Thursday, 31 October 2013

Tardiness and Sweaty Palms.

Time is a funny concept, we wish it away and then all too suddenly we ask where the time went - trying to claw some of it back to prepare us for the next step.

I have always been a last minute kind of girl, the 11th hour is by far my favourite hour. Annie is the total opposite - always on time, always managed her time, always ready. I'm lazy and I'm a faffer. There is always something better to do than get up and get ready namely, sleep. During our school years we used to have to catch the school bus to Loughborough at 7:15am - I know, barbaric. 

Mornings went a little like this: 

Annie: Alarm would be set for 6am but she would be up before then. Her uniform would be laid out the night before in preparation. She would have time for a leisurely breakfast even maybe a bit of Trouble channel too - quick episode of 'My Wife and Kids'. But most importantly she would have made time to empty the dishwasher. This made her Geeta's absolute favourite. Then of course there would be the inevitable scream up the stairs (every day) at 7:05am 'BILLIE - GET DOWN STAIRS NOW, WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS.' 

Billie: Alarm would be set for 6:30am and when it went off every morning I would be filled with rage and immediately turn it off, not even snooze it because snoozing meant it had to go off again....
6:35am Geeta gives me a nudge and an affectionate 'Time to get up Darling'.
6:45am Geeta decides on a new tactic, 'Come on now Billie, breakfast is ready!' (nope doesn't work)
6:55am Geeta's lost all patience 'GET OUT OF BED YOU FAT SHIT!!' 
7:00am...Better get up then, the next step of Geeta's wrath is ripping the duvet off and there is truly nothing worse. 
7:10 Stumble downstairs hair a mess, shirt untucked, jumper on backwards grab my bag and my cold toast get in the car and pray that the bus hadn't in fact gone. 

On the frequent occasion that it had already gone and we had missed it this meant two things: 
1. Geeta had to chase down the bus at the next few stops. 
2. I was going to have to endure an entire journey of Annie's elbow dug deep into my ribs. 

Bus journeys were happier times. I had bullied my way to the back of the bus - the window seat. As soon as I was on alarm would be set for 10 minutes before we arrived arrived at school (to try and tame the fro and put my jumper on the right way round) and straight back to sleep I went. 

Life has not changed much, I'm still always late and still always being shouted out. But I'm now Geeta's favourite - bonus.

I am trying my very hardest to be organised for Vogue. I even started my packing yesterday, granted it did turn into a bit of fashion show where I made Annie take pictures of me and give me her advice on outfits and then of course I did the complete opposite of what she suggested. But the intention was there to get myself sorted, even it wasn't entirely carried out.

It is now 4 sleeps until Vogue and I'm shitting it. The excitement is still very much there but there is now an overwhelming sense of anxiety, which in turn reignites a childhood disposition... sweaty palms.

I have had to endure this miserable condition from a young age (I have even tricked people into believing it is a genuine condition). Radiator hands as they were fondly referred to, even on the coldest of days my palms would still be clammy. The difficulties I have had to overcome in my life due to these sweaty palms - you wouldn't believe. I can't hold someone's hand for more than 5 minutes before thinking 'oh my god, they must think I have the Niagara Falls quite literally in the palm of my hand'. Even BBB didn't hold my hand for more than a minute, and then he would instantly reach for his handkerchief whilst giving me a pitiful smile. Whenever I have my eyebrows threaded you have to stretch the skin tight around the eye to avoid any snagging. Due to my condition I can never get a firm grip and my hands end up slipping all over the place which means I have to embarrassingly ask for a tissue (which doesn't do much) and then try not to wince every time my skin inevitably snags. Pain.

The nightmare situation come Monday morning: I'm late, my jumper is on backwards and I have to shake a lot of hands with clammy palms - would it be less awkward if I just hugged them?

But before then I have bigger fish to fry: a Diwali celebration, attempting to not burn down the house or the gym with BBB's exhibition fireworks that you need a license to set off, trying to resist a Reggae Rum on Saturday night because we have established that they give me rage. But the biggest fish:  how many suitcases/bags it is socially acceptable to take to London for a month.
So far:
2 x suitcase for clothes.
1 x Bag for shoes
1 x Bag for make up, hair care, accessories
1 x Bag....for bags.

By bag...I mean holdall/mini suitcase...ooops. Sorry Kate and Jules - if I say bags are communal does this make it any better?

And of course tomorrow is my last PT session with Zack, who has promised to rap for me - I have waited 11 weeks for this moment. Personally I would prefer a rendition of Mariah Carey 'fantasy' but alas beggars can't be chosers. So with 9 hours until my back is surely broken again by stupid 'clean and presses' (I still don't know what that actually means) I must try and put anxiety, excitement and of course sweaty palms to rest to make sure I am in true fashion late for tomorrow's session.

No doubt there will be a panic post on Sunday night, entitled 'I Didn't Mean To Get So Drunk'.

Stay tuned.

Fatty BB xxx

Thursday, 17 October 2013

Miracles Can Happen.

I was dreading weigh in on Monday morning predominantly because I had made the most fattening roast the day before - everything tasted so good because it was coated in large quantities of butter before being shoved in the oven (and then for good measure I threw in a bit more butter). I had no complaints though - everyone said it was beaut (their arteries however thought otherwise).

After lying on the sofa upside down for the next 45 minutes, seriously regretting that last parsnip a wave of guilt (or perhaps just nausea from over eating) came across me and the thought of weigh in the following day made me literally hurl. It was a sleepless night...because I'm hooked on Homeland and finished a season in 3 days (think I might sack off Vogue for the CIA). Monday morning was a very unwelcome sight and even more so were the scales that had be deliberately left out in the bathroom for me. Cheers Geeta.

'Be brave Billie'/ ' Why did you eat that roast?!' - was my mantra and before I could force myself to be sick, I jumped on to the scales. Annoyed that I had to wear my glasses because they could contribute to any extra poundage I was shocked to see what the scales read. So much so, I bounded off the scales, checked they were set to 0 and bounced back on again. 2 STONES DOWN. GET IN. (what a yob).

Quite shockingly I had actually reached my target of 2 stones in 2 months. Whilst I had loosely stuck to Zack's diet plan because no one should have to endure that much spinach or sweet potato ever, there had been a few hiccoughs/hiccups (depending on your preference of spelling, I prefer the pretentious version obvs) along the way. You know the kind that just keeps persisting, you drink water, you hold your breath, you anticipate somewhere scaring you...because you have asked them to and still the hiccoughs don't cease. Those kids of hiccoughs, you can't help it so you just let them carry on.

A hiccough that continually torments me is Newcastle. Every time I go, it destroys me. Considering the most wild thing that had happened that week was buying a remote control for the DVD player in the gym so it meant I wasn't forced to watch the trailers all over again when Zack had a moment and pressed the 'open' button instead of 'play'. One job, Zack. So when I heard that Shariat was hosting a RedBull party, coupled with the fact that Alice and I are unemployed and don't need to abide by school night etiquette we thought hellz yes - let's go. I had a PT session that day and definitely underplayed to Zack how easily influenced I am when out with any Mayville girls, I'm sorry I lied. Shariat did us proud though and the party was incredible, even though I couldn't fully coax Alice into a breakdancing battle with the pros (don't worry, she hasn't lost it - the second the ring of people started to disappear she jumped straight in there, snaking it like a PCD).

Perhaps a few too many RedBull cocktails later, the snaking got a lot more loose. A reliable source then told us that Razor Light were at the party, and despite not knowing any Razor Light songs and only that Jonny Borrel once dated Emma Watson we were on the man hunt. After a 2 minute look around we got bored of the celeb hunt and refocussed our attention on Grand Master Flash - so much so we were oblivious to the fact that suddenly half the crowd were naked.

So since Shaz had the key to warehouse we needed to stay until the very end when everyone had dragged themselves away from the free bar. Reluctant to actually be helpful because I was at that drunk stage where you're totally selfish, Alice and I stumbled into the VIP room and found three guys sitting in there. A quick glance at each other and we both had the same thought...RAZOR LIGHT?!

Queue hair tousle and a quick pucker up. Alice performed the worm to much applause, and I necked a bottle of beer to much less was going well. After 5 minutes Alice disappeared and Jonny Borrel was firmly in sight. After an hour of my best moves, mission accomplished. I went to find every one else, skipping over to Alice in glee to tell her that I had pulled the guy from Razor world was quickly shattered.

Alice restraining her snorting laughter flashed a picture on her phone of Razor Light and then burst into fits of giggles. Perhaps not so shockingly the boys in the VIP were in fact not Razor Light. Great. An hour of my life wasted on a boy called Glen. Excellent. All devastation was quickly forgotten when we arrived at the 24 hour bakery (soz Zack) and we ordered pretty much everything in sight.

Much happier after the bakery visit. 

Safe to say the next day I was not in a good place. The sugar in the RedBull had kindly disguised how smashed I actually was and when Alice cracked open a can on the way home I thought I was going to be sick. Constantly calling people on the way home to try and get out our dark depression we arrived home wishing not to see any more RedBull for a long time.

With 3 Weeks left until Vogue commences, I am trying to keep the hiccoughs down to a minimum and Asos shopping to a maximum. Although with all my confessions in here I think I might be made to plank from now until November 4th. Bleurgh.

Fatty BB xxx