The day it all ended...for better and worse

This next installment has been a long time coming. I apologise. So this is what's happened. Andy is unsatisfied with the relationship he has with his wife and is in the process of deciding what to do about it. After witnessing the sublime happiness of one of his colleagues and his partner, Andy decides to get very drunk. On his way home he comes across a decapitated pigeon. Due to his fondness of pigeons and the unbelievable amount of alcohol coursing through his veins, he then decides to pick it up and take it home. His wife catches him putting the bird on the dining room table. And this is what happens... Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.

This seemed like an incredulous statement. Surely it should be obvious to his wife what he was doing. Andy looked down at his hand and the offending item and nearly threw up...again.

“Oh god. What is that?” he whispered putting a hand to his mouth, without realising it was moist with the bird’s blood.

“Andy, are you pissed?”

“Of course not. Just had a couple with Mike after work.”

“Mike? I thought you were meeting with that army general or whoever he was? Or is that bullshit too?” She fired at him. Her stance was intimidating. She was holding a hand towel with both hands held taught across her thighs. It was if she was getting ready to wind it up and whip him with one moist end of it if he didn't answer correctly.

“Why are you so angry all the time?” He could feel that he was swaying and flinging his arms about without any assertion or control.

“That’s totally unfair Andy. I am NOT angry all the time. Just right now...and this morning...and last night when you told me you didn’t want sex because you were feeling fluish or some crap. And now you come home doused in god knows what...wait...is that vomit?”

He considered the question. Looked down at the various splodges of partially digested food and stomach bile decorating his shirt and continued.

“Yes, I believe it is. So now I’m not allowed to drink, is that right?” The smell of the pigeon carcass reminded him of the kebab he’d previously guzzled. He rubbed the dead bird’s blood between his fingers and inwardly questioned his sanity.

“You are ridiculous and I can’t live like this anymore" she continued.

“Oh come on. Stop exaggerating Jen. For God’s sake, I’m drunk and I missed dinner. Get it together.” That was a mistake, one that he instantly regretted. The towel in her hands snapped tighter and her eyes grew wide as a bush baby's.

“Our life together could have really gone somewhere, but now I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t live with you like this. Not in my condition.” She was breathing short and sharp through her nose, trying to stem her inevitable tears.

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re not making any sense-"

“I’m pregnant you arsehole!”

Andy physically wretched. He didn’t mean to at all. It just happened. It must have been an acid reflux brought on by this extremely distressing news. He composed himself.

“I beg your pardon.” He said. He was back to slurring his words again. It was like his brain and his mouth were numb from the vodka intermingled with the thin blood spurting through his arteries.

“I’m pregnant.” She was far less angry with her delivery this time. She looked down at her hands which were gently tugging at the towel now. She was winding it round her fingers, like a nervous child. She was wearing her baggy pyjama bottoms and thin camisole which revealed her undulating chest, heaving and dipping under her agitated breaths. She started to cry. One hand came up to stop the tears, but it was no good. They had already begun to wet her nose and cheeks.

Andy was horrified. In that moment, he had a brief spell of clarity. He knew he really didn’t love Jenny, but now he was realising that she knew it too. How could he support and love a child with a woman he couldn't share a bed with? What the hell was he supposed to do?

“Jen...I’m sorry. I’m so so bloody sorry. We’ll be fine. My mistake.”

“No Andy. You don’t love me.” Did he say that loud? No he didn’t. She just knew him too well.

“It’s not going to work. I’ll arrange to move in with Alex for a bit.”

“She’s just had a kid herself Jen.”

“Well then she’ll understand.”

She left the kitchen dragging her feet, shoulders collapsed and hunched forward. She had capitulated right in front of him. It had been terrible for Andy to witness. She was always so bright and boisterous, and if he was honest, rarely angry. To see her so dejected crippled him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t love her. He cared for her with all of his heart, but that was a completely useless feeling and one which Jen should never and could never be satisfied with.

*******************

The whole headless pigeon thing had really freaked Jenny out. He could have assumed this by registering her expression the night before, when he had laid it before her in the darkened kitchen like a sacrificial offering. But he knew for sure that she thought he had 'lost it', when he overheard her talking to her sister, Alex, on the phone at 6am. She was trying to mumble, but the walls of the bathroom were so thin, he could hear enough to get the jist.

“He’s....and....but really it’s completely nuts...not right now...it’s none of my business...I can’t ask him that.” This is where Andy became more intrigued. Ask him what? Probably something like; how could he be so despicable? Is he an alcoholic? Is he planning on supporting the baby? Is he insane?

No, it wasn’t any of these. The question that Jenny, prompted by her sister Alex, wanted the answer to was one far more surprising than he would ever imagine...

Ocean Park Hong Kong

If you've ever been there, you'll know what I'm talking about...

This was my first visit to Hong Kong. I was staying in urban Kowloon where the lights burned hot and bright and were alien to me. They were alien to my home in Lightwater – A small village in straight laced Surrey. In Kowloon the buildings seemed to grow taller every minute. They flashed and reflected every colour, winking at the tiny ants below. There were so many people. Living on top of one another, spilling out of buildings, squashed together on public transport. They squeezed through the streets like toothpaste out of the tube. Five days in, and I began to feel nauseous. The smell of salty fish and Chinese spices soaked my clothes, my hair and was absorbed by my wet skin. My guide decided to show me a different side to the island…

‘Ocean Park is not busy at this time of year.’ Jen said. The crowds of sticky children I had been expecting were at school. I am afraid of heights, but didn’t want to play it safe. It was Hong Kong and I’d travelled 12 hours to see it. The cable cars whirred as they streamed in from their previous destination. Jen helped me into the glass bubble. Only the top and bottom were glass. The sides were open, but for three metal bars on each side. ‘Why are these things open Jen? I thought you said there was glass all around.’ She giggled at me - Laughed at my obvious discomfort. I squeezed the plastic seat between my slippery fingertips and tried to breathe deeper and longer. The glossy bauble began to move. I closed my eyes and held a long breath.

‘No, no’ she said, ‘You must open your eyes. You’re going to miss everything.’ I opened one eye, then the other just as we were leaving the docking station. The gondola floated noiselessly above the landscape, held by a long looping cable. My palms were moist and my arms, sore from gripping the seat. My shoulders hunched around my goose pimpled neck. I couldn’t help but imagine the scenario of the gondola coming loose from the cable and bouncing down the mountain and finally plopping into the shark infested water below. I didn’t know for sure it was shark infested, but your mind always assumes the worst. ‘Honestly. Stop it. I can see you’re scared. Please relax. You’re going to regret it if you spend the whole ride stuck in that position.’

I finally breathed out. This was silly. Jen was right. For the first time, I let my mouth open. I allowed my chest to fill with the rushing air sweeping in between the protective steel bars. Then I began to look around. The gondola began to make it’s descent into the dark green chasm between these two natural mounds in the earth’s crust.

The peak on Wong Chuck Han and the other on Nam Long Chan were each other’s barrier to the rest of the world. Like two fighters squaring before battle, they were motionless, rigid, life pumping under their surface. I tilted my head back to focus on Wong Chuck Han. In this moment I remember feeling insignificant, minute, and humbled by natural beauty. I was a spec on the globe, about to be squashed by something infinitely bigger than myself. There was no clearer argument for God’s existence – the embellished scene lifted me out of my seat, then it lifted the fear right out of me, so it shattered on the crags below. I had never felt so exhilarated, so pumped with adrenalin, like this. My hands left the seat and clamored to the silvery bars. They no longer provided protection. They were holding me in, holding me back, chaining me to my earthly existence.

We were ascending again. I slithered to the other side of the cage, poking my head between the bars. The sea was on this side. The steel blue water wrinkled over the current like the skin over my purple veins - it pulsed with marine life. The ficus which had germinated over the mountain’s surface, concealed the rock’s less vibrant mottled grey/brown. I could imagine the evergreen, broad leaved, vegetation sucking at the wet air, recycling our exhausted breaths.

The horror continues...

Right, yes, hello again. It's the next installment of Andy's story. Just to recap, Andy left the office on another uninspiring day at work and decided to get drunk (alone) and send himself home, lapping up a greasy kebab. He gets on the train, looking like he's slept rough in a landfill site for several days, scaring women and children, before he's met by his sober friend from work catching the train home with his partner. Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.

Andy's colleague and his kooky looking boyfriend were uncomfortable. It was one of those moments when you wish you could just rip your own face off, turn it inside out and replace it with an altogether different face that no one knows or recognises. It would be called the 'reversible face' and it would save you from untold embarrassment and agonising chit chat with ghastly people you wish you weren't associated with.

This particular conversation lasted no longer than two stops, but it was excruciating. It was awkward, mindless spaff that concluded with Si's boyfriend stating the bloody obvious, 'Well it's nice to meet you Andy... you're gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow dude.' Dude? How old was this guy. He was wearing skinny jeans and a Ramones T-shirt. What a tool.

Si and his hippy toy boy sat two seats in front. Far enough to distinguish themselves from an unsavoury character such as himself, but not so far that he should be offended. They talked about the raw prawn appetizers, the expensive merlot and Jenny 'the slutty marketing girl' falling out of her bra. Andy began to feel desperately sad again. His achy head pulsed and as he looked down at the empty bottle of mainstream poison held fast in his hand, he despaired. He couldn't bear their contentment. It wasn't happiness, just a bit of peace and satisfaction to round out a meaningful day. Andy had totally forgotten what that felt like.

Just when he thought he couldn't stand to feel this way for a minute longer he became suddenly overwhelmed by something quite distressing. It became clear that he was going to be sick. As the train pulled up to the next stop, he threw the remains of his kebab off his lap, grappled with his umbrella and suitcase and scrambled to the carriage doors. As they opened he bent over double and released the entire contents of his stomach on to the platform... and on to someone's small dog.

'Oh sweet Jesus. I'm so bloody sorry.' The owner looked like she might have an aneurysm. She was a wizen thing wearing a long shapeless dress with tiny parrots all over it, and a knotted woolly cardigan. The dog shook violently and rolled over and over again. It seemed to be disgusted by the smell. The poor old lady, who kind of looked familiar, just picked up her dog and pulled herself up on to the train. As Andy wiped his mouth and began walking away, he heard that sweet little lady call him a prick. Wow.

He walked home. He felt like he didn't even deserve a taxi right now. He eventually made it to the street in Clapham where he lived. He scuffed his smart shoes on the wet pavement and deliberately stood on snails to hear the crunch. He felt the urge to swing around a lamp post and kick his heels up to his bottom. Then he abruptly stopped. It was a headless pigeon that did it. He felt his stomach flip again. It was right in his path obstructing his next footfall. The culprit was no doubt a well-fed fox. Nasty flame-haired demons. He could imagine it now, chewing on the dead bird's sinews and licking the blood off it's sharp tiny teeth. But it was only the head that was of use to the mangy scavenger; the body wasn't worth guzzling or taking back to the den. Andy bent down and tried to focus on the bird. He even picked it up to see it clearer, but the alcohol had made his fingers numb and his eyes completely useless. He thought the animal would feel gritty, unclean and damp, but it was soft and still warm.

It was only three feet to the gate at the front of his house, but it took him about fifteen minutes to make it to the front door. He was being careful not to drop the bird which he cradled in his left hand, leaving his right hand to struggle with the brolley and briefcase. In retrospect he realised how insane he looked. Days later he would mull over this extremely blurred portion of the day and desperately try to rationalise his properly absurd behaviour. Part of his brain - a place so insipid and frankly terrifying - thought he might know what possessed him to bring a decapitated bird into his house, the remainder, hadn't the foggiest. He wondered then, why it was always the worst part of his personality which revealed itself every time he got through a whole bottle of cheap vodka.

It was that mindless, anti-social idiot which also forgot that his wife would be loading the dish washer at this precise moment. The first thing he did after he stumbled up the large paving slab which served as a door-step, was dump the seemingly unimportant items in his right hand, at the front door. The second was to take the bloody offering still clamped in his left hand, into the kitchen 'to get it cleaned up'. He found a towel resting on the radiator as he made his way through his house, swaying from side to side, nudging his shoulders on the door frames. He placed the bird on the dining table and wrapped it up in the towel.

'Andy? What the hell are you doing?' she said.

Are you trendy?

Why is it that come spring we get that sudden urge to be at our most fashion forward? Is it because the flowering season is more inspiring than the others? Is it the sprouting greens, the delicate honeysuckle purple and vibrant daffodil yellow which pull us out of our shapeless wraps and lengthy cardigans despite the blustery breeze biting at our goose pimpled legs?

I'm not sure what it is, but I know spring is the season for my insatiable spending. Every shop window display invites my meandering eye and draws me so close to the automatic doors that I'm forced to go in and browse for at least 15 minutes, before grabbing my decaf macchiato from Starbucks.

That's one of my favourite activities; sipping on a sugary hot beverage whilst scanning the racks, even if I'm not really 'hard core' shopping, I just like to gaze absentmindedly at the floral prints and the yummy bright colours, pass my hand through the light spring fabrics, and remind myself that eventually it might be warm enough to wear them in this country.

So how do you navigate your way through the myriad of looks this season is offering? I'm sticking to four key spring trends that I'm going to mix and match to keep them fresh into the summer months.

The *trends I'll be following this spring will be...

*All items can be found on www.asos.com. Click on the pics to go straight to the site.

WESTERN

It's a bit of cowboy, a whole lot of denim and some tassles thrown in for good measure. Double and triple denim is especially popular this season and it will still keep you reasonably warm on those cooler spring days.

Key pieces

Left: Cropped fringe jacket
Centre: Killah boyfriend shirt
Right: Denim Wrangler dress

Accessories

Left: Brown leather mocasins
Centre: Leather fringed studded bag
Right: Fringed brown satchel

MILITARY

Again this is a good trend for those who aren't quite ready for bare arms and legs in Britain, just yet. It's also ace for those of us who prefer muted or darker colours which are usually more slimming. Epaulets, studs and crests are details to look our for.

Key Pieces

Left: Stone coloured chino trousers from Asos.
Centre: Khaki long line vest, Mango
Right: Khaki military jacket

Accessories

Left: Leather body bag
Centre: Leather studded cuff
Right: Dogeared skull detail wooden beads

TRIBAL

This trend is not for the faint hearted. You can get really inventive with bold clashing prints, billowing maxi dresses, head scarves, beading and braids; it all works. Wear with a tan and chunky silver jewellery.

Key pieces












Left: Africa cut out back dress
Centre: Princess Tam tam playsuit
Right: Asos African shift dress











Accessories
Left: zebra print flat sandals
Centre: woven yellow clutch
Right: trio of wooden bangles

PASTELS

It's not so much a trend as it is a theme, especially for the high end designers. Stella McCartney, Fendi and Michael Kors among many others are using candy colours, and a whole range of nudes, beiges and taupes to really flatter all skin tones this season. It's basically a really easy way to look feminine and ultra girly. Draped, sheer fabrics flatter everyone and keep you cool on those rare sun filled lazy spring afternoons.

Key pieces












Left: Rose detail t-shirt dress
Centre: Dipped hem oversized vest
Right: Reiss Odila silk blend trousers

Accessories










Left: Ash Lotus cut out sandals
Centre: pink pumps
Right: pink snakeskin clutch

Dress it up

This is a fashion piece I wrote for the Vogue young writers' competition in 2008.

In recent years the fashion experts say, that to be in tune with the zeitgeist you really have to look like a boy. Models, forget how your genes and the seasons have turned you out. Flatten your chest, slouch and wear your boyfriend’s jeans. Then the likes of Balenciaga, MaxMara and Luella will say ‘Androgyny is in’ and use you on their catwalks. The shapeless waif look of the 1920’s threatens, but instead of bandaging our chests and sporting beaded fringe we’re encouraged to wear the sexy granddad shirt or the saucy trilby.


But me, I'm on strike, girl I was born, girl I am. Cavali, Galiano and Marchesa at least, I thank you. Designers who believe that this is still the age of the dress, all flirty and female. I' m a Valentino girl, curvaceous and proud of it, 'I don't think any man in the world wants to go out with a woman dressed like a boy?' Valentino asks. What he says is true, if not a little misogynist. Let’s face it - his dresses are cut for the size zero beauties of this world.




After a tempestuous writer’s strike, the Oscars were delivered, in true Hollywood style. The award season came and went – those little statues and statuettes found loving homes - but the fashion hits and misses will outlive even the teariest acceptance speech. Galliano, Valentino and Marchesa revolutionised traditional Oscar attire with their LRD – Little red dresses, on Heidi Klum, Mylie Cyrus and Anne Hathaway, while black dresses were panned by fashion critics as lack lustre.


I'm particularly excited to have seen Jil Sander's liquid silver maxi creation pictured on the oh so mini Nicole Richie at the opening of DCMA Collective's flagship store March 14th - just to prove that us vertically challenged petites can pull off the full length gown too.


My fave fashion moment for the iconic dress has got to be the decadent 1950's. It was in September of 1952, when Vogue gave birth to the concept of the LBD, 'The little black dress, deceptively simple, is the core of every collection.'

Voluptuous figures were hugged in all the right places in tussore dresses - skin colour was flattered by baby blue and blond. I don't think anyone will forget the flirty flash of Marilyn's knickers, when she sported that flapping white halter dress. Those were the days when women looked up happily to men and men looked down protectively and romantically on women. (I think and hope: allow me my dreams.)

If any designer has the power to recreate such a fashion moment, it must surely be Marchesa. Their stunning eveningwear, inspired by vintage and Asian flavours, screams opulent, high fashion princess – is there any other? Their Resort collection boasts Grecian and bateau necklines, full tulle skirts and beautiful organza. Cascading fabrics dominate the collection in stunning ivory, jade, gold and fuchsia. They even provide plush party dresses with their notte by Marchesa collection – short and sweet with plenty of ruffles.




But, the dress for this summer is all about the tea. Paisley, dotty or floral, it all works. High Street retailers are doing this the best at the moment - Topshop appear to be the front-runners - with Kate Moss's help - but Oasis must surely be given a mention. Sara Berman's new collection at ASOS is causing a stir with her cute and affordable tea dresses.



Mademoiselle Coco Chanel once said, 'Never do anything by halves.' I believe that this must be said of our fashion forward wardrobe. Dressing for a sparkling soiree or on the European beaches this summer, don't do your outfit in halves; wear the dress.

Andy's story continues...

Installment three of my latest story.

Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.

He was the last person in the office and he was looking at his monitor in contempt. The new fonts were bothering him. He'd insisted that his decision was final in a heated debate with his Picture Editor, Dominic, but now he wasn't sure. And the more he continued to scrutinise them, the more they irritated him, blurred and danced up and down, jeering at him and his inability to make a decision without second guessing himself. His eyes were beginning to sting again. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets in a circular motion, trying to generate some sort of lubrication, or dull himself into a trance.

'Ah...tough decision to make eh? The cerulean or the indigo for the strapline? I've really been looking at the layout again and...' what Dominic said next was lost on Andy. Dominic jabbered on about this colour code and that, but Andy let his eyes wander around the room. Simon was packing up now. He was on the phone and wrestling with a usb cable with the other hand. He was smiling. Really smiling. Andy began to notice how straight his teeth were; bizarrely straight in fact. Had he had work done? He was a poof after all. But he'd never considered Si to be camp. Not in the tight net vest, glow sticks and boasting about sex at the gym, camp. Why was he smiling so hard? Must have been on the phone to his 'partner.'

Andy had been averting Dom's peepers for a moment too long because Dominic was now out of his chair and wafting his hand in front of Andy's face like a petulant child. Andy was almost convinced his picture editor had ADHD.

'Jeez Andy. You should go home mate. You're looking pretty haggard these days. Go home and bang your wife for Christ's sake.' Haggard? Really? People thought he looked haggard. Balls. What was wrong with the good old 'shagged' 'shattered' or 'knackered'? Andy decided to ignore the rather inappropriate comment about 'banging his wife' and chanced a look at himself in the office window, which doubled up as a mirror, now that the steets of London were dark and glittering with shop window lights. He opened his mouth wide and grinned. Bloody hell, he's spot on. I look craggier than Gordon bloody Ramsey. He didn't appreciate his sallow skin or the crooked teeth either.

'I need to get out of this place. I'm ageing by the minute.' Dominic was already half way out of the door and didn't bother to acknowledge Andy's comment.

As Andy shuffled out of the office, trying his best not to wince from the pain in his bunions - he'd left his trainers under his desk - he thought he might grab a drink to snaffle on the train ride home... Something to take the edge off seeing his devastatingly beautiful wife and knowing she expected a good seeing to. He stopped at a Threshers on the way to the station.

'Sir. I'll have one... Bottle of vodka.'
'Yes sir... Any particular brand?' the shop assisant peeked over the counter, almost indecipherably, at Andy's glossy shoes and thought he was on to a winner.
'Errrr...Oh just the cheap stuff over there will do.' He wagged his finger at a clear bottle covered with an orange label and some foreign words Andy could not translate. He could afford better, but he wanted it to feel dirty, really naughty.

'Ten pounds for the Polish stuff. But you know, the Russian is probably better-'
'That'll be all'. He handed the man one of six notes in his wallet and swiped his booty from the nice middle aged man. He didn't wait for the ride home to get a taste of the mind numbing substance. Once he was outside the shop, ignoring the lash of the wind and rain, he wrapped the plastic Threshers' bag tightly around the bottle, unscrewed the lid and felt the liquid burn his cracked lips, warm his throat and tingle in his stomach. That's when he realised he was supposed to be eating out - having lied to his wife about meeting the guy from the MOD - she wouldn't be cooking for him tonight. His stomach gurgled. The greasy kebab shop was calling. He dived into Hal's kebab hut and picked up a mixed doner and a side of chips.

As he approached the station, It didn't even occur to him what he looked like. His tie hung loose on his chest, his shirt untucked, as he stumbled on to the train. He slumped himself across three seats on the practically empty train and popped open the squeaky yellow polystyrene box. The train wasn't leaving for another fifteen minutes. He slipped the fatty meat and dry chips into his gob inbetween swigs of his vodka. The bottle was half empty and he was drunk. He belched loud and unashamed.

More people were entering the train. It was a mixed batch. It wasn't that late so he wasn't surprised to see lovesick teenagers, families holding show programmes, as well as an elderly couple holding each other's hands. And then he saw Simon Hiles.

'Andy... Is that a Hal's Kebab special?' Si and his partner stood unblinking, waiting for an answer. Holy shit...this is humiliating.

Here come the girls

Here's a piece I wrote about young girls leaving themselves vulnerable to attacks after heavily drinking in nightclubs...

There I was, on a Saturday evening, sipping on a bottle of Becks and talking to a couple of my boyfriends’ friends, when it hit me. I had a little epiphany right there in the nightclub amongst a gaggle of sweaty clubbers. I looked around me and became acutely aware of the situation. I was surrounded by clowns. They wore scary make-up, fluffy tangled hair extensions, ridiculous shoes and clothes that didn’t fit. And these were the girls, NOT in fancy dress. I was literally appalled. It was like watching an episode of Sex in the City but all the women were under 21 and falling out of their dresses. I’ve seen it before. I wasn't unfamiliar with the place, in fact it’s one of my favourites because I appreciate the ‘cheese room’. But that was before I’d been in the VIP section.

It was my boyfriend’s birthday and we’d managed to blag our way into the VIP lounge without having to queue. We arrived early and were pleased to find a space at the bar, but it wasn’t long before we were joined by the rabble. As the first fancy dress birthday party stumbled through the doors we all smirked and pointed out the best efforts. I liked their costumes. They were all dressed as geeks. The girls had made a real effort with their long pleated skirts, thick rimmed classes, pumps and bunches. As we looked on, they came to the bar in fours or fives and knocked back one strong smelling shot after another. We cringed for them, and their stomachs as they winced and spluttered after each one. I looked at my watch; it was only 10pm.

When the next fancy dress team arrived, I was less impressed. This girl only clan were wearing lingerie. Before I put my boyfriend’s eyes back in his skull, I began to really look at them. Most of them could pull off the French knickers, corset and stockings very well. Legs stacked on 5 inch heels looked long and shapely, waists were cinched in and breasts pushed up and together. Complete with fake tan, tt looked like they had all come back from two months in the Caribbean, although orange streaks around the neck and wrists betrayed a couple of them. They looked very glamorous...and very naked. I couldn’t work out if was horrified or just jealous. When I saw one of the girls bend over to reveal cleavage of another kind, I decided I was the former.

They were heavily intoxicated, but decided to order another three bottles of cheap wine at the bar. What was wrong with these girls? What happened to a good old school girl outfit? At least then your bottom was in no danger of escaping in public. They must have been looking at tabloid pictures of Jodie Marsh for inspiration. Dressing like that was not only undignified, it was irresponsible. Getting drunk, dressed like an expensive escort in a nightclub full of hungry eyed, equally drunk men is not smart.

As the night progressed, the manager piped clone after clone of dizzy, bronzed beauties through to the VIP lounge. When the lingerie party girls ran out of funds for booze they started kissing each other to impress the bar men who were more than happy to ply them with free alcohol. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, are girls like that really just asking for it?

In Britain, a rape of a female is reported every 34 minutes, but in only 6.5% of those cases which are reported is the rapist actually convicted. Why? Most of the time, it is due to women feeling too embarrassed to come forward. Other times it is because of a lack of evidence, or witnesses and sometimes it is simply because the victim cannot remember what happened due to high levels of recreational drug or alcohol consumption.

In these cases the rapist’s job is half done. He no longer needs to slip the girl Rohipnol in order to render her unconscious, she’ll already be lying face down in her own alcohol induced vomit. A solicitor who claimed she was raped by 26 year old chef, Kevin Bacon, lost her case on March 26th 2009 because she couldn’t prove that she hadn’t given consent. Why? Because she was too drunk. Blood samples taken from her showed the she would have been at least twice the drink-drive limit before she invited the alleged attacker round to her house to ‘share a bottle of wine’.

What message are we sending the male population, when we are offering them everything they want up front? We might as well have carefully crammed ourselves into a delectable takeaway kebab container, with the label EAT ME slapped on the polystyrene lid. Engage us in mild flirtation and plenty of tequila shots and we’re won over. I don’t think so. On March 13th 2009 John Worboys was convicted of 19 charges of drugging and assaulting 12 female passengers. He preyed on lone female passengers coming out of nightclubs or bars, in the London area. Sex offenders are born out of the society’s willingness to look at women as pieces of meat. Women in nightclubs nationwide think they are exploiting men when they use their sexuality to get them free drinks, expensive dinners, or VIP access. But they are exploiting and endangering themselves in the process.

The whole night had been exhausting. The bar men were distracted by the faux lesbian playmates so we had to wait ages to get served and the smell of alcohol and body odour was making me feel sick. As we walked away from the club to my boyfriend’s car, I was not surprised to see a corseted lovely bent double, puking her brains out into a drain while her goose pimpled girl friend held her hair back for her. I only hoped that instead of accepting a lift off a man she'd only just met, she had the sense to call her mum to pick her up.

Part 2 of work in progress

And here is the long-awaited part 2 of the latest short story
 I've been working on. I know...I'm working at a glacial speed. Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.

He looked up sharply as he heard a bird take off in a hurry. A woman shrieked unnecessarily as it did, at least three metres away from her. ‘Little twit.’ He said out loud, almost hoping she could hear. He watched the pigeon fly off and settle on a metal bar in the rafters of the station. Poor bloody creature. Most of the time it’s ignored until it accidentally flies too close to a churlish mid 40’s divorcee, who is consequently repulsed by it.

Andrew had always been fond of birds and Pigeons happened to be his favourite. Pigeons had a bad rep, but he was inclined to think that they weren’t much different to any other feathered creature. Sure it looked a little rough around the edges and it probably wasn’t the cleanest winged specimen, but that’s why he liked them. The choice he made when he was six years old – when his mother (who he severely disliked) swatted and clubbed a pigeon to death in their small kitchen in Somerset because it had ‘broken into the house’ - was almost a protest. Sure, Robins were friendly, chubby and more aesthetically pleasing, but pigeons were like mavericks. The odd ball’s choice. He picked up his trainers and squeezed them in to his rucksack.

He stopped at Neal’s coffee shop just before he got to the office. Starbuck’s and Costa were to be avoided. He had an amiable relationship with most guys in the office, but at this time in the morning conversation was unwarranted. Before 10am, Andy’s brain was still digesting all those difficult thoughts and problems built up from a nightmare-filled sleep, and then worst still; actually waking up. All that bad noise in his head made him feel light-headed and queasy. So an involuntary discussion with Kevin about his latest drug fuelled bonk with a stripper would not help the caffeine and jam glazed pastry go down. Going to Neal’s was one more act of self-preservation. It made his life that little bit more bearable.

‘Andy’ Oh God who the hell was that and why are they in MY fucking coffee spot. He turned his head timidly, bracing a forced smile in preparation for this regrettable morning chat.
‘Oh, Si.’ It was only Simon Hiles, the mag’s Creative Art Director. A decent chap that Andy wished he could call a ‘mate’, but didn’t. In fact it had been Simon that had suggested this coffee haunt when he’d complained that Starbuck’s was overcrowded with arse-licking employees with desperate hopes of promotion. But he hadn’t seen Si in here for weeks now.

‘Where have you been getting your coffee from of late?’ Andy was surprised by his own sprightly tone.
‘Oh, I’ve given it up… Caffeine. It was giving me heart problems.’
‘Oh shit. What do you do for kicks now then?’ They both sort of smirked at the half-joke Andy had made.
‘Well I’m still on the medicinal heroin and crystal meth, so I think I’ll be alright.’ They laughed more enthusiastically this time.
‘So why are you in here then? Oh god you’ve not gone decaf or worse... herbal?’
‘Oh it’s not for me, I’m just getting one for Mike… my partner.’ Si motioned to a table in the corner of the café, where a young man was reading the newspaper and removing his jacket.
‘Oh…’ Shit. This is awkward. Andy knew Si was gay. Everyone in the office was aware of it. But as much as Si had tried to get everyone else to be comfortable with it, they weren’t…

Andy gripped the brolley in his left hand tighter and tighter as he forced himself to raise his right hand in a sort of embarrassed wave in Mike’s direction. Then he realised it looked like an apology, so he made the effort to bend his fingers downwards in one jittery motion. Now he'd made a 'Coo-eee' gesture. He guessed that Mike would assume that Andy was another homophobic arsehole from the magazine.

‘So I guess I’ll see you back in the office in a little while.’
‘Mmmm.’ Was all Andy could muster as he gulped down a foamy cappuccino in order to stop himself from saying something inadvertently offensive. He waved a little more convincingly this time as he sailed out of the door and into the downpour which he’d momentarily forgot about. Fat droplets splashed into his uncapped coffee and he stood there looking up into the grizzly sky and enjoyed an indulgent moment of self-loathing.

That was one of his Andy's other hobbies; apart from habitually lying to his wife and drinking too much coffee, he got some sort of sick pleasure from abusing his own psyche. It was a purification process which reminded him that just because he was the editor of well-established publication and was well respected (feared) by his peers and his wife, he was still as flawed, if not more so than, any other human being.