Friday, 8 April 2011

Indefinite Hiatus...

Annie Phetamine, for better or worse, exists now only as a hollow persona which may be utilised in future should I return to poetry...if Alan Gillis is to be believed this should occur around the 10th of Never.

Me and my little sea monkey are off to start our new life together, away from Edinburgh, away possibly even from Manchester and caring little for the bridges I was unable to rebuild before my departure.

I thank the friends who, even in my prolonged moments of silence, have still supported me and assure you all (though a return to social networking is likely never to happen) I will be in contact with you all in time.

To those who find themselves unable to be happy for me, view me only with scorn or still believe the bullshit I fed them in the depths of my despair -- take heart, you never knew me and therefore need not feel obliged to even note my passing from your life.

Still, we will meet again. You have dues to pay.

This blog has run its course, that is not to say another may not appear in its place, but this cyber stronghold is no longer populated.



Monday, 7 March 2011

Changing My Ideals (And Dress Size)...

Three days ago I realised the entirety of my wardrobe (spare two pairs of hipster jeans and the band tee's I've managed to acquire through people getting naked at gigs) no longer fits me.

Admittedly, seeing as most of it was begged, borrowed or stolen and I've since run out of money with which to buy new attire - I'm a little fucked off.

However, it's proof the little sea monkey in my tummy is putting his ever-forming noggin into this growing lark at full pelt.

*Terribly proud.*

Plus, two failed attempts later it's been made expressly clear I'm not going to be needing my glad rags any time soon...I actually fell asleep, fully clothed, about ten minutes before I was due to depart each time.

[Club opening hours bother me, is there some requirement that it must be almost the morning after your 'night out' before you're even allowed in? It's the result, less of a prudish view of alcohol consumption - being that you can go to the pub as of 10am - and more an outdated, secret fundamentalist's view to music and dance, I reckon.]

So much has happened since I last blogged that it would be utterly redundant to attempt to describe it in any detail so I'm just going to leave it at this; the father knows and he is not a happy little munchkin.

Baby news aside, I woke up with a bit of a bug up my arse this morning.

As a woman who has (except in her few moments of weakness) been positively thrilled to be both shapely and actively shitting on the doorstep of mainstream fashion, it offends me that I'm so riled up when men trade me in for, well, a model.

[All 100lb of meticulously styled, half-dead, vacantly staring, internally barren, soul sucking bad juju that they are.]

Ladies, I do not buy your bullshit - that is not your 'natural state of being'.

I take your gastric band, computer enhanced reality and I substitute my own - the true feminine ideal; bearing a child.

Twist your noodle round that one.

As for everything else - give me jeans, a tee, some home-made knitwear, clippers, as many colours of Directions dye as the nearest shop stocks and a soundtrack of real punk rock.

You bailed at the first click and point.



Sunday, 20 February 2011

Belated Baby Stuff...

OK, so I owe somebody a thank you.

If you hadn't been such a massive tit I'd still be haplessly chasing after you, getting absolutely nowhere and would never have fallen pregnant.

This little bundle of cells has brought me more happiness in five weeks than you could probably have mustered up in a lifetime.

[Admittedly it's got me just as paranoid but that's a compromise I'm willing to make.]

So, for those checking my blog on a daily basis (and noticing that two entries have been condemned to the recesses of 'I totally never wrote that') - Annie Phetamine is five weeks pregnant and all being well, intends to begin her collection of Pokem...I mean 'family'...late October.

On that note, I've written something new

To I, our one bedroom,

One bathroom home,

You first made yourself known.

Didn't hesitate to stipulate

Ground rule designation

For our cohabitation;

When, one week late, I awoke

To discover the smell of smoke

Which I could locate from

Across to road, knocked me sick.

I couldn't look twice at a drink.

In four weeks you've kicked

Every habit I'd picked up

In twenty years without an us.

I'm eating my five a day

Snacking on delectable

Health-food-store selections

Whose names I can't even say.

Popping vitamins as though

Radio 4 had just announced a

Terrorist warning had been taken out

On every Holland & Barrett

Avoid dried meats,

Soft cheese

And caffeine.

'Keep calm and drink tea'

No longer applies, you see,

Because I am perpetually fucking stressed.

Each twinge has me running to the Internet

Where other mums-to-be amidst

'Three miscarriages and one ectopic pregnancy'

From Tennessee, do their best

To both reassure and put the fear of God up me.

Currently, you're the size of a sesame seed,

But in two more weeks

You'll have an audible heartbeat.

© Annie Phetamine

Much love.



Saturday, 12 February 2011

Epic Win!

My mother made me a sock monkey.

The sheer joy of its existence brought about the reappearance of my infamous *vacant face*.

If anybody would like one, they're made to order, fully customisable and only £10.

They're also spectacularly cute.

I'm off to spend money I don't have, out in the Derbyshire countryside.



Thursday, 10 February 2011

Clandestine Blogging and General Mischief...

I'm currently loitering at the back of a lecture hall in the School of Divinity.

I'm supposed to be diligently arguing against the contradictions in Origen's theology (for those not in the know: very self-righteous Christian founding father - eventually condemned as a heretic) but being that I read half his work, skimmed the Wiki and am on countdown until I can get the train back to civilisation...this studying bollocks is just not happening.

Thus far I've managed to waste time browsing tattoos on BME and DeviantArt, reading the recent updates on the few blogs/Tumblr's that I follow, playing with Stumble Upon and have eventually resorted to reading through old emails and evaluating my life.

[The former is far more interesting and if you're only reading this for the mildly embarrassing, shamelessly candid entries I suggest scrolling to the end.]

For those still with me, I had a bit of an epiphany the other night.

I'm not the product of my upbringing, I'm the product of what I said my upbringing was.

Given, it's been eventful, but genuinely if I had to throw it into summary format it would probably run thus:

Grim beginning, but technically a lucky escape because my father was (from what I've heard) an utter dick. Very loved by the rest of my family - probably bordering on spoilt. Bit of an oddball in school, understood fairly early that pretending to be fictional characters wasn't the best way to win friends - did it anyway. Over-achiever, stint of super sporting prowess. Harshly treated but I remember NONE of it. Led to scholarship at tiny (spectacularly weird) all girls school. Six typically mouthy, growing-up-trauma-filled but epic years. College, still unfeasibly academic, but a bit of a drunken rebel. Dated a teacher. Regretted it. 'Angry young woman' phase lost me Cambridge. Really wasn't bothered. Moved to Edinburgh. Continued to have shite taste in men. Took up smoking. Two and a half years of craziness and one near-death experience later, quit smoking, picked up poetry, cut down drinking, still look like a fictional character, not quite as academic but generally peachy keen.

Boring, non?

You see, usually when I tell that story the focus rests entirely on justifying why I act like an absolute knob but really, when contextualised and minus the over-emphasis (creative license), the only explanation for my eight year crazies is that I decided that was the way I 'ought' to act.

Upshot, I'm bored.

So I'll talk myself out of it the same way I went in.


Much better.

Now, ahoy to everybody that skipped the pseudo-psychological bollocks...

Rupert Wanderlust, sorry mate, but you're not out the firing line just yet - I've been looking back into the recesses of my 'Replies' folder and I thought I'd bring some of your killer flirtation /bullshit tactics into the public forum.

Take a gander at these gems:

Re: The Formative Emails "Without being too specific, I'm hoping to draw inspiration from your delicate sensibilities. ;)"

Considering the fact you spend a majority of your time ranting about prostitutes, am I supposed to be flattered?

Re: My Poetry "I want you to read this stuff to me in the way it was intended whilst choking me with a crudely cut length of velvet. Is it wrong for me to find this stuff mildly erotic?"

Yes. It is.

Re: The First 'Date' "you are stunningly beautiful. Every pose reminded me of our time together the other night and how fucking lucky I was to be so close to you. I'm unimaginably aroused right now."

That line only works in Black Lace novels and would-be-classy British pornography - not real life.

Also, I was 16 in those photos...

Re: False Promises "Remember that metaphorical book of yours? I'd like to thing [sic] we could pen ourselves a new one. I'm ranting (alcohol fuelled maybe?) - my point is simply this, I want *you* + emotional baggage."

Get yourself a bigger luggage rack for future affairs then, genius.

Re: The End "it's time to get on with our lives. (I think I win on the 'sounding like a twat' front)"

Well, it would just be plain rude to disagree.

[I said I was sane, not a fucking saint...*giggles*]



Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Spurious Update and a Note to The Recently Deceased Rupert Wanderlust...

First off - an open question - who the fuck decided to stalk my blog to borderline compulsive levels this afternoon?

My stats counter went utterly insane between 3 and 5pm and, being that I haven't had Internet access for most of the day (between trips to the dry cleaners, sewing on a multitude of missing buttons and buying 'it's OK you're practically a spinster' cake from The Manna House), it can't have been me...

Not that I purposefully bump my hits anyway.


Swiftly changing the subject, I'm actually feeling a damn sight more cheerful than I've been for a few weeks.

After being called to retrieve my flatmate yesterday evening (who had been drinking for going on sixteen hours), apologising to the bar staff and dealing with his distinctly not manly, possibly more candid than intended emotional breakdown, I eventually realised that this not drinking lark is doing me the world of good.

Alcohol makes me a twat.

I'm also, slowly, regaining my full lung capacity - should the weather improve I may even be tempted to re-establish my position within the ranks of joggers trailing round Holyrood Park at absurd times of the day.

[God knows I could do to lose a little winter weight.]

Urgh, this whole thing has taken on a rather rambling tone but I guess I'm just avoiding getting into anything too heavy after the past few weeks of being thoroughly morose.

Before I round up with something vaguely meaningful - a lovely little note of congratulations goes out to Pixel Dot. my wonderful (albeit absentee) flatmate who made his first television appearance this evening.

I'm a very proud mother hen.

Now for the good bit...

Hello stranger,

I know you're not talking to me.

I'm also fully aware I started it.

Though, at the time, I was happy to give you the last word and be done with it...I've reconsidered my position.

In response to our last correspondence, with a little elaboration:

We're not opposites.

I'm what you wish you could be but are too scared to realise.

I'm also not mad; that's part affectation, a dash of habit and a whole lot of (reconsidered) lifestyle choice.

My lascivious nature and questionable morality is just a symptom of being significantly younger than you and, I'd like to point out, far less emotionally stunted.

Your life isn't chaotic - you might be disgustingly musically talented and a wee bit of a smouldering, foxy front man but you've taken the entirely non rock and roll option of basically dating your mum (except without the incestuous intrigue).

[God, it feels good to say that.]

The small part of me that doesn't want to undo your trousers with my teeth, sort of pities you for not letting me - I still remember the insanely satisfying spike of arousal when your hands first snuck under my jumper in the Fab Cafe.

I bet you do too.

I might be a fan of your band but my lyrics will always shit all over yours...sorry.

I miss your chat.

Given half the chance, I'd still fuck you senseless and we're both fully aware that as a side-of-stage girlfriend I'd be bloody marvellous.

Unfortunately it's recently come to my attention that I'm far too cool for you.




Friday, 28 January 2011

3:45am, January 29th 2011

Today, I started to believe.

Sat in front of the parliament buildings, three sheets to the wind and staring at the few stars visible amidst the neon glow of humanities fear of the dark I felt a tug in some long dormant part of my mind.

There is a God.

You see - a world truly left to it's own devices, free from the interference of some all-knowing, ever-powerful child (driven half mad with millenia of narcissism) could never be as cruel.

If you set a car in motion and exit via a convenient window, it simply stutters on for a short while then stops.

It doesn't run itself thirty miles down the road into the nearest orphanage and explode.

Such intolerable fucking torment, as is every morning I awake to discover I haven't conveniently suffocated in my sleep, takes planning.

And intent.

So I reiterate: There is a God and he is punishing me for merely continuing to draw breath and yet, by proxy, ensuring that I do.




Thursday, 27 January 2011

To A One Night Stand...

"You're so unbelievably beautiful" you said, as you affectionately petted the hair you'd attempted to rend from my skull a mere twenty minutes previous.

[I got the distinct impression you were referring only to your workmanship - this quasi-conscious young woman, beaten about the face until she saw white bleed into the corners of her vision.]

Not so attractive any more, all swollen lips and bruised fingerprints, was I.

Was I?

"Now, come sleep with me", American intonation creeping across my aching body like a malignant melanoma.

Even through the concussion I wanted to scream; "You're as much a notch on my bedpost as I am on yours, moron!"

[But in the end it's all just a bit of fun.]

6am, I caught you sneaking out like a true guilt-riddled Jewish boy.

Four hours later I woke up and patted down the bed only to discover the cheeky, Colonial cunt hadn't even left me a tip.

Well, fuck.



Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Sometimes, My Life Is Utterly Fucked Up...

Annie Phetamine.

You've been a bad, bad girl.


Sunday, 23 January 2011

I Think I'm Due a Doctors Appointment...

You'll never read this.

So I, behind that fondly described

Too-wide smile where

Gritted teeth disguise the

Rise of cyanide tainted bile,

Will write you a broken heart.

A novel of three parts in

Indelible, invisible ink.

I'll learn to cite my soul

In Chicago format and

Make pain a perfectly



Copyright page after page as

The product of a mind you wagered;

"Shouldn't be known to those from stable homes".

Publish my prose under

'Notes', 'quotes', 'anecdotes' or

'The trouble with blokes who think they're rock stars'.

For clarity:

Promises, made in basement bars occupied

A ha'penny stride from 'one too many',

I'll italicise:

It's me and you, babe, fuck the consequence.

Then underline the lies.

I love you.

© Annie Phetamine



Friday, 21 January 2011

Words, Like Cake, Taste Better Stolen...

If you're going serenade me with a song - make it this one:



Tuesday, 18 January 2011

A Rose by Any Other Name, Still Makes You a Prick...

I often get asked why, when my birth name really isn't that repulsive, I choose to go by nom de plume even within my everyday life.

The reasons are many but probably distinctly less interesting than you might imagine:

It is not pretension.

Nor a sinister endeavour to obtain internet celebrity by being kitsch or avant-garde.

I have no desire to escape my genetic history, utterly fucked up as it may be.

And I most certainly didn't create Annie to pick up men, if anything she's actually an utterly intimidating (and mildly repugnant) young lady.

First and foremost, as today's rage-inspiring message from my creative writing instructor Alan Gillis proved, despite a more than sufficient grasp of the English language you'd be surprised to hear quite how many people have issues with spelling (or pronouncing at a glance) the name Elise.

From even my earliest visits to the hospital I have bitter memories of being called in as Elsie, which has always held disturbing connotations for me with fragile old ladies.

[It was a name shared by an elderly neighbour who died (and wasn't found for a considerable amount of time) whilst I was growing up.]

One could understand if my moniker was particularly exotic or contained more than two bloody syllables but as it stands the bastardisation of something so simple remains a source of almost constant irritation to me.

A second point, and one much more applicable to the life of a candid Internet blogger, my full title leaves a rather noticeable trail when run through a search engine; often dredging up photographs and articles I would much rather be condemned to the bowels of digital history than be ever present as I age.

[I believe I also discussed the compulsive catalyst behind my constant altering of pseudonym in an earlier blog so rather than flogging a dead horse I suggest you go back and read my posts from October if you wish to explore that particular potentiality.]

Finally, and likely the most brutally honest response I can give is as follows: I don't like a large number of people.

The adoption of a false persona is much akin to handing out your phone number having switched the final three makes you an easily forgettable enigma or, in some instances, unforgettable but unquestionably unattainable.

Those with inquisitive minds need know only this, if you meet Annie it's probably because you're asking utterly redundant questions.



Sunday, 16 January 2011

Post-Modern Pubes...

We all have personal preferences concerning body hair and often we're not opposed to vocalising and/or entirely altering these opinions in relation to a new partner, circumstance or simply due to the natural progression of ageing.

For example:

Recently I've found myself with a preference for men that keep their hair cropped and also reassessing my stance on facial hair that looks as though it required the aid of a protractor. Equally so I remain unchanged in regards to excessive underarm hair but with a growing fondness for a little chest fluff...although I pointedly leave the room when confronted with anything that progresses beyond ones shoulders.

Despite our comfortable and relatively laid back attitude concerning head, torso or thigh the sticking point often comes when we venture below the panty line; I am yet to meet a majority, within those willing to discuss it at all, who are also open to changing their preconceptions about pubic hair.

Luckily, Amanda Palmer has thrust this debate into the public forum over the past few days with her new video for 'Map of Tasmania':

Not only is this a fucking phenomenal piece of visual art but it promotes an incredibly valuable message of comfort and creativity with ones own body.

Which leads me to the point of this blog - where do my readers and peers stand on hair vs. bare?

Admittedly, thanks to formative years spent in high-cut lycra, I've always been hairless and fancy free but I'm rapidly starting to agree with Ms. Palmer's observations regarding stubble and a lack of pubic topiary looking disturbingly prepubescent.

I know, from forced discussion, that most of my previous sexual partners have been bought off by the hygiene pseudo-science or beaten around the face by the commonly accepted, modern notions of female beauty but it really isn't a that distant past when a bit of bush was erotic vogue.

Now, I can fully understand the desire to keep your lady garden in check but when you begin to give it a little thought there's really no end to the imaginative fun one can have whilst doing it.

Further to this, the choice to "grow that shit like a jungle" needn't be a call to abandon other female grooming habits nor does it require adopting any affectations of militant feminism - the point is only this; ladies, you have a choice.

The world will likely not end should you go wild for a few weeks and if your partner takes issue, you could do worse than asking them to justify it - I wager they'll either rapidly change the topic of conversation or will find themselves inclined (with a little prompting) to rediscover a now exotic landscape.



Saturday, 15 January 2011

Shit Creek, Seeking Paddle...

There's actually a blog of academic merit set to be published sometime later today but currently I'm burning the midnight oil again...and by 'oil' we mean 'semi-illegal substances'.

Based purely upon that I need to do a little 'head clearance' if I'm going to get anything bordering on a passable sleep, without the requirement of fashioning my multiple duvets into a makeshift womb as a means to stave off paranoia.

I've been mulling over my questionable actions the other night (admittedly whilst listening to music that's really only going to exacerbate the situation) and discussing my dilemma with a few close friends.

The overruling opinions are as follows:

1) The man sounds like an absolute cunt. Leave well alone, young Annie.
2) You just want him because he's ignoring you and we'll happily do that pro bono.
3) 'Fangirling' is not love, it's a restraining order waiting to happen...the Alan Rickman incident taught you that.
4) You're getting worked up over him? *Uncontrollable laughter*.

As much as these contributions from my nearest and dearest have been undeniably insightful, behind the feigned acquiescence, I'm still no closer to ridding myself of an utterly redundant infatuation than I was anything from 48 hours to two months ago.

To knock about a phrase that has seen more use in recent years than a particularly fetching, 12 year old, Taiwanese hooker: "Fuck my life".

Possibly the biggest punt in my metaphorical clunge (dubious Moosen aside): I've put so many respectable young chaps on the back burner in the hope he'd eventually come round that I've subsequently not been laid in a very long time.

[Deftly done there, genius.]

Obviously, making allusions such as those (that no bitter woman worth her salt would have missed) in the paragraph before last, isn't going to help my cause in the slightest but being clandestinely bitchy does seem to have soul healing properties comparable to a Big Mac.

[Being that it's raining, I'm wearing socks and a blanket and I have no money - I'm going to take the free, warm, non-punishable-by-imprisonment option.]

Honestly, on a Saturday night in a place where 'drunk and vulnerable' is basically a citizenship requirement, all I can really ask is why am I sat at my computer and not flat on my back in a gutter?



Friday, 14 January 2011

"I Google You"...

Before I begin let me assure all concerned parties that the recent bout of literary silence was of a 'run off my feet' rather than 'has clocked out of reality and become a reclusive mentalist again' variety.

Being thrust hungover and screaming back into academia is a trauma that cannot ever be fully expressed within the confines of language but, unfortunately, there's no way in hell I'm uploading a video of my attempt at realising this frustration through alternative dance.

Needless to say, the past few days have been sleepless - in addition to the sporadic yet anticipated re-discovery 'I'm really not cut out for this study lark', I was also competing in a slam last night so, as ever, had left all preparation to approximately thirty minutes before I was due on stage.

Despite this (and the absolutely mind-blowing standard of upcoming talent) I managed to achieve an admirable second place and a few welcome opportunities have arisen from the exposure.

Plus, I have plenty of new potential stalkees.

Staying on a poetical theme, this week I also began my Creative Writing class. Admittedly I was fairly skeptical at first, especially when the word 'workshop' was casually dropped into conversation but I've landed amongst a likely bunch of misanthropes and foresee the beginnings of something rather spectacular...if I can get past the social faux pas of utterly buggering up my first circular email submission to the class.

That is, up until five minutes ago, where the entry for today was due to wind its way to some manner of quirky conclusion but I just committed a sin punishable only by the inevitably depressing outcome.

I went on Facebook.

The transgressions only deepen when I tell you I went on the Facebook of the man I'm rather unquestionably, inappropriately still in love with.

Actually, I do this rather regularly under the guise of keeping up to date with more generalised goings on...regardless.

The crux of the matter is this - he's unbelievably happy and I want him to be. My only resentment arises out of the fact I irrevocably fucked any chance, during a bout of bi-polarity, that it will ever be me making him so in the future.

I was friend-zoned before I'd even managed to wade through the torrent of unfamiliar emotions and verbalise how I genuinely felt about him; choosing instead to act like an impatient, petulant wanker.

Obviously, he's hardly blameless in this situation but today is not the time for taking him down at the knees - despite feeling a little stupid (applicable to multiple circumstances) my life is pottering along at a rather amiable pace.

It's a strange kind of justice though, that I'm fully aware he's going to read this later and judge me accordingly, yet I'm still insistent on publicising the fact I'm evidently some kind of masochistic nutter.

Takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose - the man who molested me with a Highland cow puppet last night stands as shining testament to that.



P.s. I thought this was rather fitting:

Saturday, 8 January 2011

Whip Crack-Away...

Miss Phetamine is Edinburgh bound - lock up your bachelors and nail down the valuables.



Friday, 7 January 2011

I Draw the Line at Nappy Changing...

It's a pet peeve of mine that some men have the highly irritating ability to seem deceptively intelligent.

I'm not talking about the 'can't tie their own shoes but can solve a quadratic equation in under three seconds' sort of anti-genius here, but instead rather average chaps who can at first appear highly engaging, eloquent or (I fucking hate this phrase) 'switched on' but rapidly show themselves to be all talk and no trousers.

It's the intellectual equivalent of 'I'm not a racist, but...'

Unfortunately, shrouded within the fog of their ability to Google, it usually takes me a while to work out these gentlemen are entirely full of shit; being that, as a functional human being I'm initially inclined to expect the best from everybody I encounter.

It's often said that bad luck comes in three's and to add insult to injury the situation is no different post-'revelation of undeniable idiocy'.

It has been my experience that two further discoveries often follow:

1) They have an inability to empathise with anything outside of their games console, guitar or absurdly repugnant house-pet.

2) Logic: e.g. thinking rationally through the consequences of their actions, somehow manages to utterly escape them.

As is the way of women, should you call them on any of the above you are likely to get a response akin to a toddler who has just been berated for eating the weeks supply of Bonio dog biscuits in one sitting.

In essence, it's entirely not worth the hassle - or the equally childish revenge they will undoubtedly wreak by, for example, sticking chewing gum to the arse of your favourite dress or waiting until you fall asleep and spitting in your ear.

Much as one wishes (whilst popping your LBD into the freezer in the vague hope of salvaging it) to display some impressive chest-beating, Amazonian emancipation by telling said man-boy to go fuck themselves with the Guitar Hero expansion for their Wii remote - as ever, there is often a catch.

We may have 'liked' them when they were the well-spoken Casanova we first met, but now that they've been revealed as almost offensively thoughtless, demanding and yet strikingly vulnerable we begin to fall in love with them.

Twisted, no?

You see, women may not like to admit it but our inbuilt mothering instinct makes us incredibly susceptible to picking up strays - and if said stray has one ear, a broken leg and scabies it's probably going to hold our attention far longer than one which appears perfectly healthy and thus we feel obliged to release back into the wild.

It's a pity.

One can rant about the need for relationships of 'equals' until you're blue in the face but these things work both ways - if you're not willing to seek out something beyond unpaid babysitting then that's what you're going to be stuck with.



Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Saturday, 1 January 2011

Headless Torso, Fanny Now a Hat...

Post-two weekends spent in The Bakers, I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible that a chat-up line (delivered in the style of a semi-erect 70's milkman) can attach itself to a locality as small as a single public house...or perhaps, more likely, a certain breed of hands-on clientele who dwell within it.

Further to this, I'm curious as to how well this particular phrase has served these men in wooing their unsuspecting victims (and I choose my wording specifically here) down whatever guinnel they have elected a fitting setting for their 'passion'.

You see, forgive me for being old fashioned but during a bout of al fresco heavy petting - if a man nuzzles into your neck to whisper huskily "The things I would do to you" - I'm struck with images of my body 'dismembered in several bin bags' far more than 'in the throes of a spectacular orgasm'.

As you may have noticed, having had it used on more than the odd occasion in the past two weeks (and somehow miraculously being immune to it's charm), I have yet to see for myself which of the potential results a quick forray down one of Stockport's many alleyways would bring about.

What I will emphasise is that each of these men, who are otherwise not unattractive, would have fared much better had they simply kept their mouth shut.

That said; last night was, for all intents and purposes, fucking brilliant.

Despite a late arrival to find the venue sold out - a realisation that I knew a fair percentage of those already inside, which led to a calling in of favours long owed, ensured that we we're at the bar (drink in hand) by just past 10:30pm.

[Favourable to the alternative of watching the merriment from The Boars Head across the road, where we were glumly seated next to a man who looked suspiciously like most police artist renditions of a paedophile with his bag of Weetabix and discount biscuits.]

I'm not a particularly superstitious young woman but amidst the variety of favourable incidents, I must admit that four specific things happened last night that have solidified in my mind that 2011 is going to be spectacular:

1) For the first time, ever, I found £10 on the floor at the bar.

2) I was assured, repeatedly, that I cast an incredibly striking figure - to be told you're beautiful, which in itself is an unusual occurrence for me, does set one off on a good footing.

3) I received the first positive comments about this blog from a writer who has been in business since I was but a twinkle in my father's eye.

4) [I don't care how harshly I'm judged for this one] but the first song I heard in 2011 was The Smiths 'How Soon is Now'.

Further to this, having escaped a hangover (but alas not the results of an ill-fated 3am kebab) I'm feeling remarkably optimistic.

With nine days left before I return to Edinburgh, we shall see what productive use I can make of them.