I feel virtuous. I've already written my word-count for the day on the friends book, and this morning I was big and grown up and went to the dentist. I take back what I said about her before. The woman rocks.
I went in expecting the worst. After the wisdom tooth hell I had last week, I was due to get the results back on my X-rays. I'd mentally prepared myself for never, ever, ever getting onto the housing ladder because of the cost of getting my wisdom teeth sorted (a mate of mine has just been told it'll take £4,000 to fix his) so was very pleasantly surprised to learn that, other than the minor infection which cleared up after taking the antibiotics, they were fine. All I needed was a tiny head of a pin-sized filling - total cost £11.25. AND I had it done without anaesthetic. When the dentist said 'it's tiny - we can do it without anaesthetic, my first thought was 'you must be insane, woman, no way is anyone drilling into my poor teeth with a pointy thing without drugging me up to the eyeballs.' But she was persuasive. And it didn't hurt. Much.
I feel very jammy indeed, given that I hadn't been to a dentist for ten years and all that I had to suffer for it was one incy wincy filling. But from now on, I'll be sticking to the six-monthly trips, just to be on the safe side.
In other news, it would appear that drink/party season is once again in force in the PR world. Yesterday, I went to a PR event designed to make me think that beer is a good thing. This wasn't the hardest sell in the world, given that my previous perception of beer was that it was, err, a good thing. That said, it's even better when it's free beer. And it's best of all when it's served with a seven course meal, cooked by a celebrity chef, with a different beer for every course.
To be honest, I always feel a little uncomfortable relaxing at non-sex-industry PR events. Other journalists there were from The Telegraph, Evening Standard and that kind of thing - not really quite the same as Scarlet. A day reviewing sex toys is a tad different from a day reviewing restaurants, after all, and it's weird how unprofessional it can sound talking about my job to 'grown ups', compared to discussing a piece you've just written on, say, the election. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl saying 'willy' in class. But it was really good fun once everyone got hammered - and I think I've managed to persuade the celeb chef to get his kit off for the mag.
Tonight, I'm off to a tequila PR event (hmm, maybe I should write tomorrow's words for the book, just to be on the safe side. Tequila is a scary thing) and over the next few weeks, I seem to have an event every other day involving free alcohol; from a beer cocktail tasting to a Portugese wine tasting to the opening of a new bar. I just hope that I can remember what it is that I'm supposed to be writing about after all that booze.
So, I was good today. I had a bit of a lie in (that's not the good bit, although it was very nice) and then got up and started writing. All went well, and I've got myself two days ahead of schedule word-count-wise, which is ace as it means there's a chance I might just be able to get hammered over my birthday weekend and not think about work at all (yep, I turn 31 on 10th May so I'm getting distinct 'must be a grown up' pangs every few hours, which probably explains all the guilt)
I then decided, looking round my flat, that it needed a bit of moving around. Nothing major - just moving the wardrobe from my office (long story) to my bedroom. Which goes some way to explaining why I'm currently sitting surrounded by piles of books, items of clothing and random tat. I thought it would be so simple; empty wardrobe, move it to bedroom, move contents of wardrobe back inside it. I forgot one important thing. My wardrobe has become the furniture equivalent of a TARDIS, with me hurriedly shoving stuff into it whenever the office gets into a total tip and I remember I've got someone coming round to film/have dinner/indulge in crude activities/all of the above. As such, the contents, when removed from the wardrobe, took up most of my office.
Cue major clear out. I now have three bin-bags worth of stuff for the charity shop and two bags of rubbish. And a floor that is still covered with random tat. For the first half hour, it was fun clearing through stuff, not least because it brought back a load of memories as I stumbled across things that various exes had left behind (they had good taste in DVDs, I'll give them that) Among the other things that I need to get rid of, but am really not sure the charity shop is the best place for, are:
- A pair of knee high lace-up buckled black brand new biker boots (size 7). They're gorgeous but I foolishly bought them at the Erotica show when I was wasted. Through the haze of many lagers, they were comfortable and easy to walk in. Then I got them home. To break them in, I decided to wear them under my jeans to the corner shop (which is about 3 minutes from my house) By the time I got back, I was in agony. I am so not a high heel girl. Even if the heels are metal and pointy and kinkily stunning.
- A black PVC mini trenchcoat, bought in a charity shop on a whim. I realised when I tried it on in front of a mirror (it was £5 and I was in a rush, OK?) that it made me look like a hooker. And not in a good way.
- A full set of Loving Angles sex furniture I was given to review. I reviewed it. My flat is not big enough to accomodate it. This sucks.
- A pole dancing pole. Again, I was given it to review. Sadly, it needs to be screwed into the ceiling. I live in rented accomodation. My landlady would *really* not apprciate a pole-dancing pole screwed into the ceiling. She won't even let me put up book cases.
I would put them on Ebay but I'm crap at posting things because I never get the time to get to the post office. So, it looks like my local charity shop will resemble a high-class sex shop in a few weeks time when I get round to persuading a mate to drive me round there (see, another guilt thing - nearly 31 and still can't drive. I've lost track of the amount of things that I really need to get sorted in my life. Self-loathing is easier)
Anyway, the pile of rubbish in the floor isn't getting any smaller while I type, so I guess I'd better get back to it. Ho hum.
OK, I'm sorry, I've been crap and not posted anything for ages. I feel guilty - no, really, I do, and I'm not even Catholic. But it's been yet another month of intense activity, involving:
a) A day on a porn set, watching a woman go up to men on the street and ask if they'd like to take a gorgeous blonde up the arse. Most of the men ran away, terrified. I've written the full experience up for issue nine of Scarlet so I won't give too much away. However, some highlights of the day included measuring one of the male star's members (there are times when I really hate my job...) seeing another man boasting a ten inch long by seven and a half inch girth beast, and then chatting to his wife, who he works with, about how she takes it (apparently 'it's just a normal cock to me now.') I hope for her sake that they never split up as going back to reality after that may come as a shock. Then again, not nearly as much of a shock as the average woman - myself included - would get if they unzipped some bloke's trousers to encounter a penis that big and scary. Trust me, I saw it. Even soft, it was intimidating. OK, I admit it, and, had he not been married, a bit of a challenge.
b) Four days break in Devon. It was utter bliss. I was staying at my mum's timeshare, which is right on the beach in the middle of nowhere (well, compared to London) There's a pub within about 10 mins walking distance and a couple of restaurants (though when I was there, they closed at 9.30pm) but other than that, it's just nature. And surfers. In terms of perfect holiday destination, it ticks all my boxes. Particularly given that there's a swimming pool on the timeshare complex, so I got to feel all virtuous doing twenty lengths of the pool every day. Given that my usual exercise regime is Mon-Weds - go from flat to office and back; Thur-Sunday - walk from my computer to my kitchen and back again on coffee runs - I was pleasantly surprised that I could manage twenty lengths without dying. Then again, there was the incentive of the jacuzzi (sadly, it didn't come ready-stocked with surfers) which I let myself relax in only after I'd done my lengths.
I decided, after four days of getting up painlessly in the morning, going for a swim and feeling fantastic that life by the sea would probably be much better for me. Sadly, there's no decent internet connection round there yet, so unless I can get a sugar daddy by the sea then it'll remain a pipe-dream (and I know I'd be bored out of my mind if I was being supported by a sugar daddy. Not to mention that they tend to go for gorgeous young twenty-somethings rather than mouthy greying thirty-somethings. Ah well, just have to become a millionnaire and become a sugar mummy instead. If it didn't sound quite so twee.)
c) Returning to Scarlet and playing catch-up after the time off (even a few days makes a massive difference, promise). Luckily, we've got two fantastic new work experience people in, who are making life much easier. They're incredibly bright and easy to work with; it's great seeing a new generation of sex positive women out there. And it's exciting times too. We're already planning for the first birthday issue, which seems really strange. On the one hand, it feels like the magazine's been going forever (in a good way). I find it hard remembering a time when Scarlet wasn't a major part of my life. On the other, it seems like hardly any time since I was first sitting in a pub with the publisher coming up with ideas for how we'd put a sex magazine for women together.
d) Writing more of the frienship book. I'm now a third of the way through it and can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Which is fortunate, given that I've only got until the 30th June to get it done. Scarily, it's already on Amazon which only serves to remind me that I must get it finished. And soon.
Added into it all, my wisdom tooth decided to make itself unpleasantly known. Every time it starts sulking, I can't help but think 'surely this should have happened years ago?' I guess I was too busy reviewing sex toys to pay attention before (reviewing, wanking, same deal. Well, actually, not the same deal. Have you got any idea how hard it is to have an orgasm when you're simultaneously having to record exactly why it is that said toy is giving you an orgasm. Is it the clit stimulation? The way it strokes the G-spot? The sensation against the pubic mound? Does it, in fact, have anything to do with the toy at all or is it just that you're ensconced in a particularly sordid fantasy about that guy you've just met who has the cute smile. OK, the stunning bulge, but it could have been the smile...) Then again, I still tend to spend my spare time indulging in masturbation - taking my work home because there's no way I can do it in the office - so why my wisdom tooth decided to make my life hell and take my mind off the task in hand is beyond me. But it did.
End result: I went to the dentist for the first time in ten years. Yes, I know that's bad and I should have gone on a regular basis over that time. See, yet more Catholic guilt (maybe my mum had something going on with the vicar - do they have vicars or are they called something else in the Catholic church? - that she never told me about) The dentist prodded my teeth and said scary-sounding things like 'tooth one: errupting' and 'tooth two: collusive' I'm sure she said collusive anyway, though the only thing I could think that it was colluding with was the dentist, when I got the bill for £40, when all she'd done was clean my teeth (which I'd already done that morning so I reckon I should've got a discount) and prod around a bit, before writing me a prescription for antibiotics and some gel stuff to make the pain stop. Yes, the prescription was great and did its job. But as I had to pay £9.30 to the pharmacist for it, and I'm pretty sure that she only wrote three words on the prescription pad,but charged me £5 for writing a prescription, that makes her word-rate £1.66 per word. That's more than I get - and I write for a living. And it wasn't even spell-checked.
So, after the dentist prodding around, my wisdom tooth decided to take offence and my face swelled up like a hamster's. I was in constant pain and had to cancel a trip I had planned, which was gutting because escaping London is a good thing - the Devon fix reminded me of how much I'm a country girl at heart. So, I've spent most of the Bank Holiday lying in bed, wiped out by the antibiotics and unable to speak because my face was too swollen. The antibiotics also meant I couldn't drink: being unable to speak or drink removed half of my raison d'etre. And as I couldn't write (I was in too much pain while awake to focus on anything other than finding painkillers) or have sex (come on, swollen face is hardly an attractive look...) that was most of the rest of the d'etres gone too.
But today, I woke up in bliss. The pain had (mostly) gone, the swelling had died down and I could both write and speak. As such, I've spent the bulk of the day alternating working with chatting to mates. I've managed to get up to date with the various book proposals I've been asked to write, as well as getting enough of my friendship book written to no longer feel my stomach swirl at the mere thought of it. Tomorrow, I have two choices: plough through more writing so that I might be able to take a weekend by the seaside sometime soon, or spend the day relaxing so I get some semblance of Bank Holiday. I hope that I wake up motivated enough to go for the former. But taking a break is nice.