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Ditched on VDAY

Posted on February 13, 2013 | Leave a comment

Okay, I have a dilemma.

I had it all worked out – VDAY is imminent, and I live with one half of the world’s most sickeningly happy couple, both of whom will be in tomorrow ‘not celebrating’ Valentine’s day. They think it’s a ridiculous commercial holiday (of course) so instead of celebrating like normal capitalist sucker couples, they are instead spending hardly anything on buying each other ‘joke’ gifts, having a night in watching Finding Nemo, and probably ending with lots and lots of disgustingly smushy love making. Yes, love making. That doesn’t sound unbearable at all does it? Maybe I should take them up on their offer to join them, I’m sure the bitter single wench hunched up in the far corner of the opposite sofa slowly slitting her wrists with plastic thorns from tacky fake roses won’t be off putting for their true love AT ALL.

What I had planned to do, was disappear to the furthest corner of West London with Irish, split a pizza and watch Hyde Park on Hudson at the cinema, because what brightens up a Valentine’s day more than a hilarious period drama starring Bill Murray and Olivia Coleman? Not much. Irish got dumped two weeks ago you see, so it was perfick. Maybe not for her, but hey, misery loves company and all that shiz…

Today, however, I received a text that destroyed all my hopes and dreams (yes, I’m being dramatic. Indulge me.) Irish has only gone and double booked herself with a rehearsal tomorrow night because she’s so fecking dedicated to her craft and all. ACTUAL end of the world. I’m tempted to call Buffy and let her know the end is nigh and she’d better bring a stake.

So now what do I do? Do I sack off VDAY all together and remain resolute in my office until the latest possible moment, then race home and lock myself in my room and listen to Dido? Or do I hold my head high and go to the cinema in the sticks alone? I’m rather tempted to actually, I could quite happily sit on the back row and throw M&Ms at anyone whose pout gets too close to the pout sat next to them.

This lark was so much simpler when we were ALL tragic and single. Fucksake.

RitziCx

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Hen Weekends… for cryin out loud

Posted on February 4, 2013 | Leave a comment

I must say that thus far in life, I have been incredibly lucky to have managed to evade the hideousness that is the ‘hen do’. Yes, as you know most of my campadres are tragically single, just like me, so while I’ve plenty of experience with break up rituals, rebound relationships and regrettable one night stands, I’ve managed to make it to the ripe old age of (insert age here) without being subjected to L-plates, penis straws and low rent strippergrams.

And then bloody Bridget had to go and get engaged, didn’t she?

I’d factored in budget for rather a lot of financial black holes this year. Lil Red had a pesky milestone birthday in January, the Rents have an annoying milestone anniversary in June, and Ma Cortez is turning… well… oldish… in September. It’s a milestone anyway. I won’t say which one. Bridget’s wedding is wedged somewhere in the midst of all these bloody irritating events, and while I’d carefully set aside a few hundred quids for the outfit, the hotel, and the gift (a bouncy castle – standard), I completely neglected to consider the hen do.

What a fucking fool.

How elaborate are these things these days? Seriously, if I ever walk down the aisle (read, run away to Gretna Green one weekend) I fully intend to skip this crap. It’s exhausting and pointless, because let’s face it, she’s going to remember less than half of it.

Before you write me off as a bitter old maid, let me paint you a little picture. Bridget’s maid of honour is a young mother of two from the West Country. Her old school chums all still live in said West Country town, with their husbands and their sensible houses and their sticky children. Here is a meeting of two worlds – and the fact that the first suggestion of location was ‘Bristol because it’s half way between the two and £10 return on the MEGABUS’ didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

Package hen weekends have been discussed. Are y’all aware of these? These are carefully crafted overpriced weekends of chain restaurants, vodka shots and ‘top night clubs’. If this sounds like your idea of an actual hell dimension, raise your hand.

Thankfully, Blondie intervened at this point (all I’d managed to do so far was declare I was not getting on a Megabus for love nor money) and suggested the more favourable route of a big old house in the country. That’s what we’re musing on at the moment and goddamnit that is what we’re going to end up with or I’m booking that strippergram for myself and Blondie, safe at home in civilisation.

Surely I’m not the only woman in the world who finds this concept completely abhorrent? Does every blushing bride really dream of puking her guts up one last time before settling into the monotony of marriage? Really?

I feel I need to put this in writing, as a kind of disclaimer, just in case anyone ever does crack this cold hard shell with cupid’s ice pick, that should anyone ever feel the need to organise a hen do for me, they should avoid all aforementioned terrible ideas. Please don’t invite my cousins and my old school chums – my cousins are stuck up rich bitches and one of them bit me when she was three, and my old school chums are most likely lined up in consecutive ditches with needles in their arms. Please stick to the present day gaggle of gals, the only ones who really matter if we’re honest, and life long friends you know I actually like. Please don’t make me get the Megabus, and please don’t make me drink a cocktail through a plastic penis.

Now that’s settled, I’m off to scour the net for alternative rural mansions just in case the Bumpkin of Honour doesn’t book this one in time…

Yours in trepidation,

RitziCx

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Happy Fabruary!

Posted on February 1, 2013 | Leave a comment

Happy February! Or should I say… FABruary? Because damnit, it’s 8 30am and I’m already slightly tipsy.

After a month of peppermint tea, soda and lime and steamed vegetables, I am happy to report that Ritzi is rested, revitalised and ready to start the eleven month pickling process once more. This morning my coffee was two parts hazelnut baileys and one part caffeine. I can also have caffeine again (YAY!) in small (ish) doses, which has made me so happy I could dance.

Tonight, Blondie and I are going to fill our Big Joes with a bottle of red each, followed with a chaser of dairy milk (the 1kg variety). Tomorrow (after 4 hours in the gym, I’m not completely falling off the wagon) we will get ready with tequila cocktails before heading to Islington to watch Pout at the Devil, possibly the GREATEST worst 80′s tribute band of all time, with Irish, where we will down whisky and cokes and head bang to White Snake and Poison all night. On Sunday, when we emerge from our respective comas, we will cook up a storm (including dessert) and mainline series two of Downton on DVD, with (you guessed it) a bit more wine for good measure.

And on Monday morning, I will sweat all of this out in my boxing class, and finally be ready to face 2013 like a real human being.

Huzzah!

RitziCx

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New Year… Same Old Excuses…

Posted on January 11, 2013 | Leave a comment

Happy 2013 everyone!

I am shocked and appalled to report that I’ve slacked for so long that I’ve come back to WordPress and it’s ALL CHANGED. Seriously. I have no idea where anything is anymore… come back old simple silver version! Oh dear. I did mean to blog earlier, obviously, but I just couldn’t work out how. Yeah… that’s right… it’s all WordPress’s fault…

But seriously, it has been shocking of me. It seems to be a bit of a pattern that by the time we get to December, the year has well and truly kicked ass and there’s just not enough time/energy/impetus (it that how you spell that?) to do anything other than eat, drink, eat, and not sleep. I barely recall December now that I’m here in sober silent January, it all seems a bit of a haze. I do have a vague memory of a week where I managed 4 gym classes, 2 theatre trips, 5 parties, 3 Christmas lunches and a breakfast meeting. Safe to say, I staggered to the end of the month and buggered off to the furthest reaches of the Irish countryside to recuperate.

I’ve got a few interesting dates to write up, so I’ll be getting nostalgic over the next few weeks and harking back to the hazy days of late November to update you on those. Here’s a few tasty hints… one contains ‘cream tea and scones’, the other includes a cape. Seriously.

But for now, let us content ourselves with the general good feeling and purifying joy of January. Out with the old, in with the new, down with the wine, in with the cranberry juice. Welcome to the most depressing month of the year – the month that I annually choose to make that little bit worse by detoxing my brains out.

January began as all January’s should, with a bit of a hangover and a naughty breakfast – it’s a universally known fact that the January detox should never start until after breakfast. You may recall last year, Blondie, Irish and I buggered off the the Shire and spent the day in a spa, ate too many sandwiches and partied in a village pub with Nana Cortez. This year, Blondie bailed because she’s too fecking happy for words with her Perfect Match (barf), so Irish and I flew off to her homeland with her other English friend (yes, Irish has English friends other than me and Blondie – I was shocked too) for a week of good food (read: potatoes), great wine, amazing views, and the odd spot of mountain climbing. We started in Tipperary, which actually is a bloody long way from anywhere, where highlights included Ritzi’s first Rugby experience (C’mooooon Munster! Though I have to admit the Ulster boys were a bit fitter… sorry Irish), discovering a pub in Two Mile Borris that stayed open til 3am AND had a trampoline in the carpark, and an educational video about the Plague and other such pleasant historial things at the Rock of Cashel.

Then, we went an even longer way, and journeyed for many many hours to the furthest reaches of County Kerry, where we basically adventured for days. Honestly, just take my pocket handkercheif and call me Bilbo – it was awesome.

New years was spent in a quiet pub, with an Irish band seated beside us, complete with tin whistles and accordians, where we befriended a small child named Delia, who had come dressed as Santa.

The obligatory burning of bad things happened back in Ma Irish’s cottage on the dunes, and I have to say, my list was not quite as hideous as last year. It included:

  1. Turkey. Not all of Turkey of course but… well… this bit of Turkey.
  2. I sucked at blogging. It’s true, I did. I failed y’all, and you’re so darn pretty too.
  3. I did feck all with the 500 page manuscript sitting on my laptop.
  4. I didn’t get my ass into gear and fictionalise Ensemble Bingo like we all know I need to for sheer comedy and commercial value.
  5. I worked way too much.

The good things, however, also outweighed the good things of last year’s list:

  1. I took an Open University course. I did! And I was good! And it reminded me that I actually can form sentences and paragraphs and chapters about things other than my own exploits… and then I did nothing with it.
  2. I got nominated in the Cosmo awards again because my followers are awesome. As previously mentioned, I sucked at blogging, so I did not do this nomination justice. Sorry!
  3. I wangled 2 promotions and 2 payrises! So… although I may have worked a bit too much… it did provide me with the means to fund my Vivienne Westwood addiction.
  4. BLONDIE McFABULOUS MOVED INTO CASTLE CORTEZ. This is the best thing in the world. Newly christened Blitzi Mews is where it’s happ’nin’ yo.
  5. I got my ass skinny by becoming addicted to the gym. I now get up at 5.30am at least 4 days a week and bash out a doubler (pump and spin) on a Saturday morning.
  6. I went on an actual holiday, with the aforementioned flatmate, and despite one little glitch which we don’t speak of ever, had a marvellous experience on my first ever beach/pool holiday in an actual hot country! Hurrah!

And so finally, we come to the resolutions. I’m usually pretty good with these. Last year my resolutions were to get my book published, be more sensible with boys, complete the OU fiction writing course, say no more often (to theatre and the like, don’t be base), to detox, and to get on top of my finances. WELL, aside from a few little glitches in the regions of Brighton and Marmaris, I’ve been much less of a twat about boys. Not sensible, I admit, but less of a twat. I didn’t mainline theatre every night of the week and therefore managed to make it to the end of each week and still manage a 7.30am body attack. And I consolidated all my drama school/world travel/high heels debt into one affordable monthly payment – ergo, on top of LIFE.

This year, I’m keeping it simple.

  1. Sort out that bloody manuscript. I’m on it already – many an evening has been spent tucked up in Starbucks in the last 2 weeks with a tax dodging berry spritzy thing and my laptop, editing and rewriting and honing. I’m giving myself until my birthday (so 6 months) to get that bad boy in order. It WILL be published, and I WILL be a younger JK Rowling with a better ass.
  2. Date. Better. I’m not wasting my time on this – either the love of my life is going to show up, or he isn’t. I shall apply the Lemon Law theory and bail if something seems fruitless in the early stages, and not lose sleep over a single manly soul. Internet dating is fun and passes the time (and gives me plenty of hilarity to impart to you lot) but my future husband is not an office manager from Croydon. He’s just not.
  3. Save money! Eton Boy pointed out to me that I’m a grown up with a real job and the potential to get a mortgage once I have a deposit saved. I’d never actually considered this before. I’ve upped my loan repayments, switched to annual travel (good lord that saves you a packet) and bring my lunch into the office like a good little spendthrift, instead of forking out for a Whole Foods salad box at £12 a pop. I’m still buying my yearly pair of Roxanne 7 skinnies come pay day mind you… a girl’s got her limits.

And so there you have it. It’s 2013, and I think it’s going to be a goodun. Work is good (or it will be in approximately five weeks when a long term pain in my ass is out of my life forever), life is good, and I’m feeling positive. Or maybe it’s just all those antioxidants…

And so, I shall leave you with this. The only folk who mock new years resolutioners are the folk who lack the balls to look back in a year and face up if they failed. Setting goals is healthy, and burning mistakes in an open fire at the end of a long 365 day struggle is too.

Happy new year!

RitziCx

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PS – I take no credit for photos, all goes (surrupticiously) to Irish and Irish’s English friend GI Jane.

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Deja Blog Awards

Posted on October 9, 2012 | 2 Comments

It’s that time of the year again… October. The month of hallowe’en, steaming cups of spiced cider in Blitzi Mews kitchen, and non-alcoholic cocktails at the Cosmo Blog Awards.

Katy Red, of All Sweetness and Life, and I tottered along the streets of Marylebone toward the Rose Bar, chuckling all the way at the myriad of blatant fashion bloggers ahead of us in their sky high (not very nice but supposedly fashionable) heels. At the crossing we were accosted by Emily Dubberley of Cliterati, a woman who has written 25 (yes, 25) books about sex. The woman knows her shit. The three of us in varying degrees of LBD (Katy had gone for skin tight wiggle dress and I had channelled my inner Marilyn with cleavage galore) shuffled into the Rose Club, with a convenient neon sign above our heads that kept flashing ‘SEX BLOGGERS’ on and off – just in case the classic black dress (as opposed to animal print and studded shoulder pads), killer VW pumps (as opposed to imitation armadillo shoes) and neatly styled hair (as opposed to block fringes and beehives) wasn’t enough.

The thing that just kills me about the Cosmo Blog Awards is that it really is a bloody brilliant PR ploy. Get a bunch of influential bloggers in the room, give them endless (weak) cocktails and free products to review, and guarantee your hashtag airtime for at least six weeks pre and post the event at minimal cost because you’ve got a drinks sponsor and a magazine full of products to promote. Genius. I should do that with theatre.

The hitch is the sex bloggers. We’re a different breed to the fashion and beauty lot. We don’t review products, we’re usually rather scathing and cynical, and we know a non- alcoholic cocktail a mile off. However, because of the target demographic of Cosmo magazine, they have to invite us. Therefore, we become the naughty kids at the table, propped up at the bar ordering (and paying for) real wine as opposed to cranberry juice, and chatting amongst ourselves about the pros and cons of girth. For this reason, Katy Red almost missed the fact that she came highly commended (read: second place/runner up/silver medal – we tried rather hard to come up with a term that sounded a bit more impressive so she could tell her Parisian lover all about it). It may also have been because, just like ripping off a band aid*, they like to get the sex bloggers out of the way nice and quick, and we’d barely managed to order a drink before Katy had to hurdle her way to the stage to pick up the certificate she would leave in a taxi a mere two hours later.

After a couple of circuits of the room, and a giggle with our new favourite DIY bloggers (yes, DIY bloggers. They exist) from Trends With Benefits, Katy and I deemed it time to scarper back to the safety of the West End for actual decent wine. Goodybags in hand, we hopped in a cab to Cafe Koha in Theatre Alley where everybody knows your name (or mine at least. And my preferred bottle of red) for several bottles and a cheese platter with Katy’s Parisian lover.

I rather like Katy’s Parisian lover. He’s tall, dark(ish) and handsome, knows just enough English to get by but not enough to be annoying, and he picked up the tab. I requested that the pair of them find me a Parisian lover of my own. I may have to remind them of that now we’re sober.

And so the Cosmos is done for another year, and once again ended with too much wine in the West End and a good old rifle through the goodybags. They do the goodybags very well, I must say. My personal favourite this year has to be the sensible ankle socks. Thanks Next! They’re padding out my too-large-but-so-fabulous-I-bought-them-anyway boots as we speak!

Coincidentally though, no promotional material for the sex bloggers. Really? No multi-flavoured condoms? No glow in the dark lubricant? Not a single vibrating bullet shaped trinket? Cosmo, you disappoint me.
Ah well, there’s always next year…

RitziCx

*the plasters, not the tragic Christmas single.

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Wake Up And Smell The… Peppermint Tea???

Posted on September 13, 2012 | 1 Comment

Absolute fucking DISASTER people. We’re talking apocalyptic proportions.

Some of you (those of you who don’t pay that much attention to my whinging on twitter) may not know that I’ve been slowly dying of a mysterious incapacitating illness for the past few months (yes, months. You’d whinge too) and despite their best (read: crap) efforts, the NHS has utterly failed so far to find out what’s wrong with me.

Rather generic symptoms have plagued my life, seemingly forever, the worst of which being bouts of daily stomach cramping, the likes of which Aunt Flo has never inflicted upon me. I’ve had so much blood taken for testing that I’ve had to top it up with red wine just to stay on my feet. And yes, I am aware just how dramatic I’m being about this, but wait for it. You’ll understand in a minute.

After the n’th completely useless doctor’s appointment, I decided I wasn’t dragging myself down the road to the surgery any more just for them to tell me ‘nope, sorry, it’s not that’ so instead I took to calling in for various test results, and one particularly genius (read: pure evil) nurse, while sympathetic to my frustration, came up with a plan that would prove catastrophic.

‘You know, you do seem to drink a lot of caffeine’ the Spawn of Satan commented, as she perused my file (which by that point included a fair few weeks of food diaries and shizzle). ‘You might want to try cutting it for a few weeks and see if that makes a difference.’

I explained to the Devil Woman that simply ‘cutting caffeine’ for a bit was just not an option unless it was for my January detox, when I’ve had 11 months to prepare myself for the withdrawal, seeing as I work in the West End dahling and frankly depending on the time of day, you cut us and we bleed coffee or wine.

Never the less, after another day of relentless misery (yes, I’m hamming this up, but my guts have been tied in a knot for three months, it makes a girl a tad loco) I decided I’d humour her, if only so I could ring her up and tell her the good news that she’s a fool and should stick to the day job. As a result, I haven’t had a cup of coffee or hit of diet coke since Sunday.

And I feel 100% fine.

Oh fuck.

RitziCx

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Sometimes it Pays to be Brazen

Posted on September 3, 2012 | 3 Comments

Blitzi Mews has become a sort of half way house for visiting waifs and strays of late. A few weeks back, Ma Cortez was in town for much theatre (seeing as no other fuckers were going, bloody Olympics) and for the bloody Olympics. Then Dawson’s Creek came to play, tagging a London stop off onto the end of a truly epic European family ‘vay-cay’. Lil Red crossed over with DC for a bit (which led to a rather messy night in a Covent Garden brasserie avec moi, Blondie and Eton Boy) and then this weekend we entertained Blondie’s sister. In short, our hostessing skills are second to none, and we are both completely knackered.

BUT, that’s so not the focus of this story.

Over the course of all these ‘visits’, it became necessary to sample the delights of South West London local restaurant culture, lest Blondie actually start crying in front of the fireplace waiting for her fairy godmother to come and save her. While DC and Lil Red were here, we discovered a pub which seemed completely perfect. Good wine list, tasty Mac and Cheese on the menu, damn fine waiter.

If I’m honest, it was mostly about the waiter.

Which is why, on Friday night, when Blondie and I were slightly tipsy on post work drinkies and musing on a dinner destination, our thoughts went immediately to the old faithful pub-that-does-food on the corner.

Turns out the food was not as good as we remembered (how hammered were we?) and the good wine had run out, but the waiter was still hot (priorities).

In actuality, Blondie’s food was so bad (well, she will order pigeon fer cryin out loud) that we had to complain to the nice waiter, and then refuse to pay, and then request that the service charge was removed from the bill because we didn’t want the nice (read: hawt) waiter to have to share it with the skag head kitchen staff who definitely would have spat in that free dessert they’d offered in exchange for the mouldy pigeon earlier.

By this point, we were a bit sloshed. A couple of bottles of white between us, after one or three double vodkas in the pub in town, meant that Blondie and I were feeling a little more brazen than usual, so when we forked over a tenner for the hot waiter’s tip, we decided to leave him a little note, which read something similar to this:

To the nice waiter man, buy yourself some dinner – just don’t have the pigeon, it’s nasty. Actually, don’t buy it here because you’ll get naff all for your money. Oh, and Ritzi would like you to call her, here’s her number. Xxx

Or something to that end (I’m sure Blondie, the author of said masterpiece, will correct me later and I can edit).

So the next morning, a little worse for wear, the girls and I found ourselves on a train enroute to Covent Garden (me to the gym, them to brunch at Bill’s – fatties) laughing heartily about the fact that we can clearly never go into the pub-that-does-food ever again.

Aside, of course, from the fact that a little after midnight I’d received a text from a number I did not know…

‘Hi Ritzi, loved the note. Hope you girls had a great evening? (apart from the pigeon) x’

I chose to omit that fact from the conversation until a later date. Some levels of girlish squealing should not be heard around the West End until after brunch.

RitziCx

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The Kids Are Alright. And Naked On The Couch.

Posted on August 24, 2012 | 1 Comment

When you find yourself chugging along quite happily in the barren wasteland of singledom, completely devoid of prospects and sick and tired of emotionless shagging for the sake of shagging, it’s reassuring to know that at least someone in the world is getting their kicks with a guy they actually like.

Case in point, Ms Blondie McFabulous. If you’ve been following her blog, you may have noticed that she’s conveniently wiped all traces of unfortunate encounters with amorous Aussies and dickhead Doctors from her little corner of the interweb, leaving just this one little post. She’s happy – it’s adorable and also rather sickening, especially when you live with it.

We yelled and screamed and whooped about it plenty at the time on twitter, but I’ve not actually taken a moment on the blog to celebrate the step onto this next particularly exciting rung of the ladder, so excuse me for a moment while I do so, and then I’ll get back to the story.

HURRAH! BLONDIE AND RITZI LIVE TOGETHER NOW! WE HAVE A COFFEE TABLE AND EVERY MUG CATH KIDSTON HAS EVER MADE AND MORE (EMPTY) BOTTLES OF WINE THAN YOU’VE EVER SEEN UNDER ONE ROOF!

Right, sorry, that’s done now. Oh, wait. Also there’s this:

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Home sweet home!

Anyway, speaking of our sweet home, yesterday I left work relatively early, in the grand scheme of life. I thought, heck I’ve got to be up early in the morning and I want time for at least 2 glasses of wine before I pass out for the evening, so why not leave before 7pm?

I know, sometimes I surprise myself with my lack of commitment to my job.

Knowing full well that Blondie had been picnicking with the PM all day (that’s ‘Perfect Match’ by the way, unless she’s feeling particularly barf-worthy, then it stands for ‘Prime Minister’ of her heart. Don’t even.) I sent a cautionary text at 6.30.

‘I’m coming hooooooome’ it warned, giving plenty of notice seeing as I had to actually leave the office, trudge across town to Charing Cross, get the train and go to the supermarket to pick up dinner. Basically a generous hour of warning.

When I get to the supermarket, I realise she hasn’t replied, so I drop her a line to see if she wants anything particular for dinner. No response. Clearly, she is dead.

I send another warning, for good measure.

‘I’m nearly home, if you’re having sex please cease and desist in the next 10 minutes.’

No response. Definitely dead.

So, I buy my healthy healthy dinner of root veg and greens, and toddle off home thinking I’ve done pretty much everything I possibly can to make my presence known. I am a damn good flatmate. Conscientious to a tee, ya might say. I get home, open the front door very loudly, stomp up the stairs and rustle my bags around as much as humanly possible at the door, and open the door to Blitzi Mews veeeeeeery slowly.

Then, I feel like a bit of a tit because the flat is silent. Until, however, I drag my bags of shopping into our stylish living room/dining room/kitchen and notice something is ever so slightly awry.

Oh yes, that would be Blondie McFab’s knickers on the floor. And… is that her skirt beside them? Oh, yep, bra too. And… is that guy’s undies? A casually discarded belt? A wrinkled pair of jeans?

I’m not entirely sure where their shirts ended up, but I can confirm they were not hidden beneath any of the flattened sofa cushions. The lid to the lube bottle I kindly gifted dear Blondie however, was.

Now, I’m sure you recall, Ritzi is a damn good flatmate. So, without further ado I left the living room and stomped particularly forcefully down the hall and into the bathroom.

Some muffled shuffling and a quick door slam later, I figured it was safe to emerge. Thankfully, the walls are rather thick in Blitzi Mews, so I did not here the actual conversation inside Blondie’s Boudoir, but I have since heard that it went a little bit like this;

B: ‘Oh crap! Ritzi’s home! Well, it’s fine, we’ll stay in here, she won’t mind as long as we’re quiet.’

PM: ‘Yeah… but all our clothes are in the living room.’

B: ‘SHIT!’

Back in the living room, the floor was suddenly clear of all offending items. I considered letting them get away with it, but then remembered… that’s not what I do. So I raised my voice above the canned laughter of Friends (if in doubt, always turn on the TV loud in these situations) and informed the promiscuous pair that I’d definitely already clocked their knickers and it was no use hiding.

Mere moments later, a sheepish Blondie emerges, while a red faced PM legs it into the shower and leaves her to deal with the fallout. I have to admit, I found it extremely difficult to avoid dissolving into a squiggly mess of giggle at the sheer mortification on her face.

‘So, will PM be joining us for dinner? Or has he already eaten?’

RitziCx

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The End Of An Era… And A Dead Fish

Posted on July 18, 2012 | 2 Comments

I can’t believe I haven’t actually bothered to mention this yet, but Twinkle is moving out of Castle Cortez… in about two hours time!

After a whirlwind few weeks of general madness and confusion, the day is finally here, and as we sat on the couch last night, mocking wanna-be Jesuses (Jesues? Jesi?) and pondering just how we were going to get her suitcase closed, the reality finally set in.

And then her fucking fish died.

How’s that for symbolism? Two and a half years ago, Twinks and I moved in together, and bought a fish bowl. Then we bought some fish, and named them after characters from Cats… you know, because we’re ironically stagey, which is better than admitting that we’re actually stagey. That just won’t do.

Mister Mistoffelees and Mungojerrie lived a charmed life. They had the very best of fish flakes, got cleaned every other weekend (thank you Twinkle) and had a pump that cost more than my weekly shop, and after eighteen perfectly healthy months, Mister Mistoffelees pops his clogs the day before Twinkle’s due to set off for Lala-land.

Coincidence? I think not.

And so we come to the end of an era. No longer will my possessions me tidied away while I’m still using them, no longer will I be able to get away with shirking fish cleaning responsibilities, and no longer will my fridge be filled with protein shakes. It’s a bit bloody sad, is what it is.

But wait, what’s that over yonder? Is that a light at the end of the tunnel? You bet your bottom dollar is is! And how many Musical Theatre references can I actually squeeze into this blog post?

I can hereby officially announce (seeing as the whole world knows it anyway), that Ms Blondie McFabulous of Blondie McFabulous Does Life fame is moving into Castle Cortez NEXT MONTH. Oh good lord the fun times that we shall have – and the wine. Lots and lots of wine. The movie marathons, the Hallowe’en/Bonfire/Christmas/New Years/Thursday parties that shall play out in months to come, the complicated scrunchie system that will be concocted for communication when one of us is getting some… it is going to be epic.

So stay tuned my lovelies, for a great time of change is upon us, and it is going to be messy.

Now all we have to figure out is what to name the new fish…

RitziCx

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Sorry, But Spawn Is A Deal Breaker.

Posted on June 11, 2012 | 4 Comments

I don’t know if you can recall it, but a few weeks ago we had a TEENSY bit of sun in London. In true British style, we immediately stripped down to bikinis and flip flops and descended upon the Common the moment the weekend struck, lightly misted in the lowest possible SPF, and sun soaked the shit out of our poor pale English bodies.

When I say we, I’m actually referring to my newly skinny self (yes, I wore a bikini on the Common damnit and I looked fiiiiine), the always-has-been-skinny-even-though-she-never-goes-to-the-gym-the-lucky-bitch Bridget, bikini-less Geordie (who spent most of the day bemoaning the fact that she’d forgotten a bikini AND a bra so couldn’t even strip off to her undies like the indecent girl spread eagled beside us in La Senza’s finest) and Geordie’s posh boyfriend.

I think Blondie was entertaining millionaires somewhere, and Irish is still in Ireland (LONG STORY there which I will get down to another time) and fuck knows where Flora was as we haven’t seen her for weeks. I think she’s all happy and shiz. I know, I don’t get it either.

Anyhoo, we’re sitting/laying there, eating Mr Whippy ice cream with extra flakes and drinking cocktails from a can (we know how to do it) and Geordie’s posh boyfriend gets onto the subject of his kid brother’s recent unfortunate predicament.

Long story short: irresponsible young man did not take necessary precautions and now has a two year old daughter, who weirdly has the same name as his dog. Which apparently gets a bit confusing.

The latest development, was that the younger posh boy had finally decided to bring his new girlfriend home to meet the family, including the small child (let’s call her Rover).

‘She does know about this kid though, right?’ I just had to check, frankly I’d had one too many Pimms in a can and in my defense, I’d been lying down in the sun for three hours. My mind tends to wander in that situation when the conversation is about someone or something I don’t know.

‘Yeah, he told her straight away before they even started dating. She doesn’t mind at all.’

Thankfully the sunglasses I was wearing that day were ridiculously enormous and hid my unavoidable eyebrow raise at this response.

And here we are, on a very difficult subject. Especially when there are four people in a park (in Clapham, home of tiny dogs and adorable small children), two of them are in the warm fuzzy starting stages of a relationship, one of them is  planning her wedding, and one of them is Ritzi Cortez who is bitter and single and HATES KIDS*.

I completely appreciate the fact that, as we get older, the prospect of finding a man who hasn’t irresponsibly sown his wild oats or fucked up a marriage already, gets thinner and thinner, but however nice the guy, if he came as a package deal I genuinely don’t think I could sign up to it.

The thing is, I know in my heart of hearts, that if I somehow manage to one day stumble across the love of my life (although after recent forays into the dating world, I’m not holding out much hope and have several abandoned cat’s homes on my speed dial just in case) and we live happily ever after and he tricks/cons/bribes me to put my body through the most hideous experience a woman could possibly imagine to squeeze out a mini-me, I would maybe-possibly-probably consider it. So long as he’s happy to pay for the reconstructive downstairs surgery and a nanny for at least eighteen years. And about twenty five thousand pairs of Choos. A year. For the rest of my life. But coming into a fully formed situation like that? Good lord no.

Unfortunately, I made the epic error of voicing this opinion out loud, and was immediately crushed by falling tumbleweeds.

Am I a horribly selfish person for thinking this way?

Probably.

But I also don’t have to pick up some one else’s kids from school…

RitziCx

*Except the Illegitimate Godson and Baby G. But only because I know I can give them back.

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