An Homage to Habib.

It has been done, Habib has gone. I thought I would jump up and down (granted I really can't jump that high) in elation that I was finally rid of the most hideous car ever to grace the Bhatia drive. But in fact I actually was rather sad and on second thought I might even miss the jazziest of Jazz's. Well not that much.

I remember the day (not with a huge amount of fondness) when I was first introduce to Habib. I was being a complete and utter brat...shock. Baz and Geeta had decided to go away the weekend I was due back in Leeds and I was outraged - who at the beginning of term can get all their stuff on a train?! Considering last weekend I had the same size suitcase for one night as Annie did for 2 weeks in Thailand it is safe to say I am not a light packer. So I was up in arms that they were disappearing and anxiety began to set in when I thought I might miss Fresher's Fruity. So this all came out over dinner that I was now rideless and potentially fruityless. Inexplicably (or perhaps quit explicably) cutlery started to be banged on the table, cupboards were also banged and I was muttering profanities about BBB under my breath. I know, I know total brat behaviour - at least I am not in denial about it.

So after a good twenty minutes of ranting and raving that no one loved me and no one cared (I seriously needed a slap), the door bell rang and Baz asked me to get it. Obviously continuing brat behaviour I made some kind of sarky princess noise and quite rudely just ignored his request. The door bell rang again...one raised eyebrow from Baz and I decided that perhaps I should answer the door. Two people were at the door (I should mention that a lot of people come to the house to see Baz on work related matters and we generally scream at the top of our lungs 'Daaaaddddd someone here to see you' and leave them to it.) So following the usual etiquette I did exactly the same thing, left the two completely bewildered people in the hallway and retreated to sulk in the lounge. After a couple of minutes I was beckoned into the kitchen; in full brat mode I shouted back 'NO.' I was called again and replied in the same appalling manner. (Yes, you should be loathing me by now.) This time BBB came and physically got me from the lounge - I knew I was in trouble. I sat at the table in a big humph, crossed my arms and did my best impression of a Geeta frown. Until the following words were uttered from Baz: 'Now...I bought you a car'.

A huge big, fat slice of humble pie straight to the face. I have never wanted the ground to swalloe me up more. Not even when a pigeon shat on me in the school car park. (Hold on it gets way way worse).

After sheepishly agreeing that I would like to see it, and not quite believing the way I had behaved considering Baz had at the point of sulk already bought me the car. Head down I went out to the drive and there stood an absolute beauty. A black Golf GTI with blacked out windows. I was jumping up and down (on the inside) with glee. The kind gentleman who I thought had bought me this fab new car handed me over the key, and before I gave myself the opportunity to actually look at the fob, I pointed and pressed in the direction of the Golf. Then a faint click was heard but not from the direction I was hoping. I heard fits of giggles and as I turned around I was faced with this.

Habib. 

And so my adventures with Habib began. Habib found his name thanks to his fondest fan James Richardson who as soon as he found out that I had a hideous Honda, googled Asian named beginning with 'h'. Evidently he didn't get very far down the list before he was satisfied with Habib.

Despite deliberately sabotaging Habib on a weekly basis, I became actually rather fond of the granny mobile. And so when some vile creature smashed off my wing mirror - my first thought (and my housemates too) was what kind of person would defile a car of the elderly. 

It may not be the prettiest of cars, but as Baz frequently reminded me it was the safest car on the road - do you think he was trying to tell me something? I'm a good driver, I promise. Once I excepted Habib was much like myself, not the coolest car on the road or the most attractive and slightly confused as to whether it was trying to be a Mercedes A-Class, we learnt to love each other. I even shared him with others. We raced around Leeds in the snow and laughed at the all micros that got stuck in Headingley whilst we glided through; we could fit a lot of people in on a hangover trip to The Oak; I could actually fit (nearly) all my stuff in it when travelling to and from Leeds and most importantly the boot was big enough to hide all the new things I had bought from Geeta. And it was GREAT for roadtrips.

 On one occasion we journeyed to the corner of Scotland, Isle of Mull to be precise for New Years and with the coldest winter ever and the most amount of snow and ice, I decided LET'S DRIVE! I can't say I loved driving in the pitch black with no lights in the snow and ice whilst everyone else slept - thank god I had Celine's greatest hits to get me through. Finally we got to Edinburgh and it was time to switch the reigns I was handing over Habib to Rupert whilst I enjoyed the perks of a roomy 5 door....

Ha. Not what you thought was it. 

And then poor Habib was tortured. Rupert invented a 'game' of sorts on our way to Mull. Where he would rapidly eat a bag of cheesy doritos, turn around with a creepy look on his face and before we could figure out what he was doing lock the windows and let out the most heinous fart. There was no escape from either the stench or Rupert's cackle that followed. 

And whilst I am very much enjoying spending the money Habib has made me on new Carvela boots and stupidly priced gin (actually I'm not enjoying that part all all); I kind of miss him. However I'm sure I will get over it as soon as Baz buys me an Audi. (That's a plea BBB...I'm over the tubes I need a car...the brat is back). So I bid him a fond farewell, I hope we buy any car sent you to a good old home (literally). 

Stay tuned, I'm running out of Habib money so until Vogue pay me this will be my entertainment, and maybe some less expensive gin. 

Fatty BB xxx

Catch 22.

I hated the book. What an awful read - the lead character Yosarian - absolute fruit loop... but I guess that was the point. In case you never had English A-Level literature thrust upon you here is the briefest and probably totally wrong (since I never actually read the whole book) synopsis:

There is a man named Yosarian Geller. He is fighting as a pilot in World War II. He wants to get out of the war. The only way to leave the war is to prove that you are insane. If you are indeed insane you don't know it and you carry on fighting in the war because...you're insane. If you are insane you cannot prove that you are insane as you do not believe in your insanity - thus believing you are in fact sane and remaining in the war because actually you are insane. And indeed if you are sane you cannot pretend to be insane as this is too rational for an insane person, and hence the flaw in your sane plan. Essentially either way you aren't leaving the war. And so Catch 22 is born.

I have probably told that in a really non-sensical way - google it. Joseph Heller doesn't really throw much light onto the situation, I vote old spark notes to help you out.

The main problem with the book was that the way it is written is so non-chronological and random that I would fall asleep trying to understand the ramble. So when it came to trying to read some of it the next day I would have no idea what I had read, go back and read it again, fall asleep through boredom and still be non the wiser. Catch22 was quite literally taking over my life.

And so I find myself in a Yosarian situation once more - a lot less serious though.

I applied for a position at Brides magazine as fashion assistant after my stint at Vogue and was so happy when I was called down for an interview, and then another with the editor-in-chief. Alas it was not meant to be and I lost out to someone who had more bridal fashion experience.

I couldn't be mad, it was totally fair. As far as bridal fashion goes in my world,  I know only one thing: I don't want Wang. I want an Elie Saab or Marchesa dress - how very Indian bride of me.

However there is this annoying catch 22 with the world of fashion, you can't get experience unless you have experience and so the circle completes itself. And I am the first to admit I lack experience...I didn't do a fashion related degree (from St Martins), I can't draw (unless it a flower - I am GREAT at those), I didn't do Art at GCSE, I didn't do textiles further than year 9 and Geeta stitched all my projects that year as I just kept getting my finger caught in the machine and covering my tapestry bag with red blotches. I am not stylish (despite sometimes thinking that I am) I do not look like Gisele, I don't have razor sharp cheek bones (in fact I'm not even sure I have cheek bones) I am not edgy nor am I pedgy...(posh edgy), I am not cool, I don't shop at Farmer's markets (we're getting off track).

Waaayyyy too edgy. 

BUT I know my Acne from A.PC. I can spot a Chloe Susanna boots a mile off, I could sketch look 1-8 of Balmain SS14 if that was a questions on Cranium, Alexander Wang doesn't look old enough to be driving let alone heading up his own brand and Balenciaga. Dolce and Gabbana NAILED their AW13 campaign (I'm trying to recreate the look, to very little success - Geeta asked me whether I was deliberately trying to look fat.)

YES Dolce. (As if I just wrote that)

I can tell you with 100% certainty that Karl Lagerfeld does not like fat people, I hope we don't cross paths any time soon that could be awkies, and that Marc Jacob has seriously got a lot better with time. 

Oooof 

And most of all I know that Valentino is a GOD. Is this enough? No way. But is this the start? I hope so. Is it so much to ask for a column in a magazine?! Caitlin Moran if you're out there - hear my plea. Think of all the politically correct boxes that could be ticked if you hired me. 

Indian - check. 

Overweight (but shifting pounds) - check.  

Doesn't wear socks with sandals - CHECK. 

And so the hunt continues.... 

Fatty BB xxx

Life Skills.

We always used to have these career days at school where you would brainstorm what skills you possessed and how these would determine what career you entered into. There would be a discussion with Madame Lott as to whether you had management skills, people skills; whether you were good with technology, good at memorising lots of facts and figures; good at maths, good at foreign languages and what careers you would be suited to you based on these apparent skills. My meetings were always rather brief. In my humble opinion aged 15 do you really have that many skills? And if you have acquired much more accomplished skills than myself, do you really know, at 15, what you want to do for the rest of your life? On reflection of my pathetic teenage self this is as skilled as it got:

- Cross the quad without dropping any of my books in the puddles, if I walked extra slow.

- Apply eyeliner faultlessly on a Friday afternoon, after spending all week with panda eyes.

- Miss my bus after games on a Tuesday afternoon because I couldn't get my tights on quick enough.

- Sing school hymns exceptionally well for an Indian.

- Spray my french homework in perfume so that I would continue to be one of Mr. Tomlin's 'fave girlies'.

- Recite Mean Girls from start to finish.

Was there more to life at 15? 

Oh and my personal favourite - I was so skilled I managed to get shat on by a really fat pigeon in the school car park one morning. It was so great that it was in my hair all down my school jumper and I was stood right next to the boy I really fancied whilst he hysterically laughed. Does life get any more skilled than that? 

I managed to tame the fro a litte for this picture. Life skill? Hell Yes. 

One year we took a career aptitude test, the whole year sat in the main hall pining their hopes and dreams and on essentially a reasoning test. I like everyone else was adamant the results were going to determine my entire future. Two weeks later everyone was eagerly awaiting their results to brag about how they were going to become a scientist or a lawyer or win a Nobel Peace Prize. So when I finally got my mitts on my results, I was rather disappointed with my predicted future. 

Careers based on results: 

1) Florist 

2) Hotel Manager 

3) Social Worker

Not exactly what I had expected. Was I to suddenly know my hydrangeas from my hyacinths?

Because 8 years later I still don't know the difference - I thought Hyacinth was a faux posh ageing lady who was adamant about keeping up appearances...apparently not. BBB was also less than impressed when he found out that 10 years of private school equated to arranging flowers.  

Hotel manager was a little more exciting. When I was little (well I've never really been 'little' perhaps younger is more apt) I always wanted my own chain of hotels. They were to be called 'The Five Oceans' (evidently an 8 year old's rip off of the Four Seasons) and there were going to be themed suits according to what ocean you were in. Hawaiian luaus in the Pacific Suites with floral walls and coconut water on tap. New York/London themed rooms in the Atlantic Suites with a Big Ben bed and Statue of Liberty bath robes. Obviously Indian rooms for the Indian Ocean Suites...with Indian things in there. Then my creativity went blank or I simply couldn't remember the other oceans. 

Think I could have been on to a winner. Maybe I should give Richard Branson a call see whether he would be interested in investing millions into an eight year old's dream.

As the end of 2013 draws to a close I decided to have a re think of my life skills. Upon reflection not much has changed. I'm still clumsy, I still can't apply eyeliner, it is however at this time of year that I continually sing carols exceptionally well - O Holy Night still belted out the best. Some say drowning cats, others say enthusiastic, I say... next Celine Dion? I suppose a skill I have acquired/ honed is the ability to write self deprecating matter on a fortnightly (when I'm good) basis. 

To my complete surprise the blog has done much better than I ever anticipated. Whilst initially my only consistent reader was Geeta (when I literally forced her to read it) I have now amassed over 90,000 views. When I delved a little deeper to see where these views had come from, to my amusement the post with the most amount of views was 'How to Lose Weight Fast' - clearly people really do google everything. 20,000 views and all they would have found out about losing weight fast is what happened to me when I got the flu. Lol. 

In the way of careers it has gone a little like this: 

Aged 5-16: Doctor. Then I realised I didn't understand any of A-Level chemistry. Rings and chains - what even is that.  

Aged 16 - 18: Classicist. I was going to discover something exciting or find gold and be rich. 

Aged 18- 21: Lawyer. As soon as I got to Uni I didn't want to be the next Mary Beard this was just my new unique way of becoming a lawyer, obvs - total sense. It was going to be great, I had it all planned - Classics was going to make me a more well rounded (no pun intended) lawyer. Life was going to be great. 

Aged 21-22: Career Unknown. Law school is horrendous, law is horrendous, I hate my statute book and I hate my case law book even more. Soz Baz I don't want part of the family business. 

Aged 22-23: Teacher. Seemed a logical route given the above...

PRESENT MODERN DAY NOW: Writer. 

Who would have guessed. Well, not to brag or anything but I did once win the Literature Cup at Stoneygate when I didn't even read the book. I think I would be quite happy to do this forever. Basically I want to be Caitlin Moran, have my own column, get paid to waffle on about mindless shit; but maybe a tad less feminist because I would still like to drool over Ryan Gosling without being chastised for showing a woman's weakness. 

Will this happen with my particular set of life skills? Who knows. I'll guess I'll just have to give it a whirl. 

Fatty BB xxx

The Night I Partied With Nicole.

Scherzy won't reply to my messages about grabbing a quick maccy's now though...awks.

There is a policy for this blog: Ask no questions, and I will tell no lies. (Publicly - if you ask me in private I will happily disclose my dirty little secrets).

So, I managed to wangle an invite for myself and Alex to attend the Sushi Samba One Year Anniversary Party (at is at this point we adopt our policy). Now I wasn't exactly invited by name but I had a hard copy of the invite and enough courage from Alex to attempt to blag it on the door. Believing I was Billie Big Balls I told them I was essentially a big deal, and quite shockingly they believed me... up to the 38th floor of the Heron Tower we flew.

We made it! 

We were greeted with free flowing Verve, a lot of beautiful looking people, even more edgy looking people and a chortling Nick Grimshaw entertaining his cronies. We obviously got as close as possible and pretended to join in on their Harry Styles related joke.

Our motto for the evening consisted quite simply of: BE COOL. BE COOL. BE COOL. (Not something that comes all too naturally). Whilst we only sampled one piece of sushi each (these cool kids act like they've never seen food before, I wasn't about to be the fat kid that deprived them), we certainly sampled our fair share of the champers. It was after we had guzzled a few pints of the Verve that a very awkward situation occurred.

Being Cool. 

Alex had left me (probably to stalk Grimmy under the guise of having a pee) and this woman kept looking at me and smiling - granted I had made an effort for the occasion but not one that really warranted strangers smiling at me. So I smiled back and did an awkward little wave, that appeared to summon her over - very cool. Before I knew it she had walked over to me and engaged in a conversation that went a little like this:

Smiling Lady: I love your coat!
Billie: Thank you - it's my favourite!
Smiling Lady: It's mine.
Billie: *feeling a little confused and wondering whether she was going to steal it from me*          Ummmm...no I don't think so - it's mine.
Smiling Lady: No, no, no. I'm Alice Temperley - I designed that coat.
Twatface: Ohhhhhh. It's my favourite. (well done, well incoherent just repeat what you previously said)
Alice Temperley: Well it looks great on you (bbrrrppppp) Have a good night!

I finally managed to pick my jaw up form the floor and shout behind her to have a good night too. Just call me a smooth operator.

THE COAT. 

A few more (clearly unnecessary) glasses of Verve meant two things:
1) We had made friends with the bar tender who constantly topped up our glasses before anyone else's.
2) We should have a dance since Neneh Cherry and Grimmy were playing and were supposed to be really into them...because the invitation told us to be.

A revelation: Apparently cool kids don't dance, they just shuffle along the dance floor shmoosing and air kissing - I think this was our give away that we weren't part of that crowd...

Smashing it.

All of a sudden Alex stops mind grind and turns to me and says to me 'Look who is directly behind you!" I turned around and BOOM there was... Scherzy in all her cat suit glory. 'Be cool' went straight out of the window and 'I lost my shit' tookover. She is without a doubt the most beautiful person I have ever seen (text me baaacccckkk Scherzy!) Alex played it cool and didn't whip out the phone, I on the other hand decided with only 4% batt (I know I was having palpitations too) I wasn't wasting my time with anymore sushi selfies I was getting Scherzy.

     

More dancing, more drinking and more laughing ensued and before I knew it, it was time for Cinderella to leave to ball. We arrived downstairs at the same time as Mark Francis who seemed to be shouting 'Where the fuck is my car?!'... to nobody. Giggling like school girls who had just crashed the party of the fit boy two years above we were greeted by a gaggle of paparazzi who were about to take our picture before they released...we weren't anyone worth writing a shit piece about in DM Online.

The night ended in Liverpool station scoffing fast food and getting a stitch from laughing after realising we were both smashed and had to be up for work in less than 6 hours - that part was not chic.

The next day at work I was suitably smug when I was telling everyone about my new BFF Nicole, until I was brought down a peg by picking up dry cleaning. Oh real world - I have not missed you.

London adventures continue...

Fatty BB xxx

Living The London Life.

The London Life - much like the American Dream, but less realistic. 

The Dream: 

Residence: A town house in Fulham (all four floors are mine)

Boyfriend:  The elusive 'grounded City boy'

Animals: A pug named Spenny 

Clothes: A complete Net-A-Porter wardrobe 

Hobbies: Freelacing as an Asian Caitlin Moran

Hang outs: Private Member's Clubs, Liberty's and the occasional nibble at Sushi Samba.

The Reality 

Residence: A blow up bed in Kate and Juliet's gorgeous flat. (The excitement when they have both been away and I was able to commandeer their beds)

Boyfriend: An unhealthy relationship with Itsu during the day and Pinot at night. 

Animals: Harbouring a hideous cold and the remnants of a blazing temperature. 

Clothes: At present a pair of Uggs with a hole in and a scruffy Wildfox sweatshirt - oozing sex appeal. 

Hobbies: Tube perving on the hot guys, making awkward conversations with people in lifts because I can't handle the silence. 

Hang Outs: Well, it's Saturday night I'm sat on the sofa surrounded by snotty tissues, Jonathan Ross and James Blake's Retrograde on repeat, writing this. 

Did someone say Bridget Jones? Because I would definitely respond. 

Two weeks of Vogue and this is the result. If there was ever a sign that I wasn't made for the working world this would appear to be it. However I should probably tell the truth. I have a bad habit of thinking I can do it all with absolutely no consequences, burning the candle and all that shit. In my head I can do the early mornings, look spritely on the tube, do a full's day work (in not the easiest of industries), go out for a few drinks afterwards, come back spend an hour faffing, wash my hair, dry my hair, spend 45 minutes deciding what to wear in the morning and then do this all again on 5 hours sleep. Easy. If Fat Boy Slim could make this into a song - we're onto a winner. 

Well the reality has begun to sink in and I don't really like it so I think I'm going to continue living idealistically and just put this down to tube germs, I do catch the District Line after all. Two weeks down. Two to go. It is going far, far too quickly, I don't like it. I don't want to come home. I am home. Sorry BBB, I know you're missing your pal. 

Vogue in a word is...ridiculous. 

Day One: I work up extra early to prep and I felt literally sick to my stomach. I tried on about 8 different outfits before settling with the initial one - isn't that always the case? What a lot of hanging up to do afterwards. In hindsight I was perhaps not wise with my choice. 

The 'I'm shitting it' smile. Classic. 

Obviously on the first day there is a lot of hand shaking and a leather skirt with sweaty palms sliding down it...not ideal. I can't say that the first day went so smoothly there were a few hiccoughs, but if I ever want a job in fashion I definitely can't disclose them. Let's just say it takes a REALLY long time to go through 600 fashion shows with 40-80 looks per show. 

Day One definitely set the pace for the rest of the week, the other interns and myself took to predicting what stress level we would reach each day. Most days we naively predicted a steady 6/10 and by 6pm we would be at a 12/10. 

The following example solidifies the notion that people in fashion are crazy and ridiculous. So at 3pm I get a call from a designer in Paris saying a dress we were shooting that day needed to be in New York tomorrow - realistic then. Having spoken to the mail room I was told we had missed the cut off point and the earliest it would be there was Monday. I realyed this to Paris and was told this was not an option, greeaattt. I begged and pleaded with Fedex and they agreed to come and pick up (don't get too excited this did not go smoothly). The came and they left...without the box. Apparently you need a document declaring what exactly the dress was made from, because customs is suspicious of polyester and nylon. So a bit more begging and pleading and Fedex agree to collect again (don't get too excited this doesn't go smoothly either). The Fedex tosser decides that I take too long in the lift down to reception and doesn't fancy waiting all of 35 seconds and leaves. Another hour of begging and pleading with Fedex and by the time its 7pm all hope is lost, it's not getting to New York until Monday. First tears are shed. So I emailed Paris in the morning and told them of my Fedex dramas and that the dress had now been collected but wouldn't be there until Monday. Instantly there was a reply saying this was not ok as there would be no one be at the address on Monday and it had to be redirected to Paris. WHY, GOD WHY?! Of course when I called Fedex to recall the package they have no reference of the tracking number and it appeared the package was lost. Excellent. (The package is now in Paris and the lady is happy so I shan't bore you with any more fashion crises.)

Optimistic start of the Day. Delirious post Fedex selfie after I wiped away my tears. 

When week one was finally over Kate and I got so pissed we barely made it through dinner (well Kate didn't she fell asleep). 

Half price Prosecco. #guilty

Week two holds MANY more treats and a lot less tears, I promise. 

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. Want to know what being a fashion intern is like...check this out. It's hysterical. 

http://fashioninternproblems.tumblr.com/

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

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 applause...it 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 Light...my 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