Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, But You Can Try.

It's a great pleasure to be living in London again. Yes it's noisy but it's got a vibe that only one other city across the Atlantic could match in my opinion. I went to Parliament this morning, having alighted the bus early due to traffic - a problem compounded by the emergency vehicles desperately trying to wriggle through to reach the foreboding concrete edifice of St Thomas' Hospital. I walked along the riverbank and crossed Westminster Bridge- thankfully tourist free at this time in the morning. I was due at Parliament to attend a working group on Nuclear Energy and the meeting was about New Build in the UK. In all honesty not much of huge interest was covered - I am still at that beginning stage in the job where I am starting to get to grips with the industry jargon and the different processes however there is still that part of me that feigns interest and instead tries to plan my holiday in my head - a much more fulfilling task.

Once the meeting came to an end, my colleague Mikey and I wondered into the House of Lords - a chamber of quite remarkable opulence (and a few sleepy lords) We briefly marveled at the architecture and the fact that we had been able to wonder in without security noticing, that was until the security guard (whose main weapon of terror were her abnormally large bosoms) sternly moved us on. A nice little out of office excursion which almost turned into a trip to the Tower of London!

One thing I am quietly pondering at the moment is the symbolic shift and general upheaval in my life that has occur ed since finishing university. I have moved, started a full-time job and completely broken with the way of life I was accustomed to leading before. Curiously my actual reality is a steady and straightforward existence- which goes in complete contrast to the symbolic and momentous change that has taken place in the last month. It is for this reason that I find myself enclosed in moments of panic in the most mundane of daily tasks. Yesterday whilst choosing yoghurt in Sainsbury's a sudden wave of dreariness and fatigue spread over me and my legs felt all a quiver. I am vaguely aware of the stress associated with picking one's brand of petit filous but on some level I sensed this unease to stem from a much deeper sense of panic - my subconscious telling me that my life has completely changed, therefore alarm bells sound because of the fact that my life is so calm and easy.

Another example is when traveling on the tube, I get hot. It's summer, it is warmer down there than most cattle would care to endure and so I do get ridiculously hot. But I then get nervous that people will notice me sweat. Therefore I sweat more until people notice the intense heat emanating from my body and think I am unwell. It's then that I start to hyperventilate and move towards the doors in the desperate attempt to escape. I sit at a tube station until I cool, I attempt the next tube and I arrive at work late every day. I say that though, but with each day it gets better and I get used to it. Welcome to London.

I don't miss Brighton and this isn't from a lack of sentimentality but rather it was time for me to move on and 4 years of being a student was enough - you can have too much of a good thing. (just wait till I've been in the job for 6 months, I'll be desperate to go back).

I have certain things that I want to do now I don't have the what was omnipresent degree work to do:

I want to cook more and experiment more. Up till now I have been quite successful with my culinary endeavours, however I don't feel I have delved enough into the luxurious, the greedy, the sickly and the explosive. That is what I shall do next.

I want to write more - but not just this old stuff, I want to try and get things published. Must endeavour to make contacts and network (must also endeavour to not make blog sound like Bridget Jones' Diary).

I want to eat healthily, maintain calm composure and sit in the lotus position at all possible times, blah blah blah - you get it.

I could go on, but with the danger of boring you to the point of minor paralysis I will instead stop and go and make something explosive. Thanks for reading. Oh, and please comment!

Gin and Titonic

I have just learned: Don't read your posts back. It's just embarrassing. Did I really say that? What was I taking?

I have just had a gin and titonic-yes, titonic. It's ice shaped like the ship that sank - except this one sinks into gin! I have a feeling if the poor people who perished on that doomed vessel had the chance to do it again, but this time in gin, they wouldn't hesitate to jump on board. Jordan Colyer bought me this novelty gift when the gin ladies came to stay in Brighton. It's a yearly tradition as all our birthdays are in June (bar one - but she didn't come this year so I exclude her - for this post only) We went to Carluccio's and made orgasmic noises throughout dinner, and then spent the rest of the evening making belching noises.

You see, here's a thing I'm going to relate to you because you will find out (most probably yourself deduce) very quickly: the gin ladies are going to hell. We are immoral, scathing, gin tongued horrors. And I LOVE it. Just the other night at a Clapham bar, we discussed mutual acquaintances and their lack of intelligence, we openly laughed at a woman who fell off a stair and we mocked a girl who thinks having constant windswept hair (including indoors) is a look to emulate. The fact she walks into things must surely tell her she should rethink her style.

I am normally a very moral person, and I think deep down so are the other gin ladies. However, being together is a good opportunity to rail against the stupidity of the world and most of the people in it - it's really very therapeutic.

Let me introduce you to the gin ladies:

Jessica Hitch is a gin swilling bitch. She works in Knightsbridge and tries to sell agas to dimwits and rich twits with no sense. She's very good at her job.

Jordan Colyer lowers the tone. She's markedly deaf in one ear so an innocent and chaste drink in Starbucks will quickly turn into a Colyer induced exodus as she discusses the ins and outs of something sexual (and mostly disgusting) all at a voice loud enough to blow the froth of someones latte three tables away.

Kate Mann gets drunk, and quickly so. Once sufficiently sozzled she doesn't hold back. There's no excuse when all the gin ladies are together - you will get an earful if you make the slightest error.

I am Matthew Parker. I don't like incompetence and neither do the other gin ladies, though of course we are ourselves the personification of incompetence; we can't get through a meal without spilling it on ourselves and I can't reach the end of a sentence without spraying an unfortunate person nearby with a good dose of saliva.

So there you are, in all our glory, I give you just a brief introduction to the fairly terrible but fabulous people that are the gin ladies. I thought it best to do so as we make good material for writing, therefore I have a feeling you'll be reading a lot more of our little tales from now on.

Thanks for reading.