Dear Diary

So my lovelies, does it show just how self-obsessed I am that the first thing I have to do when I get home is write ON MY BLOG?? Yes, it is true. I was away for a few days. In London. What was I doing? Spending money, drinking, wearing loud pinstripe suits and walking down the street, taking obnoxiously on my Boysenberry about SHARES and DESIGNER JEANS, CAVIAR, THE LACK OF DECENT SUSHI IN BERLIN and MELON-BALLING (Dirty. Just kidding, it just means scooping out balls of melon... or does it?). So yes, instead of a jaunt to Shetland to see trolls hiding under bridges and seals driving cars and other magical things, I went South for a job interview and to see The Hubz. He is busy. Very busy. Don't bother him. He doesn't have time.

Hahahahaha. Hi Daniel. HIIII. Miss me? Thought so.

I spent most of my return train journey to Glasgow gazing out the window being dreamy and pensive... mostly trying to ignore the CLAW FEET of the woman next to me and how they were attempting to stage a prison break from the fetters of her Teva sandals. She was also wearing nude stocking, beeteedubs. There is nothing in this world that makes me shudder like the sight of a nude stocking poking out of sandal, but when a CLAW FOOT is involved... well, seriously this woman had the feet of an old porcelain bathtub.

Annnyhoo, so after listening to 'Embassy Row' over and over (I like the way Stephen Malkmus says 'men in da-SHI-kis' and I could listen to it all day everyday), I got to thinking: has Alec Baldwin really just thrown in the towel and resigned himself to being a bloated, swollen joke of a man (with evidence of some nips and tucks here and there)?



The answer is clearly yes. He is now officially the sleaziest man in pictures. That is saying something. Where is the Baldwin of yesteryear? Of Beetlejuice, Working Girl and Married to the Mob. (Aside: speaking of Working Girl, I TOTALLY pulled a Melanie Griffith and wore sneakers to my interview and then surreptitiously changed into proper shoes on the bus- though the sneaks were not white hightop Reebox and the heels were not shittingly high stilettos. And nobody thought I was a whore- I hope).

So, being in London naturally made me think of my IDOL, orginial East End thug Bob Hoskins (or as I call him- Bobo Skins, because I can), but upon my triumphant return home, I rediscovered this disturbing image, gladly not under my pillow or plastered to a bathroom wall:




Are you seeing what I'm seeing? Is Bobo supposed to be some kind of (gulp!) SEX SYMBOL?

Okay, fuck it, so maybe he is. FINE. I saw a pot-bellied rabbit (I SWEAR, it was crazy huge) for the first time on the train this afternoon, so anything's possible.

Anyway, diary, London is different:




Men's eyebrow hair is DISTINCTLY bushier.





People make inappropriate sex faces while listening to music.




People have no qualms about comparing the sizes of eggs on the street, in broad daylight.




Children and donkeys hate each other.




People paint their fingernails to match their meat.

It's not a bad place, just different. Now everyone cross your fingers and hope I gett his job. Odds? Slim to none.