The Dawn of a new era...the ConDem nation

Well, what can I possibly say that will make a reasonable excuse for not blogging for so long? I think I can probably pass it off, firstly, as election fever, and secondly, as post-election malaise. I'm sure we all have it, so I'll try not to dwell.

In fact, for the first time in ages (one week or so)I feeling rather happy. Having just watched Question Time and witnessed the farcical sycophancy of Simon Hughes and Lord Heseltine rubbing each other on the back and the sight of Melanie Phillips (always unpleasant) about to spontaneously combust - there was a shining light at the reaching out to me and all good reds out there - Mhedi Hasan! Goodness me, what a man. Hasan for the leadership! He expressed so well h0w I, and I'm sure loads of other -people are feeling right now. But it could be worse of course. I could have voted Lib Dem and now be squirming around uncomfortably, mesmerised by this unholy union. I think I will enjoy being in opposition, as the only truly viable progressive option. Possibly the best thing to happen to Labour. Possibly. Definitely not the best thing for the nation though, but ho hum.

I will try to shut up about it now, as I have been going on about nothing else for 7 days flat. And I definitely haven't said anything original or insightful or even witty so far.

In other news I have read the God Delusion again and decided to (again) that it is a marvellous book - mind you the dust-cover review on the front of the book's jacket also states that this is Derren Brown's favourite book. So there's no accounting for taste. Actually, I think re-reading this has caused a slight crisis... but I managed to paper over it by watching loads of Attenborough. Now I am getting a nightly fix of Life on Earth and the slightly less angry evolutionary stylings of the lovely Richard. Much more relaxing than what I was doing before - reading actual bits of the bible and getting very scared.

The only other bit of major news is BUNNY BUNNY BUNNY! Yes, we are getting a bunny. A mini lop rabbit, brown with a white tummy. The flat-packed hutch arrived yesterday and I erected it myself! Although Rick did have to go over it again this evening just to make sure that it was structurally sound (it wasn't). So now I have all the hay in the world, a great hutch and the makings of a fabulous bunny kingdom. Bunny arrives on Sunday.

If you want to come round and stroke it please do. Apparently they like nose-fondling! Don't we all.

Well, off I go. More tomorrow!

C xxx

Dearest ducks,

What a day and night we've had...your loyal correspondent here writes to you with sad tidings a plenty - I was voted off after the 3rd challenge! Travesty! Oh justice! O! Woe, woe and thrice woe.

It all began after a particularly arduous 2nd service, where, if you'll remember the infamous 'salt-gate' episode occurred. Dear god the shame. But after drinking 2 value cans of own brand cola, some beef and onion hula hoops and contraband Haribo stolen from Sir Ben's stash in the library I found my second wind - literally - and rushed around the kitchen with the others madly prepping for episode 3...

Yes, that's right, the ITV cheapskates could only afford 4 days at Maunsel House, stately pile of the 7th Baronet of Somerset and all round good-time guy, cad and commoner-hater. Therefore the producers announced the twist that we would be filming through the night the 3rd episode of the 5-part challenge as a time-saving measure. Good job I'd had drink all of that sugary cola and those 3 cups of tea, where the 4 of us that remained had to share the same teabag. Catering here is not so great, as you might have gathered.

JBR came in possibly hungover this morning. Today he had value multipack salt and vinegar crisps and a Tesco’s ham sandwich. He looked fucking grateful too! Oh the glamour. If you do get the chance dear readers, please look old JBR up on Google images and appreciate the likeness he has to a leathery pissed lizard. I have been forced to study his face for the last few days at alarmingly close proximity and it really is uncanny.

Anyway, back to the sad tale of yours truly and my elimination, The bombshell of the 3rd challenge was dropped and we were told that we would have to cook hundreds of canapés for a cocktail party, the canapés were our own creations (one recipe only, 80 canapés each) I made my own sundried tomato bread and smashed broad beans with mozzarella. P was on foul form all day and had to be reprimanded for bullying of the other contestants (not me, I hasten to add) as he said in his own words; "If you'd told me that I'd be having a conversation with a fat, tattooed, skint girl last week I just wouldn't have believed it. I never socialise with people like you. But for some reason I think you're great!" Ah, fantastic, I had unwittingly won the old buggers heart just by being good old me. And I didn’t even want to. Was rather hilarious thinking to myself that it was funny that he liked me but I secretly hate him and so I briefly lost my inner monologue and did a snorty laugh in his face. I think he took it as a sign of affection. Foolish man!

The 4 of us remaining - A, P, R and myself whizzed around for the next few hours - each with a camera in our face. Sometimes I'd catch something that one of the others was saying and become entranced. Did I sound like as much of a twat as them?! Yes, I fear, is the answer to that. In an amazing fit of foresight I spent the entire session gabbing to anyone and everyone that asked, about how I thought my dish was the weakest and that I deserved to go and that I thought I'd go. I also did a lots of saying "I'm not at all competitive... it really wouldn’t bother me if I left... the other 3 are SOOOO amazing" etc.

After a short break drinking more hazardous beverages and spending a particularly satisfying 5 minutes dreaming up ways of elaborately trapping and killing P using only my wits and an assortment of potato peelers, a mandolin and very, very dense ladle, it was time for our canapés to get out to the 3 or 4 eager diners that had attended the 3am fake cocktail party.

Then came the moment of truth...I don't want to ruin the show for you, so all I'll say is that I might have shed a little tear or two and gushed on about what a great time I'd had and how the other 3 were the best...but that would surely risk spoiling the surprise of seeing one of your oldest and dearest friends make a twat of herself on telly, and I wouldn’t want to do that! So you will have to watch the whole ghastly charade for yourselves!! Or at least the 3 hours of top quality entertainment that features MOI. Three out of five ain't bad.

But just a word to the wise, if you do happen to see a weepy writer getting booted of a reality cookery contest and then swearing at her competitors and shouting into the camera "turn that fucking thing OFF!" then remember to have some sympathy for her, as chances are she just been hugged and kissed by JBR the lizard man himself. That's probably what set her off.

So, my friends, I will be in from tomorrow and very much at your disposal for chats/tea/drinks/me to cook you something nice, so please get in touch so that I can try to be normal again.

I do hope I didn’t let any of you fine folk down; I did have a great experience you know. And its even re-ignited my blogging fever so I will let you know the address of my new blog set up if you fancy a read a long a day.

With much love to you all, ties I signing off to finally sleep.

Chloe xxx

The Country House Cooking Chronicles - Day 2

This is the post that I wrote on day two - about 10 weeks ago now, the day of the bubble and squeak cakes and dreaded quails eggs ...

Loyal Readers,

Today has been absolutely knackering! We have finished filming and I have just had my first meal of the day - two slices of white kingsmill and a packet of cheese and onion. The irony of being a contestant on a cooking show is not lost on me.

This is the sort of stage where I don't want to give too much away - just in case you happen to be in at 4 in the afternoon when this airs and you want to see for yourselves... I'll assume that you won't and so I can reveal that..........I got through the second round!

The day began very early when we told we were catering for a shooting party at the manor. Queue lots and lots of tweed, fur and horse-faces. And shrill laughter. And champagne. And dissaproving staring at my bedraggled and sweaty face. What joy! Sir Ben and his shooting party clogged up the manor and feasted on the labours of our hard work late into the day, which was already much delayed by M's shock decision to walk away from the comp.

Cor blimey - the drama! The tears! The cameras! I will never ever get used to being followed around by a camera all day long. You feel like a right blooming tit and there's nowhere to hide when you want to innocently pick your nose or moan about what a shitbag JBR is.

JBR, incidentally, likes a drink. All day long. I hope that when the viewers watch this they can see his steady progression from 11am onwards in to total pissed-ness. I wouldn't mind but he never offered me one!

Anyway, back to the hunt party. The course I was given was my bubble and squeak cakes with a poached quails egg on top. Sadly, I forgot to add the necessary 12 tablespoons of salt and the diners said they'd prefer it with some delicious ham. Can't argue with that! Thought they were a bit bland and wished I'd made them with smoked haddock! Bum.

R has totally toned down over the last couple of days and is now being very respectful and kind - he's still keeping up with the old racism; "what do you call an Indian lesbian" he shrilled this afternoon, "mingeater!" came is glad tidings and I watched him laugh himself into a mini stupor. I have done quite well at telling him to shut his fucking face, and have found that P is the really annoying one. I won't spoil the surprise here, but the bugger keeps oinking into his camera how little salt I use, the ruddy codger. Oh how I laughed into my camera. Laughed I tells ye!

When it came to the judging, I stayed. So did R and P. Tomorrow is another day!

I have to go now, as the Blossom Hill that I stole from the Risotto making area is beginning to cause me some grief.

With much love from your intrepid culinary correspondent who has been on site for 3 days - but it feels like 3 long weeks! Tell me, is Obama still president? Has the Middle East crisis been solved? Who's at number 1 in the Pepsi charts?

Adoration in delicious little quinelles xxx

Country House Cooking Chronicles...Day 1

Day one has just finished filming, and we have trudged back though the snow from the manor house to our cottage. It is 4am.

The day began at 9am with cornflakes and coffee (fetched by a very helpful runner) who was on hand to do out bidding throughout the day. Sort of. Well, if our bidding involved bringing us multi packs of Hula Hoops and coca cola.

Filming didn't begin until 2pm, and the first set of shots consisted of some incredibly cringe worthy walking shots of each of us walking up to Maunsell House, gazing in wonderment, uttering many a overwhelmed word and generally marvelling. Next was an introduction to Sir Benjamin and Lady Kirsty (tru dat) and their many dogs. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just politely fussed over the pooches and generally pretended that I had never been into a stately home before.

Soon the time came for us to get to eh kitchen and meet JBR. You know how some presenters put on a nasty act for the cameras? This was no act. The lizardy one was so foul, so lacking in charm and charisma of any sort... to describe him as a git would be a colossal understatement. He quickly informed us that we would be preparing a 6 course meal... and that I would be making the first of 2 desserts - Clementine cake.

To cut a long story short, it seemed to go okay. Having watched the show yesterday, it was very gratifying to see that the diners all loved it, even if JBR didn't. It was very bizarre and disconcerting to see the size of my arse on telly. Not to mention my big old porcelain plate head. I really didn't know that it was so HUGE.

Oh well. Also amused by these programmes and how the formats dictate that you have to pigeonhole each and every person. To compartmentalise me as the 'alternative one' was hilarious. As was listening to the voice over describe me as 'kooky', 'colourful' and 'quirky' respectively. Hilarious!

Well today is another day, I go through to the next round as you may have gathered from watching...

You will have to tun in at 4pm on ITV to see my progress today - and how the hunt party take to a vegetarian cook. Probably not well I am thinking.

Let me know what you all think and thanks for reading my ducks and doves!

On the brink of stardom... ITV daytime - Here I come!

Hello my darlings!

I can scarce believe it, but the hour is nigh, this time tomorrow I would have made my tv debut! Reality tv is certainly something that I had never previously considered... But after a random call from 'researcher 1' asking me if I'd consider cooking on telly, all expenses paid, I decided I could not resist.

Actually, what I really decided was that 2010 is the year to have some new experiences, hopefully positive, and certainly take a few more risks than usual. So I gone and done it. Spending a week of January in a remote country house cooking for the aristocracy. And if you want to see more, I suggest you tune in at 4pm tomorrow on ITV!

This weekend Rick and I went to see Capitalism: A Love Story at the Barbican. And blooming brilliant it was too. The we went for Filipino food and stuffed ourselves rotten! I probably should have restrained myself, but unfortunately was overcome by greed for exotic food. The best thing that I ate was purple yam ice cream. LUSH.

Now I am sitting with Ricky watching In the Loop and eating a chocolate and pear pudding and drinking wine. We live much like French dukes. It is our way. Bea is with us and it has been most lovely. I am excited about spending a day in the scareball before coming home to watch what may be the most embarrassing display of culinary skills ever before seen and screened to man.

Please let me know what you think, and more importantly, reassure me that you still want to be friends.

Big love and sweet dreams xxx

Nightshift horrors

It is 4am and I am not asleep. In fact, I am being paid to moderate comments on a selection of forums for a job that I have just been made redundant from. It all seems rather futile...but I love a crisis! And this latest money-based woe has caused me to hunt around for employment with a vengeance.

It has also (seemingly) forced me to watch 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding' on 4OD, google 'Country House Cooking Competition' and click on each link and to eat a bowl of something called 'Nougat Pillows', which turned out not to be as delicious and dreamy as the name implies.

Ricky and I spent a very enjoyable day in the Gagosian gallery and Wellcome Trust - I watched a video installation until I got dizzy and looked at a poor man's eye which had been blown of and recorded forever in posterity by Damien Hirst.

We then had a very enjoyable Vietnamese dinner with the FP crew and Ruth, where I had too much wine then had to come home and eat coffee granules out of a jar to sober up before work.

And job hunt round 2. Less hurrah, more hurroo.

I hope that as I write this you are all having a lovely sleep!

xxx

The wanderer returns...

Well, my pledge to write everyday lasted for January alone it seems, for Feb has been quite the busy month. I think it could be summed up by saying the some sort of mini-breakdown has happened. But it's hard to explain. The important thing is that I am back! And resolved to write this blog each and every day.

Some changes have occured recently - not too dramatic - but changes none the less. Job, career (ha ha), friends and family...all my time has been taken up. As to these changes however, I cannot really go into them yet. But I will dear reader, one day.

This week has been taken up with job issues mostly, and it seems that I may shortly need to find a new one. Mostly I have been excited about seeing Brighton friends at some point for Billy's birthday and the long awaited end of Clash so that Ricky will finally stop working 7 days a week and will have 2 weeks off to hang out with me! This is the most exciting thing to happen for some time.

Aother development for those interested is a little matter of reality tv. ITV, 4pm, week beginning the 8th March. I will say no more.

Have a fabbo friday!

On Love

Today is Valentine's Day, and Ricky is taking me for dinner tonight. I am very excited by this prospect, as I am rather hungry. He has also bought me a poetry book and a card, in which he tells me that I am his 'first and last munch of biscuits' a truly romantic sentiment I feel.

Anyway, I am a lucky girl. I know this. Last night, being a Saturday, there were a lot of anti- Valentines nights happening - clubs, pubs and parties abounded like any other Saturday in London town. But we were off to little Jessie's birthday - the theme of which was 'ANDROGYNY.' A daunting prospect, as this is the sort of theme that actually requires you to have a think about what to wear (and also maybe a quick look at a dictionary)...Anyone who knows Ricky will know that he is rather an expert on these matters, an authority, if you will on gender studies and the like, he decided, in his infinite wisdom to go as a seahorse. Seahorses can and do change gender from m-f and back throughout their lives, also the men can carry pregnancies. This involved Ricky buying a purple sequined dress from a market stall (ox st, size 10) and then making a strange seahorse headdress and snout out of a pizza box and egg carton. Needless to say, he looked very good.

I had even more unkempt hair than usual - sticking out at least two foot from either side in different directions. I teemed this vagabond look with a tuxedo shirt and black jacket, bow tie and black trousers. The vampy red lips and black 'tasche were an afterthought, but most pleasing to behold. As you can tell, I didn't put much thought into it, I just thought about what was handy and shoved it on. Nice.

There were lots of lovely yooof at the party, and I felt as though I were 104 years old, clutching at my mug of wine and shuffling from chair to chair. Even at one point, after loosing the nice bottle of Bordeaux that we bought, turning down another glass of wine from a friendly stranger after scrutinising the bottle and declaring that I 'don't care for Merlot, and would try to stick to the Burgundy.' What a total ponce.

That statement was short-lived however, and I believe I came across that same smiling stranger a few hours later when foraging for contraband booze, coming across an dusty bottle of Drambuie and shrieking 'Ah! Loverly boozy potions!' in their face. I did, of course, drink everything in my path, resulting in a possibly unwise move to the Dalston Jazz Bar (always ace, always full) where I jived around til 3am then realised that I had to work at 9am.

And that is what I am doing right now. My brain is soggy and hurty, and I have just looked in the mirror to examine some of the stuff that is being held hostage by my hair. At the moment most of it seem unidentifiable. Hopefully just some sticky Drambuie or the remnants of an individual cheese souffle. Don't ask.

I will tell you tomorrow where we dined tonight and any other news. I am excited as it is Glee night and Ruthie will be here. I am also going to help Karen decorate her flat - possibly not as good as Glee, but still good.

Fancy dress - Do's and Don'ts:

DO:

Dress up. A bit. Go on! Make a little effort.

Bring plenty of delicious booze that you can clutch in your own bag all night (tramps handbag), chewing gum and possibly a Curly Wurly for the long journey home.

Keep re-applying your fake facial hair at regular intervals. Your persistence will pay off.

DON'T:

Eat only one small lightweight souffle before going to a party. It is made of air and will not line your tummy. Bleurgh.

Offer to pay a taxi driver in songs performed by the kerbside. They don't accept this as legal tender.

Drink Drambuie. EVER.

Have a lovely Sunday!

xxx

¿Por qué mi bolso tan grande?

Keen readers will have noticed that I have been off for 5 days in Spain seeing my lady Sandra and having a great time with Bea and Anna, gadding around Madrid, buying tat and drinking too much in general.

I am back on the blog wagon now, firmly ensconced, and I have many things to discuss (lucky, lucky you). Firstly; you can still SMOKE in Spain. I am an ignorant soul and assumed it was pretty much a no-no everywhere in Europe now. Not so, as I was soon to discover. Literally everyone smokes and they smoke anywhere and everywhere too. Bloody foreigners... bloody lucky foreigners. No, but really, it was pretty stinky. Didn't stop all of us joining in though, gross as it is. After holding hands with Bea all the way to Madrid on the plane, we managed to separate for a few hours before climbing into our double blow up bed on the floor in Sandra's room. And what a bed it was! Arguably, much more comfy than the one I sleep on at home, and certainly more comfy than the floor that Rick and I have been sharing for 6 months, complete with deceased mouse underneath, a bit like the princess and the pea.

Bea rolls and fidgets a lot in her sleep - but I got my own back by stealing all the covers and possibly trying to grope her (I will call it a 'hug' though, and no one can prove otherwise)... Anna and Sandra shared Sandra's bed, resulting in lots of hilarity where they had to tread on our bed in order to get out of the door to the loo in the night, resulting in bouncy castle like hilarity. How we laughed. Hmmm.

Madrid was, in all honesty, absolutely fantastic. It was surprisingly clean and fragrant (despite the smoking) and even though the exchange rate of pound:euro is shit, you can still eat and drink out a lot more cheaply than in London. On our first proper night Sandra took us to no less than 6 bars, each very different, among them; a traditional tapas bar/diner, with big 70's neon signs displaying various unidentifiable foods; a jazzy, smoky wine bar, a Gothic discotheque and Spanish 'pub' which doesn't get lively until about 3am, and doesn't close until late into the next morning. At this point it was at least 5am, and Anna Bea and I decided to stage a mini protest outside waiting for Sandra to come out. Anna had the hiccups pretty badly by this point and Bea and I had somehow got to discussing the merits of a delicious redhead. I, in my usual way, had decided that I was fluent in Spanish and decided to get chatting with locals. The shame. Am sure I said 'Guapo' a lot a 'Donde esta beeeeer??' a fair amount too.

Our days rolled on in this manner, namely staying out until dawn and waking at 1pm as a result. Most decadent and enjoyable, though now I must have some sort of detox as I have had nothing but wine, beer and cheese for several days now. Finding something to eat in Spain if you don't eat meat can be rather tricky. Anna managed to consume almost exclusively only Jamon and a disgusting, REPULSIVE drink made from 'tiger nuts' in Spanish - Chufa. This drink is very popular in Valencia in particular and is marketed as 'Chufi'. A tiger nut is not a nut, but a foul, fibrous tuber - described on their home website the most popular 'horchata' or vegetable milk drink. Anna was extremely pleased when she found this, and now I fear she will be buying it by the crate from abroad to satisfy her perverse lust of nutty milk juice.

Things that I have learned about Madrid:

The Prado is closed on a Monday. Bugger.

You can't eat dinner until 10pm, and even then you can't eat dinner unless Jamon is a feature (see Museo de Jamon)

People are very friendly, even if you are ranting at them in a made up hybrid of Italian, French and Spanish

Things that I have learned about myself:

I cannot actually speak Spanish

I cannot get onto a plane again

I have extremely high standards when it comes to using public convieniences


Tips for the future:

Don't talk about Franco/Fascist dictatorships at birthday parties

Go on more holidays with Anna and Bea as they don't mind that talking about my pathological fear of public toilets

AVOID CHUFI.

Lovely to be back,

Thanks for reading xxx

I don't normally beg for assistance, I rely on my own eyes to see, but right now they make no sense to me...

I am in a state of confusion. A strange feeling of helplessness has descended, leaving me flailing and flapping around, a bit like a tortoise who has foolishly rolled onto its back. Shit analogies aside, I really feel at a loose end at the moment. I think money is a factor. The fact that I don't have any is hardly a revelation, but it is still a shit feeling. I think I mentioned yesterday that whilst I was extracting a splinter from Rick's foot I daydreamed about a possible change in career? Last night as I was back at the helm of the foot, digging around with some blunt tweezers and a sterilised needle I though perhaps I could have been a surgeon, had I just tried a bit harder. I have a firm hand and a good eye for detail. Or maybe a professional splinter remover? I'm sure there is such a thing, or if not, I could be a pioneer. Maybe I'll get awards.

I also rather wish I'd trained as a hairdresser. The fact that I cut my own birds nest of hair is really all the training I have had, and so far my technique consists of me squinting into a mirror with the kitchen scissors and cutting into the great bush of tangles that I have somehow ended up with on my head. Qualification enough I think you'll agree! I am also good a bowl-cut fringes, and I have been know to add subtle layers to Ricks hair when I cut it, though I don't tell him that. Of all the jobs I could be doing, I am not sure how it ended up here. I think its because I can am paid to do something I care little about, that an untrained monkey could also do if offered some sort of delicious banana incentive. And it gives me the means to write all of the things I wish I could get paid for, but ultimately no one reads.

What an up-beat thought for the day! In other news, I have been trying to lure P+T to the neighbourhood. I have lined up two places for them to look at...I am excited. I have also written to both Clair and Chas, who are both off half-way around the world next week for a few months. I will miss them keenly.

Tomorrow is the day I go to Madrid... I am scared. I don't like flying, and I have a terrible fear that I won't fit into the aeroplane seats. This has not happened before, thank god, but I still entertain the possibility. I also fear that one of the stewards will offer me some sort of extender belt (not needed just yet) like they do for the obese on American airlines. I am now not sure if my dislike for air travel is to do with being in the air or my fat arse. A combination of both maybe? Either way, I hate to fly, I hate airports and I'm a miserable, worrying bastard.

We are only allowed hand luggage and I have observed the rules on what to bring religiously. I have collected tiny 50ml bottles for my toiletries and have put everything into clear plastic bags. This includes my socks, pants, tees and dresses. Obviously you don't have to do that, but I like to. More to do with the my obsessive compulsive disorder than anything else, but I like to think that the airport security staff are quietly impressed.

Apart from folding and bagging my possessions, I still need to give myself the regulation haircut that will make me look either more mental or less mental (it's a gamble) and check-in online. This will be hilarious, as because of the OCD, I need to check each detail, in turn, something like 600 times. Rather time consuming, and actually makes me feel less reassured than I was, but if I don't do it it will be my fault if the plane drops from the sky. Nice.

I guess writing the blog will be difficult in Spain, but I will try. Now off to eat more arctic roll, attack the birds nest and plunge the clogged up sink.

I will just leave you with one thought; if you could do any profession, what would it be?

So long my doves, my dears,

C x

As I was levering a splinter that had burrowed its way into Ricky's foot this morn, my mind began to wander a bit. Could I, maybe, have become a doctor? Yes, I have no maths or science qualifications at all and blood makes me squeamish, but it does seem rather rewarding. And well paid. At the moment I am not well paid. This, unfortunately, affects many aspects of life. I can't be equal with friends or my boyfriend, I can't afford to help my sister out much when she needs it, and I can only pledge to a handful of charities rather than the 10 or 12 that really feel strongly about.

This doesn't mean that I don't know how fortunate I am just to have a job (albeit a very shit one) and to be earning at all. I know that I'm lucky. Who else gets to moderate chat rooms and forums full of comments posted by the mentally ill and sexually depraved? Ah, lucky, lucky me. Quite apart from all of the amazing stuff that I get to learn each day, like, new swearwords, a novel story about vomiting perhaps, and someones conspiracy theory that Jordan is secretly the head of MI5, I also get to spend a lot of time reading and writing. Things that I do genuinely enjoy. This is how come I can blog to you each day...Nice.

Conspiracy theories aside, the websites that I work on do deal with some very important issues. For example, is Kerry Katona the UK's worst mum? Shoulder pads - yes or no? Should read headed people and the obese be sterilised? Also current affairs; why does Gordon Brown have that funny eye? Is David Cameron hot, or does his face look like melted cheese? Peter Andre for PM? These are just a handful of the issues buzzing around my head each day. Food for thought, I think you'll agree.

Speaking of professions, I had a rather uncomfortable night, wracked with dreams that I was taking part in a beauty pageant. This, as most of you will agree, is a most unlikely scenario. In the dream I was the only one would had no makeup on, and very disturbingly, when I looked down at my legs I saw that they were carpeted with coarse black hair. Not what my legs look like in reality, by the way, but not too far off either... in the dream, I had to sing as my special talent, but each time I opened my mouth nothing would come out, save a tiny croak. I persevered for a while, croaking away, until I was booed off stage. This sums up my life quite well I recon. What a nice subconscious I've got. Still, it could have been worse. I might have woken up in a pool of wee!

One last thing before I get back to my job in the virtual world, Dalai Lama: Hot or Not? A life of abstinence means he's taken really good care of himself. I would.

Have a lovely day xxx

Fear of the Scare ball and birthday tales a-plenty!

Am I faltering already? I am only in the second week and already I have become slack. Soggy and slack like foul old toast. Oh well, I am resolved now - the blog is my source of great pleasure for me and I will be writing it everyday. Even if no one reads it! The last few days have been lovely, exciting and stressful in equal measure. Being in Cambridge has lots of good points; parents, Helen, Pippa, evenings with the lovelies in the pub. The Avon lady calling round with my mum's assorted goodies which means that I get my delivery of shower gels and deodorants to see me through. It also has its bad points, including but not limited to; the Grand Arcade, the C1 bus, the tossers milling in and out of Elizabeth Arden and Ted Baker, all of the secrets I have that echo and bounce off of the streets. Especially the area directly surrounding the Kings St Run... but the less said about that the better.

I have also been on nights - which is a weird scenario indeed. I become strange and dark-eyed and start to really enjoy watching BBC Parliament channel at 4.30am. I also become highly sensitive to the 'Scare ball' (the sun) and going outside in general, unless it is to check for intruders (it is easy to get a little paranoid on nights) or to stare out of my window to spy on urban foxes. By the time the scare ball rose on my last shift it was Friday, 6.30am and I handed in my last piece of work for the week. I prompt slept til 3pm and awoke to find my pillow sodden with dribble and my hair standing on end, creating the effect of someone who has undergone a severe electric shock. I wasn't too disturbed however, as this is a normal look for me.

On Friday pm I headed to Mill Road's Geldart pub for the gorgeous Rosie O'D's birthday celebrations. I had one pint and was totally pissed so I bribed the delicious Andrea for a lift home in her wagon. What a lovely girlie she is. On Saturday I finally headed back to the FP and to my glorious flat, which I had been missing terribly. P and T came round and we headed to Marylebone for Chish 'n Fips with Clair Eskandary to celebrate her 29th year. God, I am so greedy for the fips. Tom and I went for the classic holy trilogy: Haddock, chips and mushies. YUM. Whilst Pippa and Rick (who sat on a slightly annexed table - a kiddies table if you will) and feasted upon foul scampy nuggets. It was a rather delightful picture though, I must say.

This morning we had eggs and watched the best programme on TV (Pippa was already a big fan) 'Take me out'. Tom, most understandably, was rather skeptical about it. Which is fair enough. We headed to Mare Street for Chas' birthday and parted ways with P and T, who had a hot date with a £900 chair. How times have changed. Chas look amazing and IS amazing. I was very happy to be able to give her the present that she gave me 10 years ago on my 18th when she was travelling in Oz - the famous 'Nobody knows I'm a lesbian' t-shirt. Tis a goodun indeed.
Twas a lovely avo, and on the way home Ricky and I went Mo'sons and bought a deliciously old school dinner of giant Yorkshire puds and arctic roll.

The cardboard Bavaria has been holding up well - though Rick's legs hang quite far over the end. Still - no dead mouse underfoot seems to be a Price worth paying.

Now, it has gone midnight, I have just finished work, and I am thinking of the week ahead. Ruth for dinner with Glee goodness, Madrid on Thursday! Hurrah indeed.

Things I have learned this week:

• finding tiny bottles for self-miniaturising one's toiletries is no mean feat.


• feet get very cold when they hang over the bed


• I am greedy for cuisine of the 1970's.

Goodnight all!

They call me the Wild Rose...

Today has been a long, long day. I managed to miss lovely Ruthie this morn as I had fitful mouse-trauma dreams all night long. I was also terribly afeared about our cardboard bed collapsing. Luckily, it did not, though that may be because I rigid and motionless - paralysed with the night-terrors!

So I slept in, and at 9.30am I made a mad dash for the train back to Cambs. The best part of the day was listening to Nick Cave's Murder Ballads album on the train. I stepped off of the train to find the whole of the town centre plunged into power-cut chaos. Shopkeepers stood languidly leaning against their door jambs, smoking and deciding whether or not to lock up for the day at 11am. It was a charming olde worlde picture of a Cambridge working day.

I paraded around for a bit then found my way home on the number 2 for many exciting family treats (pasta, green tea, milky way and US Apprentice) then we all watched Charlie Brooker's Newswipe and learned a bit about the world of 'infotainment'! Excellently good in every sense.

Now I am doing a night shift and monitoring the fatties in the US and reading their tales of bum-gravy woe. Oh the humanity!

I may also do some online shopping and unnecessary bagel eating. Scrumdiddlyumptious as my daddy dearest would say!

Goodnight me precious'!

I am a sick, sick individual.

I have to conclude, after getting up at 7.30 to watch Celebrity Big Brother on Channel4, that I am some sort of pervert. Pippa and I have discussed this problem, and that is, namely, that we both think 'Basshunter' is a bit of alright. Yes, we have issues, but at least we don't fancy Alex Reid. Or Vinnie Jones.

After splashing hot coffee on my face and drinking some icy water I was most rudely disturbed by Argos; the Bavaria had arrived!! Oh yes, no me sleeping on the floor for Ricky and I! We are going up in the world. After Rick had gone to work I ripped all the component parts out of the box and spread everything out on the floor. After studying the instructions for some minutes, I realised that I was clearly not going to be able to put up this bed. Nothing made any sense and the handy diagrams look like they were drawn by a hyperactive child. In fact, I would describe them as marginally less good than any effort that I could make (actually translated from some sort of Bavarian dialect perhaps?) which is really a shit effort.

So, I left it all on the floor in a heap of chaos and will ask Ricky to do it when he gets in. After all, this time last year, Anna, Jess, Ricky and I all went to Belfast just to help put up a tricky flat packed wardrobe from Ikea and Rick ended up doing it by himself whilst us girls were on some soft of painting and tea-drinking duty. He's quite a guy! Also, without even needing to get the tape measure out, I can see that the dimensions of the bed are approximately 3ft by 4ft. Surely not the right size for two rather big people. Ricky is 6ft 4 for goodness sake! I am just fat. I wonder if Bavarians are small in general as a people? I hadn't thought so, as they all run around in the lush country side, working on farms and eating delicious sausages. Although I'm not sure how factually accurate a bed from Argos can be. I knew we should have gone for the Stalin. That's a sturdy workers bed.

Anyway. I am very excited to have Ruth back to stay every Monday for the rest of the uni term as she will be teaching at my old stomping ground of Royal Holloway in Egham, Surrey. Officially the least diverse or interesting place in the UK, filled with privately educated gits. It is typical that I didn't have the lovely Ruthie with me last year when I was actually studying there. Oh well. Tonight we have had delicious bangers and mash! It has been wonderful and we have watched 'Glee' for the singing and dancing and also eaten delicious Ferrero Rocher. Rocher!

Now we are watching QI and giggling. Rick is home now and constructing the bed upstairs. Unfortunately he announced - much to my horror - that there was a squashed mouse under our old bed! GAH. He picked it up and waved it by the tail. Now that the bed is taking form we can see it is clearly too small. Rick looks annoyed so I won't say anything. He also informs me it is chipboard, so I am not sure how stable it will actually be...

Oh god. Wish us luck!

Goodnight my doves my dears xxx

Saturday, the day of rest. And the rest!

I woke up all bent and broken on the sofa, after giving rose the double bed to spread out in. The good news is that I don't feel as sick as I did yesterday, and indeed, the night was unbroken by vomming. Bonus!

However, the night was punctuated by some very strange dreams... I owned a house in Camden, and insisted that everyone walked around in the nude (?!) I had placed items from the kitchen all over the house, including cups, cutlery and glasses on the stairs, which I systematically trod on over and over again every time I moved. I had invited Clair, Pippa and Tom round for the evening and insisted that they wear nothing but togas...I think I am a bit of a sicko for dreaming this, and I really don't know which creepy nook of my mind these sorts of weird thoughts come from. But obviously dream Clair, Pipp and Tom agreed and banished me from my own house, dropping me off nude outside of Kentish Town station to fend for myself. The dream descends into chaos at this point when I find myself navigating the route of the 29 night bus, still in the nude, at the back of the bus trying to hide. The 29 is definitely bad enough when you are fully clothed. When I did make it back to my house in the dream, none of my three friends would let me in and I had a drinking glass impaled in my foot from my travels which I was too much of a woofter to remove. What a saddo! Rose on the other half, dreamed that I was going out with an elderly Chinese man... I think we were involved in baby smuggling or something similarly sinister.

Something strange that I now realise was reality and not a dream was the yesterday's lunchtime visit to Ely hospital's very own top class eaterie, 'The Docky Box'. My dad and I visited the DB whilst Rose was under the knife at about 1.45 yesterday lunchtime. The DB does a wide variety of hot Fenland lunch for the staff and inmates at Ely hospital. Of all the relatives of the poor and sickly that may have dined in this fine establishment before, they can never have experienced any custom before like that of my dad... On the noticeboard outside there are photos of the four members of staff, lovely old ladies that they are - Joyce was my favourite, she was the only one smiling in the photos. In fact, the other kindly old dears all looked as though they were being tortured in their picces - the contrast of dear old Joyce smiling made me almost think that she was taking some perverse pleasure in their collective pain.

My father's insatiable desire for a lot plate of food with a hot pud to boot would try even the patience of saintly Joyce. Not realising that the DB opens for lunch service in line with local GMT Ely hours at 11am, and by 1.45pm...all hot food was gone. Not for dad though, who took Joyce to one side and begged for some delicious hot dinner. Bribery of some sort took place and within minutes omlette, chips and salad arrived in front of him followed by treacle tart and hot custard. The lovely Joyce beamed at him, I think there may have been a wink too. I had a yogurt and a carton of 'beena and watched in wonderment as he ate. Good times.

Tonight I recommend: Total Wipeout, So you think you can Dance? and ITV's Take Me Out. I won't say any more. Just watch them. Dear God, I know I will be.

What I learned today:

Simon will stop at nothing to get his lunch.

Saturday night TV is ridiculous and AMAZING.

Never put Ian Beale's face on your blog again.

Have a fabbo Saturday!

In sickness and...sickness

The horror began at about 1.30am, when I stuck my head out of the bed and vomited. It was the sort of terrible vomit that is totally relentless, whenever one bout ended I was barely able to get my breath back before I was forced to bendover the loo again and start heaving once more. Sorry for being so graphic, but there you are, it was a rough night.

We all rose early as today was the day of Rose's denervation procedure at the hospital. She always both dreads and looks forward to the continued operations on her lower back/lumbar area. Looks forward to them, as they may eventiually bring her relief from the chronic pain that she suffers, and dread, because of the excruciating pain that the op causes her. It's always weird seeing her come to in the ward, she looks really young and tiny and vulnerable. Today two of the nurses askes me if I was nervous about my 'daughter's operation'. I cannot really blame them though, I look madly rough and knackered today - especially as I have burst all of the blood vessels around my eyes and mouth from puking all night. I think I look a bit like that Charlize Theron when she plays the murderer in the film Monster. But, obviously a much less attractive version of her.

The op went well, but she's really in pain now. We have watched a terrible programme called 'Popstar to Opera star' on ITV, wich had an inexplicable judging team that included Lawrence Lewellyn-Bowen - opera qualifications? None, but he does like to wear those flamboyant shirts with frilly sleeves, so that's just as good. Meatloaf is also a judge and everythime someone sings, so gushing and forward is he in his praise that he has begun to announce that he wants to 'do' the contestants: "Give it to me baby! OH YEAH! I wantcha!" Hmmm. Nice! Unfortunately I missed it last week when Alex James (the love of my life between the ages of 13-15) who has begun to whore himself out on any reality tv show going, sang the famous aria from Rigoletto, whilst jutting and strutting around like a prize tit. He was the first voted off. Ah well, he's still a very foxy man and probably Meatloaf offered to console him by performing some soft of sexy sex act upon him.

Now I think I will try to make myself look slightly less freakish - but if you do see me in the coming few days, you will know why I seem to be wearing all of my capilleries on the outside of my face.

Bonne nuit! xxx

Brideshead REDUX the Cambridge version!

Today, I ventured back to the motherland (Cambridge, where my mother actually lives) to see the strange faces of my nearest and dearest. Tomorrow morning Rose and I are off to the hospital for another one of Rose's denervation procedures. I am rather nervous - much more so than her, who takes it all in her stride. I have bought her two magazines, sadly two copies of the same magazine and I imagine I will supplement this with a piece of millionaires shortbread and a carton of Ribena after the op tomorrow.

At the moment I am pleased. Pleased, because I have been told that I don't need to work my night shift tonight as said popular weight-loss drug site is currently 'down'. This means no graphic descriptions of 'bum-gravy', which will be a lovely treat. Instead, I can do all manner of fantastic things with my night instead! Namely, sleep. Ahhhh, delicious sleep. Book reading, nail varnish, bath and sleep. Not necessarily in that order, but all of those lovely things. And also wine. The rest of the bottle of wine. Mmm.

My dad has had a few glasses and is talking about Roger's Profanisaurus from Viz. He is giggling a lot to himself and reminiscing about people with strange names that he know in his youth. One is a psychiatrist called called Dr Donald Dick, who apparently used to say to him: "Put your brain in my hands." Whenever said doctor used to say this, my dad would make himself giggle by reversing the sentence and saying: " My name's Dr Donal Brain, put your dick in my hands." Hilarity! This means that dad wil laugh for at least 5 minutes, and then bring up his childhood friend, Russell Sprout. Also a very funny name. It becomes a bit less funny when dad then says: "Of course, he committed suicide before sixth form." Nice.

Mum is also on good form - reminiscing about the time when she called dad a 'rimmer' over Christmas dinner. Oh how we laughed!

I have to go now, as Rose has just shouted at me to stop fucking typing and dad has added his two cents by coming over to me, leaning into the screen and saying, "So, this is like Tony Benn's diary is it?" No, dad, no it's not. It is much less worthy and merely the rantings of my diseased mind. Plus some of your and mum's lesser profanities.

Goodnight my treacles, sleep well, as I will, tucked up in a comfy-ish bed (albeit one that I have to share with my sister) rather than moderating the disturbed ramblings of the clinically obese.

Hurrah! x

Perverted crush + popular culture = strange sensation followed by early bed.

I have just made a foul discovery. I, a little bit fancy, the man from the pay-as-you-go phone adverts who starts up a band and travels up and down the country shouting 'Join in! Let's all have fun!' like a dim-witted pied piper. Sick, I know, and I will seek help. Promise. It's not his face - which looks like the back of a wooden spoon with eyes, nose and mouth drawn on with a blunt pencil - disgustingly, he has a nice aaaaarrrrseee. Argh!

To make things worse, I really like both of La Roux's songs and this new girl Ellie Goulding also has a catchy tune going on. I feel like an old woman watching the Brits intro programme going 'Who's that? Who ARE they?!' (JLS) 'These are quite good - what fun irony these little scamps are utilising!' (N-DUBZ) and 'Excuse me whilst I vomit' (Fearne Cotton).

Whilst getting my yearly popular culture fix, I decided to flick over to the National Televison Awards on another channel, to be greeted by the 'Best Soap' award award award. They proceeded to show clips from Easties, Corrie, The 'Oaks and the Other One. I don't know much about the other one - except that it always has incest story lines and is set on a farm. The choicest clips of 2009 from all of these included a montage of everyone from Albert Square watching the lady who used to be on Game On getting carted off by the old Bill, whilst the camera focused on a slo-mo of Ian Beale's face with a bit of chip falling our of his mouth. The 'Oaks clip had someone doing the famous dance from Dirty Dancing's climax, then inexplicably getting shot half way through, and the one set on the farm showed a not-at-all harrowing clip of a girl and boy being told that they shouldn't be sleeping with each other, as they are in fact brother and sister... I don't know why I laughed, but I did. Probably because I'm sick and I fancy the man from the mobile phone advert.

Today I bought Rosie a birthday present. A thing of beauty and a joy forever! Unfortunately I also bought myself a present at the same time and now I have no money. Obviously I am a twat and now I need to travel everywhere on foot and eat delicious brown rice only. Except for the Ferrero Rocher that Rick has just wantonly shoved in my gob. We have 14 FR left, which means strict rationing from now on.

Now that I have had a pop overload, I am going to watch Newsnight and get back to reality. I may also have another FR. I think I deserve it for all of the culture that I have ingested, as everyone knows that you must ingest lots of choc, rather than pop.

Thanks you and goodnight x

Tomato Tarte Tatin and Fake Pearls

Today was tomato tarte tatin day, I even made my own puff-pastry with parmesan and delicious fresh thyme. Like most things, the excitement that I felt before I made it was the real pinnacle of my day, and the slight disappointment that I felt when I took it out of the oven is becoming a regular feature too.

This morning the electrician come round to fix the oven and some of its many problems. After narrowly avoiding gas leak/fireball scenarios before Christmas, we have finally managed to get the gas back on and the oven back in the wall. Which means dinner, not made in the microwave. Which is good, as making soup and meraingues in a microwave is no joke. The electrician came round at 10.30am, but said that he'd be here at 7.30am. I fell asleep on the sofa, and I woke to the alarming buzz of the doorbell I had dribble running down my chin...What a state I looked! Or so I thought. I tidied myself up for the electrician and hurried down the stairs. I should not have bothered. The man leaning his forehead on the glass with his eyes closed stank of pure booze and stumbled in wordlessly. The job took an hour, which included the 45 minutes spent drinking delicous caffine and talking about his son who has just dropped out of college and works in Debenhams part-time. His daughter is doing child develpoment studies and he was keen to ask me lots of questions about this, I literally have no idea why. I have never met him or his daughter before and I do not work in this field. I decided to terminte the random coffee morning by putting on my boots and coat and jangling my keys. He asked me if I had left college when I was yonger too - what will become of his son? He asked. I attempted to clumsily comfort him by saying that indeed, I had had my share of failed courses etc. But was now the proud holder of 3 degrees! Oh! Yes, respectable me. And what did I do, he asked, that allowed me to be home at 11am with a matted hairball balanced on my head counselling the help? I'm a writer, I said. Ah... came the response. Then he arose and walked to the door. I left at the same time as him and walked to the shops. When I go to the zebra crossing a the traffic on one side stopped , but in the other direction did not - I stepped out onto the street to be confronted by none other than the screech of electricians van. The sweet poetry of being nearly run down by my newly accquired friend. I waved and skipped accross to Costcutter to get the flour for my cookies. A narrow miss.

The best bit of today was buying a set of fake pearls that attach to the ends of my glasses, so that I could fulfil my dream easily putting my glasses on and taking them off whilst having them suspended around my neck on a fake pearl necklace. This means that they won't be perched on my head all day long with me running around looking for them and squinting attractively. Nice.

What a day, what a day.

What I've learned:

Three degrees does not a good job get.

I look a bit like JB Fletcher from Murder She Wrote with my new pearls/glasses combo.

Cookies and tarte gives you a 'bread baby'.

Goodnight Chaps x

Day two smells of poo

I am writing this from the comfort of my warm bum-cheeked spot on the sofa after watching Spellbound and eating delicious minstrels. Tonight we had Jessie-Moo round for dins and I made smoked haddock fishcakes with quails eggs and green apple sorbet with strawberries and greek yog. I may have gone lsightly mental making sorbet and hand-churning it every 5 minutes, but really, it is the highlight of my day.

Work was another roller-coaster ride through the lives of Jordan, Kerry and the fat melty-faced Baldwin that is in Celebrity Big Brother. Whilst trying to navigate the mirky quagmire of 'celeb' dirty dealings I also had the gasman round for half the day installing the hob and making gas happen in our flat. It did happen, just, but is still dangerously connected and we'll have him back at 8am tomorrow. I think it might have been illegal for me to cook my quails eggs using the stove but I really fucking wanted them and I don't care. They were tasy n all, but I don't half feel like a poncey git. Oh well.

Things I have learned today:

Gas comes out of a big pipe which does not connect to our stove, but instead terminates in the cupboard where we keep our glasses. Of course.

Argos will deliver my bed next Monday. All of their cheapo beds are named things like the 'Oslo', the 'Stalin' the 'Big Squidge' and the 'Jeff'. I have just purchased the 'Bavaria'.

Sorbet takes 6-8 hours of constant churning.

Jordan has definitely not had botox.

The man who mistakes the HSBC cashpoint on Seven Sisters Road as a urinal has struck again.

Goodnight one and all,

Chloe

D'you wanna be in my tribe, my tribe, my tribe?

Dearests,

I have decided to begin a blog. It is called Tribe of 1 (inexplicably) and I want you all to sign up so that I am not a lonely bugger, sitting in my pants, blogging about my various adventures to no one. Or don't. Whatever you like really, don't want to sound pushy.

After the sucess of last week and the culinary newsletter installments I thought it might be nice to jot down my rantings, especially as I can't find any actual paid work writing, and I do enjoy it so, what with being a writer and all.

I shall be re-posting the Cooking Chronicles on this for you all to see - though ITV have warned me not to risk being sued by publishing anything potentially libellous. As if I would do that! Though I will just say for the record that JBR is a drunk and that I was physically shut in a kitchen and forced to cook for the aristocracy. Tru dat.

Anyway, enough rambling for now, as I hear the dulcit tones of Ricky from out makeshift recording studio in the roof and I am off to make a 6 course dinner without the aid of a hob or any gas, what with us getting shut off by the National Grid just before Christmas for 'Gasleak'. Just general 'gasleak' - not sure if our lives were in danger but as everything around is slowly crumbling, I will assume yes.

I hope you are all well ducks, until tomorrow,

C