Karoons

The secret diary of Kay - AKA Bitchy McBitchface

Okay. So remember that post last week when I wrote about how I'd unearthed some teenage writings? Remember how I said they were far too embarrassing to share?

Well, I got to thinking that I don't humiliate myself in public enough anymore. I mean all I do is wear my clothes back to front, cry at inopportune moments, call the same person the wrong name 3 times in one night and break everything in sight. I'm sure everyone around me feels intimidated by my innate sophistication and so, in the interests of fair play, I thought I'd share some excerpts from my diary of 1997. That way you all will realise that once, a long time ago, I was a mere mortal just like you. Except meaner, more pathetic and painfully immature.

Before we go on may I remind you that this is from 1997. I was 17. Not 14

Wednesday 8th January 1997

Oh god! Mum decided to have a talk with me about lads again. She puts so much pressure on me to have boyfriends but I'm quite happy to go out and have a snog and a grope or whatever.

I've decided I won't go into heavy relationships. Not unless I happen to meet someone I really like - someone who makes my stomach flip - like Matthew Bailey. And there's no-one like that around here so what's the point. Oh god - maybe that was my only chance and I blew it. I've never that stomach flipping feeling before. Maybe that was it - love at first sight and I never seized the moment. Oh god - now I'm going to end up a withered bitter, old maid!

Firstly, " a snog and a grope or whatever"? Urrrrgh.  Secondly, over-react much? Matthew Bailey was a friend of a friend. I played pool with him the one and only time we ever met.


Thursday 9th January 2007

I had a Climbers meeting tonight and Kate didn't come because she was "revising". We have a history test tomorrow and she's swotting for it. God, I HATE  her!!!!!! I do the right thing sticking by the commitments I've made even though it's deadly boring and I'm going to  fail the test tomorrow. Kate will ace it as usual, get loads of praise while I get knackered. And SHE's the selfish one. I really do hate her now. She's a selfish, boring cow-whore and and not such a high achiever as she thought. And she's not going to get into Cambridge and I'm going to tell her so tomorrow!

Ooooo what a nasty little fucker I was. I'm pretty sure I had been given far more than one nights notice for the history test and Kate was quite nice really.

I must try and re-introduce cow-whore into my vocabulary.

 

Ding dong ....

...the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the wicked witch is deeeeeeeaaaaaad!

Not literally (thanks Ria for thinking I would go as far as to celebrate her death), but figuratively. And that's good enough for me

10 things I learnt in London this week

1.That Lauren is just the same at 29 as she was at 28. That is, her taste for outrageously slutty shoes remains in tact and she still knows how to ensure we all have a great time when we visit. Perhaps those two things are related and the Middle East peace process and all other awkward social gatherings could be improved by the wearing of 3 inch high, red, pointy shoes.

2.That the boys of Camden's indie clubs are really young. Boys is probably not the right word - they are more like embryos.

3.That the senior triangle is now old enough that birthday gifts of audio books are not only deemed appropriate, they are met with cries of glee.

4. That whatever people say, London is often friendlier than ooooop north. We got a night bus back home and the whole of the top deck joined in with an impromptu rendition of 'Hallelujah'. We don't have night buses in Hull but if we did, and you tried to start a sing-along on one, I can guarantee you'd be made to swallow your guitar whole and then stabbed to death with sharpened treble clefs.

5.That Taboo is a very funny game. Especially when played with slightly drunk people in a pub on a Sunday afternoon. Did you know that repeatedly screaming "my body is a temple" across the table is a sure fire way to get you friends to guess the word 'detox'? That's because it's not.

6.That a four year old never gets bored of playing hide and seek. Even when there are only 3 rooms to hide in.

7. That I, or more specifically my boobs, cannot comfortably fit under my sister's bed. On the plus side I may have invented a cheap alternative to breast reduction surgery.

8. Never agree to a makeover by a four year old even if it does stop the never ending game of hide and seek. I ended up wearing 3 different shades of lip-gloss ... in my hair.

9. That looking after a grumpy, tired baby in a public place is a little different to looking after a grumpy, tired baby at home. At home there are no evil people giving you death stares every time he whimpers. It's okay though. I got revenge by dipping his dirty wet wipes in their coffee when they weren't looking.

10.That falling asleep on the train is never a good idea. Especially if you tend to end up with your bum in the air and dribble down your chin.

Seth

Having just moved house I am still in the process of unpacking boxes and boxes of things that I probably should have thrown away years ago. Especially, since I have a tendency to up-sticks more than most people. (I just figured out that I have lived in eleven different houses so far this millennium - that's an average of 8.3 months in each place).

Anyway - complicated statistical analysis was not meant to be the point here. (Yes - I had to get my calculator out to figure out how many months there have been since January 2000). The point is I have spent years packing and unpacking and packing again a lot of stuff that should have seen the bottom of a bin a long time ago. This includes some of the hideously introspective, self-obsessed drivel that I wrote in my teens and early twenties. You may argue that this blog is merely more of the same. You're right. But trust me when I say I self-censor here far more than in my trusty notebooks of old and for that we can all be grateful. To the outside world I may present myself as a gibbering, incoherent 29 year old but inside my head I'm a gibbering, incoherent 14 year old. Small steps people, small steps.

I will spare you from the worst my notebooks have to offer. I am still far to embarrassed to share the real humdingers. I did find one poem that I quite liked. It rhymes  - something that I abhorred at the time but I remember I was trying to structure it like a song - verse, chorus verse. It's about a boy I met when I was travelling alone through Cambodia. Ah, the memories.

Here goes...

Seth

I took your picture by night rivers

As your grin lit up the sky

The very first hello of it

Tinged lilac with goodbye.

We spent a week in motion

On your battered motorbike

And in tumbled sheets and bedclothes

On balmy, sweaty nights.

 

I don’t mind admitting I left a piece of me with you

A carefree younger version, who always told the truth

The one who saw in black and white and red and purple too

When living for the moment was all I knew to do.

 

I let you drive me to the station

Down those dusty, dirt-filled tracks

With empty promises to call and write

And scratch marks down our backs

I sat on threadbare cushions

As I watched you through the glass

And thought how pure and primal things

Are never built to last.

 

 

 

Confessions of a cooking dunce

During a Home Economics class when I was 14, my friend Amy and I were asked to bake some buns. We thought we were doing quite well until we went to check on them in the oven and found nothing but a heap of charcoal.

When I was 19 and studying abroad in America I (along with my fellow Brits) were asked to create some traditional British food for an international dinner. I was charged with baking scones (wooooo) while the others had the far more taxing task of making shepherd's pie. They created a culinary masterpiece. I nearly burnt down a friend's house.

So considering my baking past I count today's effort a success. Cookie anyone?

They are completely inedible but I have used my finely honed detective skills to deduce why it went so wrong.

This is the first three lines of the recipe:

1 cup (2 sticks) of unsalted butter or
1/2 cup of butter and 1/2 a cup of shortening

Just read that again.

1 cup (2 sticks) of unsalted butter or
1/2 cup of butter and 1/2 a cup of shortening

Hmmmm. I didn't see the 'or'. I also didn't read the bit where it said only to use a third of the sugar in the actual dough and put the rest aside for creating the icing. Essentially I just shoved a lorry-load of butter and sugar into the oven. Oh yes and then I did my conversion from Fahrenheit to Celsius wrong and baked them at 230 degrees.

I think that's why it went a bit wrong. Maybe I need to set my cooking sights a little lower. Step 1: Cereal.

Inside the strange and wonderful mind of Liam Theroux

Liam Theroux: That is what The Sun would call 'a sex act'. 

Me: What?

LT: The tabloids. They always refer to handjobs or blowjobs as 'sex acts'. 

Me: But they're completely different things. A blowjob is far more intimate than a handjob.

LT: I don't disagree. 

Me: Well then, how do you know which one they're referring to? 

LT: You have to read between the lines.

Me: And how exactly do Sun readers manage such a thing? 

LT: If the story involves Christiano Ronaldo you can assume it's a blowjob. 

Me: Okaaaaaaaaaay. 

LT: If it's about Keith Chegwin they mean a handjob. 

Me: Right. So your saying the more physically attractive a man is the more likely it is he'll have received a blowjob.

LT: Exactly!

Me: And does this little theory of yours extend past celebrities and into real life?

LT: Most definitely. 

Me: So if we did a survey, we could discover which men are considered most attractive through their blow job to handjob ratio.

LT: Yep. You've got it.

And knowing Liam Theroux as I do, there is probably an Excel spreadsheet somewhere on his laptop that proves his theory. MORI has nothing on him.

_________________________________________________________________________

Edited to add: Ha ha. Just realised that my last sentence makes Liam Theroux seem a bit sketchy. I should make it clear that he does not go around offering sexual favours or enquiring about the sexual favours others have received. That I know of.

Nick Knowles has nothing on me

Well, we did it. Liam Theroux and I are now officially living in sin.

This is the first time I've made the leap to leaving with a boy since I was a young and naive 21. So far so good.

We successfully avoided a domestic in Ikea yesterday, although we did bear witness to several good ones on the way round. I may suffer the wrath of a boy wronged tomorrow because I have completely broken the chest of drawers I was trying to put together. I hammered in a slat upside down and then tried to get it out by hammering it on the other side. Lets just say that was a bad idea. That's 35 quid down the drain but more gut wrenchingly, it puts another trip to the land of cheap meatballs and flat-packed furniture on the cards. Liam Theroux took it in his stride tonight but that could be because he was half asleep and full of ready meal and club biscuits (domestic god/goddess training is not going well). When the full realisation dawns I may not be a popular girl.

In my defence I would like to point out that the destroyed set of drawers was the third piece of furniture I'd put together all by myself! LT, so far, has put together half of one tiny two-drawed office cabinet.

I am a DIY supremo - oh yes I am. See!

Dead moth cocktails and babies

I've just got back from spending a few days in London Village where I got up to all sorts of high jinks. Actually the jinks weren't that high but I did have lovely time.

My favourite girlies and I invented the dead moth cocktail (the secret ingredients of which shall go with us to the grave) and enjoyed a very long afternoon of picnicking on Clapham Common.

One of the top-secret ingredients of the dead moth cocktail may or may not be that most sophisticated of drinks, Malibu. In our defence it was sunny and everyone knows that sunniness demands a fruity drink. Also, Lucy really wanted the free flip-flops that came free with it. I'm selfless even in the face of alcohol marketed at underage girls.

Exciting sights on Clapham Common included women sunbathing in tiny bikinis and a man wielding a camera with a telescopic lens. Not that I'm saying these two facts are in anyway related. After a while, Lucy went home and Lauren slept so I amused myself by reading The Observer and taking photos from the perspective of an ant.

Oh yes, as of last week I am a blonde. This came about due to a spectacular breakdown of communication with my new hairstylist. I am as yet undecided how I feel about it. I could reach a conclusion by seeing if the old adage 'blondes have more fun' is true but because I'm about to spend 5 weeks on holiday I don't think it would be a fair test. (Fair test! I knew all those GCSE science investigations would come in useful someday).

I also got to spend a lot of time with this gorgeous creature.

He weed, vomited and pooed all over me but it still did not stop my ovaries from exploding due to the cuteness. I am well aware I have turned into baby bore who shoves her phone under the nose of virtual strangers and demands that they scroll through all the pictures of her nephew. Even the ones that are close ups of his fingers and toes. Imagine the horror if I ever have children of my own.

My sister fed, watered and entertained me in the manner to which I have become accustomed. Even better actually because she had Muller yoghurts with chocolate bits. She is ace. My brother-in-law's new job is doing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He has a bearskin hat and everything. I went to watch but I didn't take any photos because I am a moron.

Right, I'm off because there is a documentary on about the downfall of Britney Spears. I plan to adopt her so it would be irresponsible of me not to watch.