should have just done that initially'.

I wasn't thorough. My work wasn't perfect.

I made mistakes.

And my vague harnessing of the power of PHP has only enhanced this as what you see initially, unlike design, can certainly not relate directly to what you get - it can often take months to find a glitch in the code which means certain variables are not accepted, certain images wil not upload.
The idea that my work would be substandard plagues me. It echoes in every project I do, whispering quietly so only I can catch what it says but leaving me terrified that a client will overhear and the realisation will become crystal clear.

And for those clients who have never parted with any money, the issue is still the same. They have the same quality expectations, the same high standards. They still expect their product to function effectively and efficiently and look good. Money, certainly, does not mean everything. They have commissioned me for a working project, and that, no less, is what they expect to receive.

And if I was to produce a sub-standard project, or not attend to amends or errors, how would that reflect on me as a designer? Sure I could not include it in my portfolio. But the web is open to anyone. One small conversation with the site's new owner, 'who created your website?' and the answer could begin my downfall.

A visual confession.

That I'm not that good at what I do.

Older and wiser?

Today I hit a quarter of a century.

On Tuesday I spent a full 15 minutes on the journey to work untangling the mess that my headphones were in, scolding myself for being such a numpty for getting them so tangled up and getting even more annoyed with myself that I was trying to untangle them whilst walking so therefore doing neither tasks proficiently or productively (I am the exception that proves the rule with regards to women and multitasking).

Once I managed to untangle them I made the resolution not to get them in such a mess again (an issue stemming back many years and through a vast array of headphones in all shapes and sizes).

At lunchtime, however, when I ventured out of the office to endure the bitter weather for my run, I retrieved my headphones from my bag.

Lo and behold they were unfathomably tangled once again.

(I have them now sat on my desk beside me where I can keep an eye on them but they appear to have a rather over active imagination and cannot be coerced into behaving).

I think this effectively proves that while I am certainly aging, if somewhat ungracefully, I am certainly not gaining wisdom in my maturity.

How to disappoint the entire adult population in one blog

Yesterday, after reading a fact book of his father's, my boyfriend's 7 year old cousin announced to his mother 'what's an organism?'

She read the entry. It wasn't organism.

Buried amidst day-to-day facts that weren't about to make anyone blush and were perfectly suitable for the eager eyes of an information-hungry child, was a description of the word 'orgasm'.

While, apparently, you're not supposed to tell your children untruths about sex education, starting with a description of an orgasm without any 'background information' may prove a little tricky. I pity my children (if I ever have them), the unlucky sprogs are likely to be bullied repeatedly throughout their school lives for spouting out wildly inaccurate facts and nonsensical whitterings, attributing them to 'mummy says...'.

But what was most disturbing was the description attributed to the word.

Apparently according to this 'fact' book, this 'orgasm' thing is supposed to last 30 minutes.

**Stop Press: Pepper Mystery Unveiled**

My sister has just informed me that, apparently, the peppers are part of Sainsburys recipe tips that feature prior to ITV drama broadcasts.

I feel the same disappointment as reading the final pages of the DaVinci Code. It might as well 'have all been a dream'.

Bloody ITV of all things.

Honesty honestly?

On Monday, after realising a seemingly unresolvable situation that would satisfy both my employer and myself, and after varying degrees of upset from sobbing to hysterical wailing in a variety of work toilets (and occasionally mid-toilet block when a transfer was required when some inconsiderate employee came in), I resigned.

Within the resignation conversation, however, my employer offered me an opportunity to stay under my terms (within reason), working on the account I wanted to.

The terms my employer had originally offered me would have basically made me utterly miserable.

But, had I not faced the hopeless situation of being stranded in London without anywhere to live and that I really could under no circumstances accommodate to those terms, I would have probably accepted them without challenge and just continued to whinge (to my family; to my friends; on this blog...there maybe a reason my boyfriend's got a ticket to NZ. I should check its not one-way).

I would have probably even thanked them for the time they had taken to present me with this miserable and hopeless option of future employment and perhaps even bought them a cup of tea.

This has made me realise how little I stand up for myself and say what I actually think.

I have been told that I am a nice person before (the description of the word 'nice' to be addressed in a future blog, as even reading that non-descript, flaky word makes me tense. Its a word I tend to use as a last resort in describing someone, after failing to identify any inspiring or distinguishing personality traits or characteristics. Fundamentally there's nothing to particularly like about them but equally nothing to be offended by, they're just....nice).

I don't think I am nice. I think I just haven't developed the ability to be honest and say what I think (maybe my unsettling consistent gurgling of expletives on my tongue is my body's way of verbally expressing the built up angst).

It doesn't stop there either. When I came out of our initial meeting, where I had listened to them, my face blank, internal monologue muttering loudly 'no, no, no', I told my sister exactly how I felt. She pointed out that, perhaps, I should tell them.

This is typical WebStress. I am unable to string together coherent, clear, concise sentences that summarise how I feel. At least to the person in question (if I had been able to do this, BT and British Gas would have felt my wrath on numerous occasions, rather than my frustrated muttering of '...right' to various uninterested and unhelpful employees and instead directing my anger (and a variety of colourful expletives) at the automated menu system instead).

I can attribute a hefty amount of this to being a coward, not having courage in my convictions and being terrified of upsetting or angering someone (even though this would usually eventually resolve in a better situation all round, but you try telling me that).

But I'll allow the other half to be attributed to my mouth receiving thoughts from my brain via, it seems, my kidneys. Direct synaptic responses from my brain have abandoned me and instead I have been replaced with an unreliable, inconsistent system which often means the words reach my mouth approximately 5 minutes to 5 days after their initial conception in the murky, disorganised depths of my conscious.

Which is quite frustrating.

Unfortunately, by this point, the person(s) in question are usually long gone and my hapless friends are left to receive my torrent of confused ramblings. Even if said persons are present, there isn't, in my experience, usually a good time once the event has passed to raise a witty, cutting or just damn right truthful retort to previously completed discussions.

I know I am far from unique in this and am unlikely to improve this piece of the proverbial pie of truth.

But my cowardice is something that perhaps should be addressed, preferably before I decide that handing in my notice is the right thing to do in order to resolve a situation.

In this instance, facing hopelessness and with nothing left to lose, I achieved some vague amount of misplaced strength.

My initial preferred method of faked bravery, however successful, seems a little distressing and emotional to achieve in day to day situations. I think I need a re-think.

Dress to Impress

Yesterday I came to work in a skirt and boots. This was only because my friends had instructed me to wear exactly that for last night's entertainment that they had organised for me, not because I was trying to make an effort at work.

(I am wearing the same today, but only because I stayed over and I wasn't about to try and get anything more into my already strained laptop bag, that was going through an identity crisis; my laptop begrudgingly jammed up against some knickers and a weary looking make-up bag).

I then administered some make-up before I left the office last night (of which I am still classily wearing the reminants today).

I received comments from around 2/3rds of our 15 strong staff on being 'dressed up', 'wearing lipstick' and looking 'posh' and 'feminine'. To achieve this look I had brushed my hair, overcoated previously applied mascara that was clinging on viciously to my eyelashes in unsightly chunks (so obviously the best approach was to make a feature out of these with extra gunk), drawn on thick, uneven waves of eyeliner and applied some lipstick onto my chapped lips (trying to make them look slightly less offensive by applying some lipsil over the top, a tip unsurprisingly I didn't get from the Avon lady and wouldn't advise to anyone).

So really relatively little effort. God knows how terrible I must look on a day to day basis. It made me wonder whether I could attempt this ladylike assimilation more often: flirt with make-up; attempt heels; that sort of thing.

But then at least with low expectations you always have room to impress.

Delusions of Grandeur or Blogger Fodder?

I bought a pepper on Sunday in Sainsburys.

(I know it appears as though there's not much scope for a post with that sort of introduction but bear with me).

On it, and I did have to check this twice, was a little sticker with 'As seen on TV' on.

This morning, after divulging my discovery to my uninterested/intrigued* friends (*delete as applicable) in the pub last night and noting their reaction (largely disbelief, probably due to previous experience with my poor anecdotal tales with vague factual referencing that may, or may not, be correct), I decided I'd do a bit of detective work to see whether I had imagined my encounter.

I won a little personal victory in my ever continuing quest to be the purveyor of witty anecdotes and interesting facts and move away from the drivvel that usually falls ungraciously (and usually disastrously) from my mouth.

Happily, it appears that I'm not the only one to have noticed this.

Several bloggers had already made this discovery and noted it down accordingly in their posts, each as amused/confused as I was. However, my detective work began to trail off rather rapidly as boredom ensued (it lasted through three of Google's search pages which was pretty good for me). So the question remains unanswered:

Why?

Perhaps these poorly deluded capsicums are desperately searching for their five minutes of fame (if Chico can do it, any[one/thing] can). Perhaps they long to aspire to be more than just a pepper.

Or perhaps it is the result of an unsubstantiated verbal rant from a terrified employee in an unproductive brainstorming session behind the doors of Sainsbury's marketing department.

I will note now that, as a designer, myself and marketeers don't really see eye-to-eye, having had to action some appalling, ill planned, frankly idiotic ideas during the course of my career - and having my designs being called appalling, ill planned and idiotic as a result of following their brief to the letter - so my apologies for thinking such marketing genius as elevating a pepper to fame was unsubstantiated.

But its probably a damn accurate guess and I'd love to see some statistics on pepper sales following the production and implementation of the stickers, as, I'm sure would the hapless employees who had to put all the bloody things on.

But maybe I should eat my words (poor, vague pun unintended).

For a start, Sainsburys has gained substantial real estate in my blog, and the blogs of several others.

While it hasn't made me think 'I must return to Sainsburys to buy my peppers in future so I can buy one that has the 'credibility' of being marketed on TV (as, of course, every product featured on television is obviously elevated to be eligible of consumer purchase as being advertised on television clearly is the sign of a good quality, good value product which far exceeds other, inferior, products that aren't)', it might, just might, have made someone, somewhere want to go to Sainsburys to view such a phenomenon (thus granting the pepper the fame and recognition it so obviously craves).

But, as I said, I'd really like to see some statistics on that.

I guess, in the world of The Marketeer (I assume a frightening place which I would request no-one ever introduces me to, and am happy in blissful ignorance) all publicity is good publicity.

The pepper was, to note, of good quality: good colour, good feel (what else do you go on with a pepper?), but as I am provided with only one option in my capsicum purchasing in the majority of supermarkets I have ever visited, I wouldn't like to substantiate any claims of this pepper being superior to other 'brands' that have not made their televisual debut.

This pepper ended up being engulfed by an enormous amount of 'lazy chilies' that I laced my chili in so I'm afraid I can't comment on the taste.

There's a time and a place to taste a bean but in my cup of tea is not it

I don't care what they do to soya milk to make it taste as far away from drinking blended beans as possible. Added chemicals, apple juice, sugar, I really don't care. Just so long as I can have a cup of tea and pretend I am normal, actually even enjoy it. I'm not fussy; brand, taste or cost, I'm just as happy with Tesco's Value as with Alpro's finest (which is rare as a particular trait of mine is being highly specific and rather anal about certain brands, especially when it comes to anything bean related, but I think I'm just happy that there's an alternative).

Whatever they do to every other brand of soya milk I have ever drunk they have not done with Sunshine Soya.

I thought it would be okay, buying a carton of soya from our local corner shop instead of trudging all the way to Tesco. I mean, soya's soya, can you really get it that wrong?

It appears so.

The first cup I thought one of my office worker's had mixed milk and soya accidentally, causing a rather unpleasant aftertaste but I persevered through at least half of it then was relieved of my tea drinking by my line manager who distracted me to go and eat marmite on toast.

So I thought I'd make another cup Post Toast. And, lets just say, it wasn't pretty.

It looks fine, looks like any other cup of soya: not quite right but passable as long as you avoid smelling/looking at it.

But the taste is frankly offensive. Vile. Absolutely bloody rancid.

It actually tastes like blended beans.

If there is tea in there I'm bloody hard pushed to find it. It leaves a rough texture on your tongue, like the husks are making a bid to remind your mouth for ever more of their passing presence. And the after taste - well, imagine a bean committing suicide (just bear with me). Dying a slow, painful death in my mouth, permeating every tastebud on my tongue.

I imagine the manufacturers thoughts went something along the lines that, yes it tastes rank but anyone who chooses to not consume meat and dairy produce should be denied the privileged of tasty food that they cast aside in their idiotic quest to veganism.

However, I think the short sighted manufacturers should have scoped out their competition and maybe, I know this is a bit of a crazy thought here, but perhaps tasted soya milk before they decided to force their inferior, and frankly offensive, produce on the masses.

I am now stuck with a whole carton of this bean juice (it does not deserve the coveted 'soya milk' label). And it was bloody expensive too (maybe having cheap tastes is the problem here. Bottle of white lightening anyone?). I've already had yet another cup and left yet another half of it and am feeling rather ill (I was giving it one final chance, to see if it perhaps had thought about what it had done and decided to redeem itself, or perhaps the beans had been allowed to 'settle', like a good wine being uncorked).

So its either an assault on the senses by a visit to Tesco tomorrow morning (resulting in late arrival at work) or a day of drinking black tea. Unless I give it just one more chance...

What do you get when you cross a daffodil with a John Deere tractor?

There are moments occasionally in my day when - I won't go so far as to say I enjoy my job - but I am mildly entertained.

At 8:30 this morning I was searching for a photo of some daffodils for a card that I am creating.

As I am fundamentally lacking in any sort of permanent store of design skills (my brain instead collecting thoughts on food and how much I dislike the majority of people I interact with during my day rather than actually learning as I have desperately, in vain, been trying to coach it to), I regularly resort to tracing elements of photographs in order to create my hacked patchwork imagery.

I've decided to instead see myself as an expert in adhesion and illusion rather than carrying the burden of the title 'web designer'. Instead I tirelessly sift through the majority of Photoshop's layer styles, functions and filters (yes, I even once found a use for the Conte Crayon texture but I'm pleased to say that I've, to date, not touched the 'stain glass' effect, but never say never) in order to hide the frankenstein's monster that lies beneath the majority of my artwork.

So Google's image searching tool and me really are quite close these days. If it assumed some sort of human form (which is not something I'd like to dwell too much time thinking about) then I'd probably take it out for a coffee, maybe even a pint, and that's not something I make a habit of with business acquaintances.

Today, in my relentless searching for the perfect daffodils with which I will form the basis for my hybrid imagery, I discovered a page that I would not otherwise have visited. The web really is a playground for the bored and uninspired, in the most unlikliest of places.

I doubt that you have previously visited http://www.retiredtractors.com/Daffodils.html.

If you haven't, you won't have heard the dulcet tones of the piano introduction on "strolling through the park" (I haven't got any further than the introduction so I don't know what lies beyond, maybe a string quartet, maybe vocal harmonies, maybe an accordion, I might treat myself to a further burst at lunchtime).

Google did well, there is indeed a picture of daffodils on the aptly named page. The same image of daffodils is also featured with a John Deere tractor acting as a backdrop (I'm guessing that the daffodils are probably more of an accessory and the focus is actually on the tractor, if the name of the website is anything to go by).

This website struck a chord with me. Not because of its misguided but innocent use of the most offensive font available, the kryptonite of the web design world (comic sans) nor its disturbing animated leprechaun gif nor its racy ginger female assistant. But because someone was creating a website for fun, because they enjoy it.

This person clearly has an unquestionable devotion to retired tractors. So much so they designed, developed and maintain an entire website focused purely on this specific subject.

It reminded me that there are many people that adore the web out there. That tinker with html and play around with CSS just for fun.

It made me a little sad as I'm not one of these, but warm inside that their are budding web designers all over the world, with varying degrees of talent but the same dedication and devotion to providing a service, publishing their loves, helping other people just because.

When I was younger, in the days where clip art was flourishing and actually deemed more than acceptable to feature in just about every multimedia product, where word art was to be marveled, where dtp was seeping into the homes and computers of budding young designers all over the country, I made tape covers for all of my copied cassettes.

We were one of the few people I knew to have a scanner AND an internet connection (although we seem to have been the last people in the UK to acquire broadband, my dad safely weighing up and reviewing every single option, discussing, double checking, and having a good think before committing himself to a 12 month contract). I was relentless in my pursuit to cover every video and tape with a MiniWebStress crafted label.

And I did it because I enjoyed it.

That's, basically, why I went to Uni and studied multimedia. Then something went wrong.

Maybe it was finding out that clip art was no longer deemed acceptable in the multimedia circles I began to mix within (I remember mocking one lecturer for his use of one specific character to illustrate his powerpoints. People can be so cruel). Maybe it was the usability, aesthetic and ergonomic restrictions that were placed on web design during my time. Maybe it was the dot com bubble bursting that destroyed my not-yet-started career. Maybe, actually, what I really was good at was designing tape covers.

Maybe I wasn't even good at that.

Perhaps that's it. Maybe its because everyone told me what I was doing was 'genius' (everyone being my mum and dad) and then, in fact, I found out that my tape covers weren't going to stand up to the criticism of the 'outside world' when I was pitted against others, rather than marveled at by my pc terrified friends.

Maybe I was a child born into the wrong time. CDs just weren't my thing. And websites...well, they're a far cry from my original calling. Perhaps we just weren't meant for each other.

But if anyone wants a personalised mix tape, clip arted cover, little guitar stickers and all, I'm your gal.

Get thee to a nunnery

I forgot to provide an update on my 'nun experience'.

I didn't swear. Not once. I didn't even have to substitute an obscenity for 'darn it' or 'oh gosh'. I watched my tongue, yes, but there was no point where I had to do any severe back-peddling or covering-up. In fact, the nun, an absolutely lovely lady, even said 'oh Lord' at one point. And I actually felt smug. Although, if I'm honest, a queue of expletives were building up steadily on the tip of my tongue by the end of the evening and I was quite surprised that as soon as she had left us that I didn't develop a short, frustrated burst of Tourettes.

And she drank. Not one but two and a half glasses of wine.

In her commune (not a 'nunnery' as I had previously imagined, my general knowledge being embarrassingly poor and rather made up) they don't even have to wear habits. They just have to wear something that is relatively decent (I wonder if they allow jeans?).

In fact, it doesn't seem all that bad, being a nun. They even get up later than I do at present. And they get one day off a week. I'm sure I could give it a go, although I might have to do some work on the whole Christian thing.

Seeing as I'm homeless come 4 weeks time, I wonder if they allow guests?

Sleep deprivation and the thoughts of the early hours

A month today and my boyfriend flies to New Zealand and we will be apart for the majority of 2006 and a good chunk of 2007.

I have had a variety of unstable, unrealistic and unfeasible thoughts about what I should be doing in the time he is away. My ideal scenario is that I will become rich, popular, attractive and generally extremely successful so on his return he is overwhelmed by my wonderfulness and we will be happy ever after (and, of course, extremely wealthy).

I'd settle for just one of the above (after discussions with my sister on this very topic this morning we came to the bitter conclusion that to have all of these would probably leave us with no friends as they'd all be painfully jealous, so agreed that at least one would have to be swapped for a sizeable failure or flaw. She said she'd like them all but settle for leprosy as hers but I pointed out I wasn't sure that it was an option).

However, the plan of action I have settled on in recent weeks will not really fulfill any of the bullet points on my wishlist. If I'm honest, it isn't even going to come close, not even vaguely.

I'd like to say that I'm throwing down the gauntlet of web design and taking up taxidermy or becoming a celebrity chef but I wouldn't exactly be telling the truth - but I've faked enthusiasm for long enough that I can lie back and think of England a few more times to help fund my endeavors as there's not much money where I'm heading.

Right, deep breath, this is not a commitment just yet, its just a plan...:

I'm going to move back in with my parents and become a penniless freelance writer.

I won't dwell too much on the whys but as this has involved me leaving the one thing I utterly love - playing in my band - this isn't something that I'm treating lightly.

As a result of these two significant events, I am not sleeping well. At all.

Over the past few weeks my sleeplessness has resulted in nearly blinding my boyfriend by poking him in the eye (making me realise that I would make less than a competent optometrist), having a full on sit-up-in-bed-in-a-hot-sweat-yelling nightmare and doing rather a lot of staring. At the ceiling, at the insides of my eyelids, at the underside of my duvet cover (when its been cold, but then I get all hot and confused and panicky so that just adds to my sleeplessness).

I have tried getting drunk, going to bed really early, exercising to an obscene level, eating early, reading, detoxing and...no.

My thoughts, playing pleasantly and happily in the realm of my consciousness during the day, evolve into stubborn, moody, acne covered, frustrated teenagers come nighttime. They are determined to be unclear, unfocused, contradictory and completely irrational yet extremely demanding of every ounce of my attention and refuse to be denied of airspace to voice their opinions.

This has resulted in several things:
- I am now unable to drink less than 7 cups of tea while I am at work lest I fall asleep;
- I have no idea what it feels like to function at work without the shakes;
- I have developed the ability to do nothing well (I even made unsatisfactory beans on toast yesterday);
- I have become an even more terrible correspondant/friend than usual;
- I am extremely grumpy for a large amount of the day.

I ran out of soya milk the other day. I have herbal tea in the cupboard which would normally have sufficed and kept my temperament at bay by tricking my simple brain into believing that I was actually consuming caffeine. But I couldn't do it. I tried tea with milk then resorted to drinking black tea for the rest of the day in order to function within the realms of normality. This worries me.

I am guessing the situation will resolve itself once my boyfriend has flown off to NZ and I am back in the country.

However, seeing as I have one month left, and I would really like to not terrify my boyfriend by hitting him in my sleep and generally being severely moody and irrational (more so than normal) so that he goes away remembering that his girlfriend is not totally unstable and can count at least one reason why he's chosen to commit himself to me for the duration of his trip and not taken the opportunity to do a runner.

I have no solution to this other than to somehow stuff the overly vocal mouths of my thoughts with a variety of metaphorical blankets, or to actually resolve the issues.

However, during the day, when they're playing nicely, bathing in the sunshine, allowing their owner to drag herself through the office hours with various lines of incomprehensible JavaScript and misbehaving CSS taking up the real estate in the forefront of her mind, they seem....silly.

Oh, I don't think I mentioned what I was going to write about.

Well, they always say write from your experience, write about what you're good at, what you know about, what you understand.

I wish I was competent at something other than web design. Unless anyone would accept an article on how to make good beans on toast and a cup of tea?

Oh darn it

Tonight I am having dinner with a nun.

This is not something I have ever done before. And I'm a bit nervous. Besides being slightly concerned that I'm going to drill her as if we were speed dating, trying to mine information out of her over a period of several hours but with the intensity as if I had a series of flash cards and had to get the information down in 3 minutes before moving onto my next happless victim (something that I tend to do with people I'm fascinated in and about things I don't understand, like a little child, 'but why? But whyt?'), I have a mouth like a sailor and I'm blatantly going to say something heavily inappropriate.

Picture this: Comprehensive assemblies. Silence. Several hundred bored students sat on green plastic chairs. Various vaguely senior teachers speaking about something incredibly boring. But The MiniWebstress is sat desperately trying not to stand up and say something. Sing. Shout. Swear. Or all three (I'm sure I can manage that in one sentence).

Its like peering over the edge of a cliff, staring down into its tempting, drawing open space. In the same way I imagine 'what if?' with bridges and other situations that are blatantly not going to end prettily, I have a 'what if?' when there are large spaces of uncomfortable silence. I imagine faces aghast as I conclude a terrible anecdote, an offensive observation or something damn right obvious anyone would and should never, ever say.

It doesn't even have to be silences. Its the world of open possibilities, the realisation of how tentatively, how delicately, relations and situation are maintained. Its like walking through a spider's web, watching a situation collapse so swiftly and so absolutely in a matter of seconds, in a few nouns and verbs, in a sentence or two.

I sympathise with Tourette's sufferers, its like trying to keep a tick under control, trying to keep words submerged in my throat, kept well away from my vocal chords, pushed back up into my brain, told to stay there until they can behave or until I'm well clear of the situation when they seem to disperse happily by themselves anyway.

I have, over the years, put my foot in the great cavity of my mouth on numerous occasions. I have humiliated and embarrassed myself and others quite spectacularly. My boyfriend regularly utters the words 'now why the hell did you say that?'. I think; I realise; I feel like an idiot. It doesn't even always take someone else to point out my enormous painful blunder, I often realise as the words cascade effortlessly and excitedly out of my mouth.

It isn't just the inappropriateness of my chosen topics of various sentences that gets me into trouble. I have a problem with expletives.

It isn't just the odd slip up, the odd, swift, fast swear word that someone could accidentally thought I'd said something perfectly reasonable instead of committing a verbal offense. No.

When a swear word comes out of my mouth, it grabs onto another waiting on the tip of my tongue. Then another - they yank at the first letter of the next offensive uttering as they take the plunge until a whole ream fall out, eager to catch up with their predecessor, to be more insulting, more shocking, more abhorrent than the last.

And I'm going to dinner with a nun.

Beans, bread and the happiness of habit

Today I did two things that I don't normally do:

- I ran for an extra 15 minutes;
- I had peanut butter on toast for my lunch

While these may appear incredibly mundane to everyone else (actually, I'll include myself in that one), I am noting this as it somewhat of a personal breakthrough.

I am a creature of habit. This probably teeters on the edge of obsessiveness but I think habit sounds more quirky and cute whereas obsessive sounds rather disturbing and unnerving and I think its probably best not to add that to my list of foibles at present as the list that has emerged through various blog entries is slightly unsettling to myself (apparently not to my friends who already were perfectly aware of my oddness).

My habits extend to all areas of my life, but the most prominent is my diet.

Put aside the fact that I am mildly obsessive about the weight/food/exercise triangle that I am constantly trying to battle and disregard the rather limited ability of my stomach to digest foods of any taste/texture - while these may well play a part in the poorly rated musical that is set on the stage of my digestive walls, they are by all means not the reason that, if given a choice, I will eat from a very limited selection of food.

I like bread. No, if I'm honest, I love bread. I could not honestly tell you that there has been a day this year where I possibly didn't consume at least some bread related product. If I did, I would probably be lying just to make me look a little less unhinged.

And then there's beans. Heinz beans.

There have been others, mere players in the heated haricot war but few have come close. Marks and Spencer are a strong competitor, as are the newly introduced Branston Bean (although I'm not sure whether its just the novelty value, I'm waiting to see whether they stand the test of time and manage to force themselves under the lid and into the sealed tupperwear box that is the part of my mind devoted to beans - of which I'm slightly embarrassed to admit there is quite a lot of real estate set aside).

This isn't to say I always eat Heinz Beans. You would have thought, with the limited diet that I adhere to, that I'd allow myself to splash out on the 'posh stuff'. But no. The reason being that I actually eat so many of the damn things that I can't really justify buying Heinz all the time. I've tried Morrisons (oversized bland bean; thin, tasteless juice), Sainsburys (slightly sweet, could do with a little more taste), Tesco (pleasing persona but a little too sweet) and a variety of own brand examples (never the Value Bean though, I have some standards).

The natural combination of these two ingredients makes me very, very happy. I will attempt to plan other meals but, if I'm the only one involved in the meal equation, then beans on toast it will be. I will have soup only if a. I'm feeling guilty about the fact I've bought lots of tins of low fat soup in the cupboard and have blatantly ignored them whilst continuing to buy more by pretending at the supermarket that I really do need more in my trolley than a 4 pack of beans or b. I've eaten beans on toast for the previous meal (I'd like to point out that both of these can easily be overrided by the prominence of the bean tupperware that is situated in my brain).

Not that I've ever eaten beans on toast at work. I could manage it: there's a microwave and a toaster. There's nothing to stop me, its all there, waiting. But I never will.

The reason is quite simple: I don't want to ruin one of my favourite parts of the day by eating my beans on toast in the oppressive environment that is my office. And I'd probably get juice over my laptop (I went through the whole of last week with marmite on my trousers, my last keyboard has jam and crumbs hidden in all manner of crevices, and I once briefly owned a laptop which after just two weeks I managed to destroy effortlessly and swiftly with a full cup of black coffee, the screen fizzling to a halt, thick black liquid bubbling out of the parallel ports).

I plan my food carefully, I manage to draw myself unwittingly through the day by the promise of certain foods. I come into work in the morning solely due to the promise of jam on toast. Then there's lunch: my cucumber and marmite sandwich - not particularly emotive but reasonably satisfying and vaguely fulfilling, and then, then, when 3 o'clock hits, my down time, my personal dark place, I can start to think about the possibilities of tea.

But I have a small confession to make:

- My run was 15 minutes longer not because I wanted to push myself or break the boundaries of my ability but was solely due to the fact that I could not bear being in the office and was trying to put off my return for as long as possible;
- I ate peanut butter on toast instead of my marmite sandwich because my bread was stale and I didn't have a cucumber and couldn't cope with the supermarket on a Monday morning (anything to keep my stress levels at bay, trust me they can rear their ugly head with worrying ease)

But still, its progress of sorts. And no, I'm not having beans for tea. But that's only because I'm going out for dinner and I don't think I can ask for that in an Italian.

It never rains but it pours

I remember rainy lunchbreaks at school. They were thoroughly miserable, from primary school right through until I had a car and we found that it was extremely easy to just head home at lunchtime and 'forget' to come back (although 'remembering' to get someone to sign in for you).

I remember the sweat, the smell of dampness and grease and mashed potato. I remember sitting cross legged in the library, miserable and fed up, watching Lord of the Rings the animated tale, again and again (maybe it was only the once, but it felt like forever). I remember moping around school corridors, the bottoms of my trousers soaking, the floors wet and muddy (and inevitably slippery and highly dangerous). Nowhere to sit, nowhere to be.

Things haven't really changed a lot. I'd have thought, aged 24, I'd have got used to rainy lunchbreaks.

The air in the office is humid and warm with a slight salty tinge of sweat and hot breath. It is like being in someone's armpit who's decided to go 'au naturel'. Not a lifestyle choice I'd recommend, unless the area under your arm happens to exude the odour of [some rather expensive perfume*].

* replace with the name of rather expensive and lovely perfume that I do not own and/or Mitchum 'so effective you can even skip a day' deodorant which I do

I am not good on rainy days. I don't function well. Neither does anyone else, I have observed.

Everyone is uncomfortable, irritable. I feel perhaps we are one giant experimentation by some unhinged scientist: 'Lets see what happens when we confine all these frustrated, hapless, poor individuals who pretend to like each other and their job for short periods of time every day in one place for longer than their personal limit. Lets force them to the edge, lets make things uncomfortable, no, unbearable, and see what happens'.

What happens is that I lose my lunch. Not literally, I had my marmite and cucumber sandwich on cue as normal, obviously, I'm not likely to cut out a meal just because it is raining. But, seeing as I am utterly terrible at surfing the web, I just...work.

Everything is uncomfortable and abnormal, the air is heavy and stuffy. No run today. My bones are aching, my head is hurting, I am a rather grumpy and not very cooperative barometer.

The worst thing is, when I leave work, in just over 40 minutes, I will be heading out into the rain.

Oh, and I still have PMT.

Fat Becomes Her

I have been informed by a reliable resource that the ring of fat that I have unwittingly acquired around my unhappy midriff over the last few months is part of being a woman.

Not only that, it actually has a name, and a purpose (however dubious).

My source, who was in turn informed of this unhappy development by her doctor, divulged that this 'ring of fat' (NB: not the technical name, she couldn't remember it, but lets face it that's exactly what it is so there's no point shrouding it in a veil of complicated terminology. Fat it is and fat it shall be called) is, in short, for having children.

The fat will stretch to accommodate the foetus as it grows and then will (alledgedly) shrink back down once the baby has been born. But the fat around the hips and back will stay. Indefinitely.

Initially I took some comfort in not being alone, in knowing that it wasn't down to being a web designer (I have managed to attribute all the rest of the crappy things in my life to my job, so I thought I'd give it some time off) but actually to being a woman.

Then it hit me.

Becoming a 20 something woman has pretty much been all about disappointment on the body front for me. I thought understanding that I was going to remain 5 foot nothing for eternity, and that I would never shed my puppy fat was enough.

But no. I have had to gain the harsh realisation that my body is passing its prime, just as I'm finding out what I'm supposed to be doing (with my body; with my life; in general).

I'm not sure I ever had a prime, I think I skirted around the outside, playing safe, as usual, watching in awe at the real women, abusing their development to ensnare all the boys that were firmly out of my reach. But if I did, I am certainly squinting at it from a distance by now, trying to make out its faint, but prominent teenage curves and correctly aimed breasts (as far as I am aware, from folklaw I have overheard, they were originally supposed to point horizontally).

I'd like to think that instead of the teenage curves (that I may have cunningly disguised under a substantial layer of beer induced mass) that I may or may not have had, I'd instead developed womanly curves, that would hopefully be in for the long haul.

But being rather short, I look a bit ridiculous with curves.

I look like a child who's accelerated through puberty too fast, donning their mother's high heels and low cut dresses (that fall way too low so that their breasts are virtually drooping of their own accord, trying to remain decent by hiding under some sort of vague fabric covering).

My clothes and my inability to apply makeup don't really help my womanly development.

I have, for as long as I can remember, opted for the comfy route over the looking less like I really have just walked out of Matalan/Primark/TK Maxx (replace as appropriate) kitted out in a whole new outfit for less than £20 (yes, its possible) and more like a lady.

And as for makeup, I own 3 x very old, very worn, in need of replacing mascaras; 1 x Rimmel lipstick minus lid that is at least a year old; 1 x Rimmel Concealer; 1 x Number 7 lipstick that I got free from my Gran. That gives you an idea of how much I spend on makeup and probably a good idea of how much attention I pay to attempting to beautify myself.

I am not wearing makeup now. If I did I would sweat and I would have unsightly mascara trails running down my face, just to highlight my amateurishness, my playing at being a lady. Without makeup I have been mistaken for as young as 14. That gives you an idea of what I have to work with.

So, whilst I think its all very well that I'm now carrying yet another disappointing burden of womanhood (alongside the painful realisation that has hit me like a slow dull ache, and taken a surprisingly embarrassing amount of time to sink in, that I will never be close to attaining the figure of Kiera Knightley or Cameron Diaz), I'm not sure it is wonderfully fair.

Don't suggest a diet, or more exercise, or attempt to cheer me up with tales of how wonderful it truly is to be encased within the female form.

I have PMT.

All Change

As of the Tuesday just gone, I am a nomad. I am littlest hobo.

I am now living with my boyfriend's relatives. While this may sound like an absolutely terrifying and frankly awful prospect to many people, my potential inlaws (boyfriend take note: just a turn of phrase) are absolutely bloody fantastic; laid back, relaxed, friendly, funny, welcoming.

And they have a pool table.

So things could be worse. They also have an enormous bed in their spare room. I'm talking seriously huge, a vast oasis of calm in a room clattered with things I apparently think I need for my day to day running over the next 6 weeks while we are imposing ourselves on them in what I'm praying isn't an enormous abuse of their hospitality.

They also have a 7 year old boy. Which means they have a pirate ship, various figurines and an Eddie Stobart lorry to play with in the bath. Oh and an inflatable bowling alley (has to be seen to be believed/understood).

So on the whole I've got a pretty good deal out of this.

However, now I am living in Kent. And this involves an overground, common-or-garden, unreliable, over subscribed train journey.

And that is before I have to spend 20 minutes in District Line Hell.

My journey time now has increased by 50% to an hour and a half each way, each day. And I no longer can work from home to ease my stress levels. And, along with my journey time, my travel costs have also rocketed to an unsavory £42 a week. Someone's trying to get back at me for the compulsory council tax rebate I've just been issued.

Its not so much the length of journey, its the change involved. I am now one of Them: an outsider, an imposter trying to pretend to be a Londonite (rather than an insider pretending to be a Londonite like I was prior to Tuesday). I really now am in Commuting Hell.

In an effort to ease this assault on the senses, I have maintained my work hours of 8 til 4, so I supposedly avoid rush hour, but in London rush hour appears to run pretty much all day (with perhaps a 45 minute lunch break when noone's looking).

But it isn't really helping. Because now, instead of joining the tube in the far west or east of the city, I now have to fight tooth and nail to get on the overcrowded, sweat scented, uncomfortable tube train in central London. With a rather conspicuous bulky, cumbersome rucksack on my back, and a heavy laptop (and usually a variety of assorted crushed and brusied fruit) within. And I've still not grasped that if I put my rucksack on and then put my headphones in that when I take my rucksack off, my headphones are wrenched painfully from my ears. Every time.

I am not making friends with my new commute. But I am determined to become a pool genius by the time we leave. Which is a. slightly ambitious and b. completely unachievable as not only do I suck badly, I suck so badly that even the 7 year old won't play with me.

BBD2

Yep, you guessed it. Might not help that I consumed a pint of chips last night (yes, it was actually in a pint glass. Hoegarden to be precise) and 3 large glasses of wine.

But I have a new bone to pick. Something that's only really grabbed part of my usually undivided attention in the last couple of months.

Thinking that I wouldn't notice, a large amount of fat has deposited itself casually around the tops of my hips. And isn't going anywhere.

Where once my stomach stood alone, proud in its collection of fatty tissue, my hips have decided, after I thought I'd endured enough through the unsightly, uncomfortable and unattractive growth of puberty, that they'd join in the fun and have set up camp, seemingly indefinitely.

Whole handfuls of stretchmarked flesh have made a comfortable settlement on the top of my newly protruding bones (my hips, until the age of 21, were non-existent. Now it appears they're making up for lost time).

I've spoken to a few friends of the same age as me and they too have noticed such uninvited fatty deposits. But, so far, noone has given me a fool proof solution to getting rid of them. Apart from buying new clothes (seeing as I tend to shop at Matalan, Primark being too trendy for me - seriously, at least it will be relatively inexpensive).

I have, in an attempt to see what I would look like if I were to lose this weight, grabbed the offending flesh and pushed it behind me (I really don't care what goes on where I can't see it) to see what I'd look like if I were to lose the fat. And its not that bad. I could even accept my stomach's imperfections if I had only that to worry about. Or could least try and reduce the offending matter.

But its no good. I think it might be in for the long haul.

If anyone has any suggestions (other than lyposuction, cutting out alcohol or reducing my bread intake) then I'd be more than happy to offer you tips on troublesome style sheets or uncooperative rollovers in exchange.

Me and My Surface Area

I am having a Bad Body Day.

BBDs have occured with regularity for the last 14 years or so, but more recently they've been springing up pretty much every day, a consistency I'd rather swap for something more useful or more satisfying.

The last time I actually had a Good Body Day (or more accurately, a Tolerant Body Day), was approximately 6 weeks ago when, on returning home from a snowboarding holiday, I had the lovely warm realisation that I hadn't ballooned up two dress sizes due to the enormous amount of pasta and wine I had consumed, but had in fact maintained weight, even lost a few pounds and had toned up a little, a pleasing result considering the frankly embarassing of snowboarding I had not done.

I've never been a great lover of my body. We don't really see eye to eye, as you will remember from my tales of bodily perspiration. But what I really don't get on with is my stomach; my gut; the vast proportion of fat that has chosen to nestle around my midriff and has made a seemingly unshiftable home for as long as I can remember. My stomach is the most awkward of squatters, who seems to know all their rights and spew them back at you while you watch helplessly as you realise that all the amount of shouting, ranting, crying, pleading and ignoring in the world will not get rid of them.

Sure, I've tried. I exercise. Being a vegetarian with a disagreement with dairy, I eat reasonably little (although seeing as my biggest food comfort is bread, I'm probably not doing myself any carb favours, but me and the Atkins diet were never going to see eye to eye). I've tried sit ups, toning, dancing, running, swimming, bloody atheletics club for god's sake (although that was for a very short period aged 15 and to be honest myself and my friend did very little running and a considerable amount of talking but you would have thought the facial muscles I was exercising would have counted for some weight regulation).

It doesn't help that I have a job where the only time I do anything more energetic than moving my fingers in the Dance of the Web Designer (where my poor mouse hand ends up getting the short straw and being freezing a large amount of the time) is making a cup of tea. But still, you would have thought my run on a lunch break, if a little lollopy and rather slow, would count for something.

It seems not.

I have bargained with my body. Accepted my unsightly hip stretch marks, dealt with my perspiration, managed unruly and troublesome hair and allowed my far from perfect breasts to head southwards (not that they need my permission, they were doing that all by themselves. I'd have been happier if they'd have been sizeable enough to warrant it, buckling under weight, hoisted up into vast but beautiful bras, but it seems my breasts have all the intentions of large breasts while actually being rather petite).

But that's just not good enough for my stomach to make a sacrifice and dump some of its bulk. It is holding steadfast; refusing to move, chaining every ounce of fat to my bones (whilst allowing it enough movement to wobble unnattractively, usually at choice moments).

I've met people who don't have an issue with their waistlines (admittedly it is usually because they don't have a waistline to worry about). They have other concerns; being small breasted, too tall; too skinny; big bottomed; wide hipped. There is part of me that envies them for they have made peace with my enemy. But I understand that their hatred is exactly the same as mine (apart from the bottom, because at least you don't have to look at that when you look down. Mine has never been a consideration, as I can't see it, and I take the approach of if I can't see it then it doesn't exist. Or something).

As I get older I am learning that I have to accept the excess weight. It appears, sadly, that it is in it for the long haul and I just have to get used to it. And its frankly only going to get worse once the middle aged spread sets in. My mum once told me, aged 12, that I'd grow out of my puppy fat when I grew taller. I am still the same height as I was back then. I am still waiting. My puppy fat is now a hefty, unfriendly mutt, the sort that always manages to get right in the place you are about to stand from nowhere then growls angrily when you step on it.

There's one thing I've failed to admit. Something that might help you understand. I like to drink. I like to drink a lot.

Okay, give this one to me - I don't eat chocolate, crisps, cake, cream, cheese, bloody hell anything with any taste or enjoyment (apart form aforementioned bread and, of course, beans).

But this might have something to do with my excess surface area (previously patiently waiting for my growth spurt to take its position in aiding the vertical covering of my frame, now happy relaxing in horizontal complacancy).

There's one solution to this, of course. But its not going to happen. I'm a web designer. You take away my wine you take away my way of forgetting about the eternal rollovers nestled deeply in the corners of my mind, awake, restless, waiting to rise to the forefront of my conciousness.

I think I have a good case.

Too much work, too little motivation

I am more than a little frustrated.

I have several emails of not very nice, not very constructive criticism and a large amount of vague, whittering amends to tackle.

My workload is actually making me feel rather sick.

But instead of knuckling down and getting on with the job in hand I have decided that the best way to tackle the situation is:

a. do all other unthreatening (which largely means unimportant/unnecessary) work that I can possibly derive from my to-do list in a bid to ward off the evil bullet points littering my inbox;
b. whinge about my workload and evil clients to anyone who will listen (and those that won't);
c. help my junior even though I really don't think they want it;
d. make cups of tea.

(you'll notice this list is very similar to the one that I tend to adopt when 'workless' as well).

But the sick feeling in my stomach and the adjitated and the disturbing shakey feeling in my arms (possibly caffeine induced, due to point d) is beginning to overtake all efforts to distract myself and I am having to readdress those emails before I really become noticeably unproductive.

But the problem is every time I open the email and read the first few lines my blood begins to boil.

My poor project manager caught the brunt of my fury this morning. I then had to send them a text message apologising for being such an unstable, firey, slightly unhinged designer (although I didn't put it quite like that, as they might not quite have realised the extent to my unsavoryness).

Since then, I have returned to the emails, each time with a clear head, a fresh start, a new look. Thinking 'its okay, its okay. Its only their personal, subjective opinion'.

But its no bloody good. I just can't do it.

I'm adding another four tasks to my list.

e. go running (limited time but at least not near a pc so can pretend am not a web designer and am actually world class athelete, until overtaken by the silver ladies and/or people walking/meandering/standing still)
f. eat lunch (even more limited time but immensely satisfactory)
g. write blog (in the process of, so should really not be on the list but wanted to make list look more productive)
h. write lists (a personal favourite, the art of being productive without actually being productive, and potentially indefinite)

Just one more look at those emails before I start task e then I'm sure I'll get the instant and inspiring motivation to don my PE kit and head out for my daily humiliation.