The Secret Weapon

So I've decided that I'm not getting ready with Drag Queens in future. Here's a list of reasons why:

1. She takes 4 times as long to get ready
2. And gets way more attention than you upon arrival
3. Her professional makeup artist leaves you to do your own makeup, and then looks pityingly at you as you're about to leave and says, sadly, "oh honey. I wish I could have done your makeup too"
4. Everyone gets carried away with their lipliner and apple martini's, and forgets about what time you are supposed to be leaving. When reminded, their rejoinder is, "it's better to turn up late, than turn up ugly"
5. And nobody can argue with a Drag Queen on THAT

Whilst I'm in a list-type mood, here's the main differences between a Christmas party at the BBC and a Christmas party in the fitness industry:

1. Instead of taking Class A's, half the party are on steroids or pre-workout
2. There are no directors hoping to persuade an intoxicated executive producer to give them a Block on their new period drama
3. But there ARE lots of group fit instructors, hoping to persuade an intoxicated GFM to give them a BODYPUMP class in Studio 1
4. Everyone has coordination. You get shown up on the dance floor by all the SH'BAM and BODYJAM instructors doing their latest choreo to Iggy Azalea
5. This never happened in Letherbridge

In a fit of being New Zealand-y, I made the calamitous error of signing up to our work touch rugby team. WHY? I hear you cry! Well, I don't know to be honest; except that at the time the email came round the season seemed really far away and I was obviously in a positive, go-getter kind of mood. And last summer I frequently drove past all these rugby teams playing and they all seemed so happy and outdoorsy and I got happy-outdoorsy FOMO. Anyway, I signed up under the clear understanding that we would have lunchtime practise sessions and someone would explain the rules to me. Neither of which eventuated and thus I found myself thrust onto the pitch (field?) last week in a state of complete naivety, having YOUTUBED it 10 minutes before in desperation to find a video of some 15 year old girl in Wisconsin explaining the rules. Well, it was a complete and utter disaster. I forward passed, I couldn't catch the ball, and the captain (leader?) just kept telling me to "go wide". As in, "go wide, AWAY FROM THE BALL YOU IDIOT". It was the longest 24 minutes of my life. What made it worse was the high expectations of the boys on the team. They had told me before the game, "you're athletic, you teach GRIT, you'll probably be our secret weapon!"

Trust me, I was nobody's weapon. Well, unless you count the opposing team.

In other news, apparently New Zealand is leading the globe in chlamydia. So that's nice to hear for Christmas. I told Little Show who chipped in with, "and gonorrhea is making its way up from Hamilton". Like it's an STI that has caught the bus, and is on its way to Auckland for its hollybobs. Hurray!

On a related topic, my flatmate quizzed her male friends recently about what precipitates men to call women at 3am after a night out. Apparently it's dependent on the following 3 reasons:

1. He's drunk and therefore he thinks he looks hot. Even if he's in Pizza Planet with grease on his chin.
2. He needs to get home and can't afford a taxi.
3. He wants sex.

(The order of the above can change - depending on priority).

And here's the best news I've read all week. The next time someone posts a Selfie of their abs....

Facebook is thinking about adding a way to "dislike" posts on its site, founder Mark Zuckerberg has said.

Speaking at a Q&A session in California, he said it was one of the most requested features the social network receives from its users.

He said the site would need to find a way to make sure it did not become a way to demean people's posts.

According to Facebook's own figures, 4.5 billion "likes" are generated every day.

"One of things we've thought about for quite a while is what's the right way to make it so that people can easily express a broader range of emotions," Mark Zuckerberg told an audience at Facebook's headquarters.

OVERHEARD AT THE MILL

GROUP FITNESS INSTRUCTOR: And now it's time to put the final hammer in the coffin....

(sigh)

Just You?

Last week I discovered a horrifying truth that has shaken my soul to its very core. It is this: the character of Bridget Jones, in the first movie, was aged 32. I will be turning 34 imminently. I AM NOW OFFICIALLY SIGNIFICANTLY OLDER THAN BRIDGET JONES.

Every time I have watched that movie (I'm not watching it every night or anything, but it's fair to say I've seen it a few times) it is the opening scene that disturbs me the most. The film opens with Bridget, just finishing watching an episode of 'Frasier', then singing along to "All By Myself". The fact is, I love Frasier. I love it so much that, alongside the complete series of Columbo 1-4, I shipped it all the way to New Zealand. So I hate the scriptwriters for now permanently making me feel like a sad loser every time I tune in to the hilarious exploits of Daphne and Niles. Bastards. Who is the production idiot who got clearance to show that footage, I'd like to know? Anyhoo, I digress. The point is this: I always felt confident in my youthful vigor. And now I discover that not only have I BEEN Bridget for the last few years, I am in fact now Post-Bridget. I am Bridget A.D. WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

To avoid turning into Miss Hannigan, I have found myself engaging in several activities outside of my normal comfort zone. I went to a whiskey tasting night a few weeks ago, and discovered more than I ever expected (or wanted) to know about peat, cask strength and Scotland. My take-away from that night is this: it's way more fun just drinking with friends. It's way less fun analysing which isle it is from and how the taste has "significantly changed" since the family altered their methods of manufacture. And everyone was taking notes on the caramel tones or salty undertaste of the samples. Feeling somewhat lacking, I devised my own ingenious system; one tick for "quite like", two ticks for "oooh! this aged 30 years one is quite good". I am, like, soooooo sophisticated since I turned 89. Anyway, the tasting went on. And on. And on.  Just when I thought it was all over, they said "and now it's time for the Mystery Malt! Who can guess where this is from?" For the love of God, who cares?!

(Apparently most of the room, judging by the excitement that ensued).

Then, on a whim, I went to Fiji for a weekend by myself. And upset the entire island, including airport staff, by going on my own. If one more person asked me "Just you? By yourself?" I was going to punch them in the c#*%. Actual. It all started with the girl at the airport check in who said "you're going all by yourself? That's brave!" Is it? How are we defining bravery? I'll tell you what brave is: brave is getting the 834 bus to school in Handsworth every day by way of Winson Green (home of the infamous 'Benefits Street'). Brave is venturing out on Broad Street on a Saturday night in the depths of January without tights or a jacket cause you don't want to pay for the coat-check. And brave is working every Saturday in Topshop where you have to endure the wrath of the pre-menopausal general manager and the travellers who want to return a pair of jeans with blood in the gusset, claiming they've not been worn. That's bravery where I come from. Going to a beautiful tropical island for 3 nights by yourself? Not so much.

Which brings me nicely onto Tinder. I went on my second Tinder date last night - as in, I've now been on 2 Tinder dates with different blokes. I think I'm giving up. They've both been "nice", it's "fine" but to be honest it's so damn dull. I know people who go online dating all the time, how on earth do they stand the tedium? I have decided that these people must have a special Dating Interest gene that I am missing. And, aside from the very real possibility of being raped and murdered by a Tinder date, it's kind of hard to sort the wheat from the chaff. I saw a 19 year old on there the other day with the tagline "I'm looking for a part-time job over the summer holiday". Er, did you mean to post this on SEEK and got confused? I've also seen several personal trainers touting for clients. And the guy I met last night told me he was "pleasantly surprised" that I actually looked like my photo. Apparently this is fairly uncommon on Tinder. WTF.

In short, I have decided that I would much rather watch re-runs of Frasier all by myself. And I'm OK with that.

OVERHEARD AT THE MILL

INSTRUCTOR: Now you may want to pull out now, but I like to keep it in the butt.

(You can steal that one.)

Desperately Seeking Normal

You can all breathe again, cause I've finally joined Tinder. I may have come to 21st century technology relatively late - making the bold move from my Nokia 360 to a Samsung Galaxy S5 in a heady leap that, quite frankly, still terrifies me - but I am now all 2014 on my dating. At least I will be, once I've found someone who looks vaguely normal/ my age. I'm not sure if this is a New Zealand thing, or a worldwide phenomenon, but there is NOBODY on the site between the ages of 25 and 42. Seriously. There's like a million 18 and 19 year olds on there (well, maybe not a million, this is New Zealand after all), a few 22-23 year olds, and then suddenly it's Frank, 45, who moved to Auckland from Scunthorpe cause he's into watersports. And then I get all confused wondering if that's meant to be a euphemism.

So where are all the normal 30-something year olds? Surely they can't ALL be happily married? It's very disappointing. And the guys who are on there are either trying to be terribly witty: "I'm part Husky, part mountaineer, 53% daydreamer - you do the math" - WTF - or cryptic: "ask and I shall answer", or just a little too hardcore Kiwi: "hrdout Aoteroan [various lines in Maori] give me your numbr bro". And why can't ANYBODY spell? Your and you're are different words people, and no, it's not an excuse that you've sent it from your iPhone. Perhaps you should spend a little less time swiping right and a great deal more on improving your grip of the English language. And why do so many guys include photos of their car? TINDER IS MAKING ME QUESTION EVERYTHING!

Dating out here is tricky though. I've been told by numerous Kiwi women that New Zealand men are way too shy and ambiguous, and you never know if you're actually dating them or just being their "mate". The Physio told me that, as far as he could see, in England dating constitutes "getting drunk and finding a shag". Yes. This is a tried-and-trusted method that has worked for us for centuries. The other species to be found on dating websites is Bitter Man. His tagline will typically read "Im not interested in time-wasters and if your only on here for your ego dont bother getting in touch". Wow, that really makes me want to contact you. You sound as if you might torture me. I actually went on a date with this particular breed of man last year, and it was the longest 45 minutes of my life. He seemed furious that he'd not yet found his future wife and interrogated me at length about my dating history. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, we walked out onto the street and he bumped into a colleague. As I stood there waiting awkwardly to escape, he gestured to me and said "hey, I'm on one of those Findsomeone dates!" Yes, you certainly are. Someone. Anyone....

Let's talk about the Little People. And no, I don't mean me. I am pleased to tell you I have not one but TWO dwarf-themed anecdotes for you. The first is my new favourite expression from Spain to refer to things going wrong - "monto un circo y me crecen los enanos", which roughly translates to "the dwarves in my circus are growing". AMAZING. The second is my teaching cue that went slightly awry. I was team teaching GRIT with The Dutch and decided, since we're both pretty small, that I would issue a "Midget Challenge" - i.e., everyone in the class has to beat our reps. Sadly, I had failed to take account of the actual dwarf standing in the front row. I said "Midget Challenge" several times. Apparently the majority of the class thought that I was picking on him. The Dutch said it was almost as bad as the time an American instructor taught BODYCOMBAT to a Jewish community and told them to "fight like a Nazi" - whereupon they all just stopped and stared at her.

I think my Mum would have appreciated the following: the book club that she attended last year held a session last week dedicated to a novel that she had chosen before her death, 'Things Fall Apart'. Her friend emailed me to relate the following:

"One member who - to say the least - is not very popular, asked me why Kathy had not emailed with her views on the book, which is normal practise if you cannot attend. I took the opportunity to remind her that as Kathy had died in November, that had not been possible. She was mortified at her error/ forgetfulness... and I doubt will ever speak again".

That's worse than my Midget comment, right?


Overheard at the Mill

GAY PT: I'm really broken. In fact, I think I just dislocated my uterus.

The Israeli Cardigan

Revelation #17: Forgetting Sarah Marshall has completely ruined Cheerios for me forever. I realise the severity of this allegation, and I don't take this standpoint against one of the world's best-loved breakfast foods lightly. However, today I decided I am doing NOTHING. It's almost 12pm and I've not even showered yet. I don't think this has happened since 2003. In the spirit of chilling out I decided to have two bowls of Cheerios. Yes, I know how to break out. Anyway, somehow the second bowl turned three (what the hell do they put in those bad boys?) and it brought to mind that scene where Jason Segel is slobbing on the couch, eating Cheerios out of a gigantic mixing bowl, and I had a vision of my future in which my beautiful girlfriend (played by someone less annoying than Kristen Bell) will leave me for Russell Brand. And I'll have to go to Honolulu and perform some mortifying dance in a grass skirt. All of a sudden, breakfast had taken an unexpected ugly turn.

Of course, there are several differences between my life and the movie. For one thing, I'm pretty sure that Jason Segel is significantly taller than me. And I don't have a girlfriend (played by Kristen Bell). Or, in fact, have lesbionic inclinations. A fact belied by my welcome each morning by The Gay Frog, "good morning my little lesbian friend!"

(sigh)

Whilst we are talking about The Office, let's chat about The Israeli Cardigan. Israeli Cardigan is a 7 foot giant of a man, with the waistline of Kate Moss. The other day he waltzed into the office in his knee length black shorts (about the length of my legs) and picked up a suspiciously feminine-looking grey cardigan. He draped it over himself - it almost grazed the top of his knees. I want to say that it also had frills, but that's probably just my little camp imagination getting ahead of itself. He paused, looked down at himself and pronounced, in a thick Israeli accent: " I think I should put some jeans on. I think I look homeless".

Or ready to be sectioned. You know, either-or.

I told The Physiotherapist that I have to come the conclusion that, in life, most people are kind but boring. He looked astounded and replied "you think most people are kind? I think most people are utterly wrapped up in themselves, bordering on being complete and utter sociopaths". Oh right. I have since revised my theory to conclude that most people are weird, but it's that weirdness that makes life worth living. They''re everywhere, these acts of irregularity. Like the member who didn't want to leave the gym at closing time, so he hid from the gym instructors and ended up being locked in. He would have still been there in the morning if it wasn't for the unassuming cleaner who heard the THUMP THUMP of his solitary footsteps on the treadmill at 3am. Then there's Anne - the mad Scottish 70-something year old, who washes her clothes in the gym shower at 945pm. I once walked through the circuit room to find her determinedly marching away on the cross trainer, completely alone, whilst Daft Punk's "I'm up all night to get lucky" incongrouslu cheered her on. And Mikey told me about one of his customers at the cafe, Patricia, who greets the staff each day with "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey Teeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaammmmmm" and, no matter how many times it occurs, is continuously delighted and surprised to discover that she can have her muffin toasted.

Overheard at The Mill

How to insult 2 employees in one easy sentence:

MANAGER: Hey Sarah, are you like (the Cheerleader), you don't have a life either?

It's not often I'm lost for words.

It's OK if you shout Surprise Sex

So last weekend ushered in a reminder of a key tool when it comes to Making Friends On Your GRIT Module: namely, know your audience. The worst part of participating in any course is 'Round the Room Reveal an Interesting Fact About Yourself'. It's always at this point that I realize: I'm not interesting. My life has been one long, utterly dull, Devoid Of Any Interesting Facts yawn. Really I should be dead. Anyway, I tried to warm up the crowd with a little New Zealand jokette - "Hi, I'm Sarah, I'm from Birmingham, I've been in Auckland 18 months which means I've just about got used to your vowel sounds".

Nobody laughed. It was not unlike the time at the BBC when I related the 'Rape is OK If....' story, assuming that we were all on the same Non-PC page. Turns out not everybody finds the hilarity in the suggestion "Rape is OK if you shout 'Surprise Sex' first".... You live and learn. Anyway, I came home after the course finished and embraced my English side. By which I mean I listened to Blur Live in Hyde Park and watched 'Straw Dogs' - all about English men gang raping and pillaging.

That's really all I want out of my visual entertainment.

In other news, I have lost my library book. I'm fairly devastated. And scared of the women in the library. I realise that this must happen with a reasonable degree of frequency and probably you just pay a fine and everybody moves on. But I have an alarming suspicion that there's some kind of Room 101 that you get sent to when you lose a library book. Where they torture you by saying "SHHHHHHHH!" and glare at you in a Miss Hardbroom manner. Even worse, the book was Dante's Inferno. That's right, I not only lost a book, I lost A CLASSIC. I decided, having not looked at anything vaguely Literary Canon since Paradise Lost in the second year of uni, that it was high time for a change. I don't mind telling you, I felt pretty smug. Naturally, I had to renew it after a month because I had only got to Canto 5 out of 34, but I felt confident that Dante and I would make it to the centre of Hell before it was time for Classic to be returned. Anyway. Somewhere in my journeys between office and flat, flat and gym, office and gym, Classic got misplaced.

Light reading for the weights room, perhaps.

There is only one thing that strikes more terror into my heart than The Library Women, and that is having to ask the receptionist which tray to use for New Zealand post. I had thought she was so friendly and helpful when I started, until the day I had to ask about postal trays.

"Sarah, have I given you a flow chart?"
"Er... no"
"OK, I'll give you a laminated one. So it'll last. Now just ask yourself, where is my post going? Is it in Auckland? Is it outside of New Zealand? And all you have to do it follow the flow chart".

I made the rookie mistake of asking her about the post a few weeks later - idiot that I am. She lowered her glasses... "Sarah, did I give you a flow chart?"
"Yes...."
"Well, if you refer to the flow chart, you will see where it needs to go". And back she went to her Pinterest page.

Obviously, I have now lost the laminated flow chart. And thus I will not be sending any post for the foreseeable future.

Overheard at The Mill

Little Show's Coaching Model for Twerking

Setup

• Lift hips and drop back
• Do not merely thrust forward and back - THIS IS NOT A TWERK
• Relax glutes
• Target - quads
• Push knees far too wide
• Relax abs and glutes

Intensity

• Sit as low as humanly possible
• Lift hips up and back - really push your butt back
• Again, relax glutes
• They are supposed to bounce and clap together
• Drop hips and lift again at speed

Motivation/ Connection

• Miley Cyrus

What's your definition of Epic?

Let's talk about bleeding. Chhaupaudi: (from Wikipedia)  is a tradition in Nepal for Hindu women which prohibits a woman from participating in normal family activities during menstruation because they are considered impure. The women are kept out of the house and have to live in a shed. During this time, women are forbidden to touch men or even to enter the courtyard of their own homes. They are barred from consuming milk, yogurt, butter, meat, and other nutritious foods, for fear they will forever mar those goods. The women must survive on a diet of dry foods, salt, and rice. They cannot use warm blankets, and are allowed only a small rug. This system comes from the superstition of impurity during the menstruation period. In this superstitious logic, if a menstruating woman touches a tree it will never again bear fruit; if she consumes milk the cow will not give any more milk;  if she touches a man, he will be ill.

I'm opening this post with this thought because, whilst I don't want to live in a shed for 7 days or be banned from eating KiwiYo (perish the thought), I definitely think there is something to be said for keeping those women On The Blob separate from the rest of society. It would benefit everyone. Speaking for myself, I could get all my crying and thoughts of suicide done in peace. I wouldn't feel homicidal when my colleague crunches their apple too loudly. For everyone else, they would be spared an angry little raincloud who spends the first 48 hours of menstruation scowling and wishing that everyone, including herself, would hurry up and die.

Just a thought. (Happy Easter).

In other non-menstrual news, I'm a bit concerned that I have propelled myself from early-30s straight into what could be classed as 'pre-death'. This discovery is based on the last 48 hours: instead of playing 'Shag/ Marry/ Kill', Deepthi and I spent a quiet Tuesday afternoon playing Soduko and discussing the merits of the apostrophe; my evening companion of choice is BBC Radio 4 ('Book of the Week'); I opted to buy Time magazine over NW at the airport. Most damning is this - on the plane to Queenstown, I happened to glance over at the magazine being read by the white-haired gentleman beside me. The first article I saw was all about the new headquarters of the BBC and how they are very similar to the Gates of Hell. "Ooooh" I thought, "fascinating" craning to see what the magazine was called. It was only when he was reading a different article on the history of Spitting Image (another article I would decidedly like to have read) that I managed to see the title of the magazine. Down on the left-hand bottom of the page - Oldies.

That's right. Whilst I may appear for all purposes to be in the mid-morning of my life - let's call it elevenses - I am, in fact, in the twilight/ evening/ very-close-to-pub-lock-in-hour.

I think this crisis of age has been aggravated by my 23 year old flatmate's recent pre-parties at our flat. I came home last Saturday to find, at 5pm, she was already passed out in bed. Her friends, meanwhile, were playing drinking games in the lounge - 2 girls and a boy. The girls ignored me, the boy (very generously) invited me to join in. Then he asked me if I had enjoyed my run. "I've not been for a run". "But you're going, right?" No, no. I just like wearing short shorts, thanks. Meanwhile one of the girls started shrieking, berating the boy "WHY AREN'T YOU GETTING WASTED? I FEEL LIKE YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO GET WASTED!!! COME ON!! DRINK SOME MORE!!!!"

I made my chamomile tea and trotted downstairs, trying to remind myself that, at 23, my friends and I were drinking Snakebite and Black and vomiting down ourselves in Bar Risa. Ah, come back 2004, all is forgiven.

In other news, I visited 'Spookers' a few weeks ago, have you heard of it? I was invited for a friend's birthday and thought, oooh yes, I've always enjoyed the Haunted House at Alton Towers, that sounds like a lark. Well. It was only on the way there, in Queer as Folk in a car, that I was informed that the venue used to be an actual mental asylum that had been converted into a tourist attraction, and that actors were playing the parts of 'Scary People'. I still didn't quite get it until we started walking round said mental asylum and actual people were coming up, touching us, screaming in our faces, and following us from room to room. We had been given the instruction that, if you didn't want to be touched, you simply had to hold up your hand and say "stop". Clearly, I forgot this as soon as we got in, and thus spent a very freaked out 2 hours being chased around the haunted house and pitch-black cornfield by adrenaline-pumped actors wielding prop chainsaws. I managed the first 2 attractions. Then we got to Disturbia. Full of Clowns. I took one look at the darkened entrance and said "THAT'S IT! I've had it. I'm going to get a pizza by myself". And thus missed out on both Disturbia and Clautrophobia.

Which I'm totally alright with.

Overheard at The Mill

CHOREOGRAPHER: If I told you to teach a track 3 like a track 8 how would you teach it?
ME: Er, like a blow-out?
CHOREOGRAPHER: You'd teach it like a journey, right?
ME: OK...
CHOREOGRAPHER: And how do you think it'd make the rest of the class feel?
ME: Really flat cause you'd peaked in track 3.
CHOREOGRAPHER: I think it'd make the rest of the class EPIC!!

Oh right. Yeah. Epic.

The Secret Farmer

So let's talk about farming. Or, to be more precise, let's talk about how it's turned out that all New Zealanders are, in fact, secret farmers. It's been very confusing, living in Auckland, getting to know so-called 'Aucklanders'. It's a bit like London i.e. nobody is really from here. They TELL you they're from Auckland, they fox you into thinking they're City Mice, and then one day, in the middle of a convo about Paleo muffins, they casually say, "yeah, well, growing up on the farm blah blah blah..." and completely throw you with their knowledge of lanolin. You know how in England it's safe to assume that everyone has, at one stage or another, fallen asleep in the kebab shop? Well, same goes for New Zealanders. They've all, at some point in childhood, branded a cow. This to the point that, during a recent GRIT class, the instructor told everyone to pump their arms "like you're milking a cow". And apparently this wasn't a weird cue to use - everyone duly worked harder. Can you imagine saying that to a class at Fitness4Less in Smethwick?

Mmmmm hmmmm. I didn't think so.

I have a smart phone, yay.... Or (more accurately) I have a fuck-I-now-have-to-figure-out-what-the-hell-it-does phone... I am a sneaking suspicion that said smart phone is, in fact, considerably smarter than its owner, and could, if it put its evil little smart brain to it, take over the world. It could definitely find the missing Malaysia Airwaves flight 370. In fact it's probably behind its disappearance. It's a Samsung Galaxy 4S which Seth in Vodafone assured me is "awesome". (Of course he did, he's a phone salesman working in New Zealand). I actually felt reasonably knowledgeable and empowered at the point of sale. I nodded with confidence when he talked to me about WHATSAPP and Spotify. We shared banter over iPhone keyboards and text alerts. I felt strong, I felt powerful, I felt 21st century: yes, YES LITTLE SMART PHONE! TOGETHER WE CAN DO THIS!

Then I realised that the user guide is 147 pages. Or, more accurately, Deepthi found it for me and told me, "do you know you have a user guide on here? It's all online". Of course it is. I feel like the book reader who is being forced to use a Kindle against her will. In fairness I like the bigger screen. And the fact that I can now phone someone for more than 2 minutes without my credit running out. But, let's be honest. Now that I have SEVEN ways that people can communicate with me (Whatsapp, Facebook messenger, Facebook, Viber, texting, Gmail, Hotmail) are more people contacting me? Of course they're not. As far as I can see, the main advantage so far is that I can send people stickers of excitable looking cats. Or a grumpy teenager called Violet. And it's such a waste of time to be constantly checking them all (and NO, I don't really understand how to turn on my notifications. That should be self-evident). Do you remember that scene in 'He's Just Not that into You' when Drew Barrymore's character bewails her many channels of communication?

"I had this guy leave me a voice mail at work, and so I called him at home, and he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It's exhausting."

Yep. Pretty much. And Smart Phone has also turned me into one of those awful people whose phones go off in the middle of a very quiet theatre monologue because I don't understand how to turn it off. And I kicked the feet of a disabled man in a wheelchair as I was racing to get out of the theatre because I was so mortified by its magical rainbow sounding text alerts. I really hope God is sympathetic to Android-owner-morons.

So I was going to conclude with a little piece on missing home and watching Coro (yes, I now call it Coro) when I'm feeling nostalgic for the UK but then I opened Ovarian Gossip (you know what I mean) and read the following, incredible, stop-press news:

In an exciting twist to The Big Reunion 2014, we introduce the super group 5th Story.

The new band, formed of solo artists Dane Bowers, Kenzie, Kavana, Gareth Gates and Adam Rickitt will see the members bring unique insights into the fickle world of fame.

Will this be the start of something special, or will rivalries destroy them before they begin?

Is anyone else really REALLY excited about this? The last time I saw Dane Bowers he was duetting with Victoria Beckham and True Steppers on the classic 'Out of Your Mind' - I remember this because I emulated her outfit at the time: black PVC handkerchief top, pink sunglasses. (We were practically twins, except, of course, mine was from Topshop). And Adam Rickitt has had quite the enviable career - Nick Tilsley on the tiles; naked in a perspex box; some bloke on Shortland Street; a cover on our local magazine Edgbaston News circa 2012, talking about saving the animals; and now he's in the hopefully dubbed 'super group' 5th Story.

Never let it be said that ITV writers don't have a sense of humour.

Overheard on the Gym Floor

Me: You'll be pleased to hear I got my period.

Gay PT: I've had my period 24/7 for the last 32 years. I've been an uninhabitable womb my entire life.

Aw.....

I'd fancy you if I were Lesbian

So I have one mission for 2014: to get a smartphone. Or, to be more precise, to get a smartphone and ACTIVELY LEARN HOW TO USE IT. I have been told - for at least a year now - that getting an iPhone will change my life. On numerous occasions The Gays have threatened that, until I own an iPhone, "you can't sit with us". My current resolve is the result of this morning's conversation with the Asian Princess; I was bemoaning the fact that people send me Multimedia messages which I can't see - I just get a text saying 'Unable to receive Multimedia message'. Her response was that NODODY uses the word 'multimedia' and, in fact, nobody actually texts any more. In fact the last text message she sent was to West Midlands Transport to check the bus times - apparently it's all about WHATSAPP. Er, WHATEVER. The conversation concluded with my suggesting that, when it comes to smartphones, I am like the BHS of keeping up with the times. But no. According to Princess, that's far too kind a comparison - I am far more like Borders i.e. obselete. As she put it, "everybody liked Borders, Borders didn't do anything wrong, in fact Borders was more fun than old stuffy Waterstones.... but Borders couldn't keep up with the times and it had to shut down".

Oh right.

(Speaking of The Gays, I refuse to turn this blog into The Gay Times, but I do need to recount a conversation - convo - that occurred with The Gay Frog last week). As everybody knows, it's an unspoken agreement between Straight Girls and Gay Men that, if Gay Man were straight, he would fancy you. Actually, it often IS a spoken agreement, usually after a few Appletini's, when Straight Girl is despairing of ever finding a partner and Goodlooking Gay Man reassures her, "don't worry, you'll find someone, I'd definitely sleep with you if I were straight". That's the way the universe works. Well, apparently not everyone got the memo. Gay Frog opened the dialogue by sending me an advert for Grabone - for cheap boob jobs in Thailand. Point A - never a good way to endear yourself to Straight Girl. Conversation duly followed about the Vagina and I said, "yeah, but you'd obviously fancy me if you were straight, right?".... "Er, I'm not sure.... maybe". WTF. He then tried to pacify a clearly outraged little Jew by adding, "I'd definitely fancy you if I were a lesbian". Brilliant.

I would like to continue my Compare and Contrast theme of working in fitness vs. working at the BBC. Clearly, food is a main point of difference. I don't think I ever saw anyone in telly ever skip a meal. (Apart from the actresses, but that's another blog post). Let's juxtapose this fact against a statement I heard in the office last week - "I'm hungry. I ended up missing lunch, but I still have half a Paleo meal left over from yesterday". I actually think you would be sacked - on the spot - if you uttered this phrase in any decent production office in the Greater West Midlands region. In point of fact, I recently received an email from a BBC colleague that read as follows:

Been going swimming on a Monday and in the kids' pool is an aqua aerobics session where the instructor makes you look laid back - if I hear her 'woo' once more I'll throw a toaster into the water.

2nd point of difference: enthusiasm.

On the plus side I have discovered a game which is universally received whether you're working at the BBC or for an Elite Fitness Company - everybody loves to play 'Shag/ Marry/ Kill'. You give someone the choice of 3 people (you can do celebrities, but it's way more fun with people you actually know) and they have to decide who they want to marry, who they want to shag, and who they would like to kill. Or were you expecting something more intellectual?

The longer I am in New Zealand, the more I realise that everybody knows each other. I mean, EVERYBODY. I reckon Auckland must be like 2 degrees of Separation. You have to be really careful when gossiping - cause chances are you're slagging off their aunty. The upside of this is that all the criminals get caught. You know how in England a newspaper report on a murder/ rape will conclude "The police continue their investigations"? So that never happens in New Zealand. The article generally finishes by stating, "The suspect was apprehended buying Iced Coffee in a dairy in Whangaparaoa". I'm telling you, 'Crimewatch' would never have been commissioned in Aotearoa.


Overheard in RPM

AUSTRALIAN INSTRUCTOR: "Come on, add some more resistance. You gotta toughen up, Princess".

And that's how they roll in the southern hemisphere....

The Drag Queen

So I have come to the realization that, at the age of 33, I have no husband, no children, and no prospect of gaining these appendages anytime soon. I don't have life insurance, a pension, nor a pet. I am not a home owner. In fact the only thing I own, beyond the furniture in my bedroom, is a (pretty funky) red toaster. And a set of baking teaspoons. And three wigs. I have reached my early thirties unencumbered with partner or offspring, but I have somehow managed to acquire (and keep) 2 pink wigs and one long blonde one.  And yet I manage to lose my HMRC tax log in code every year. WTF.

I thoroughly blame Deepthi for my completely useless selection of hair. Or, to be more precise, I blame her for the second pink wig. The first was purchased for The Hookers' Ball at Discovery Nightclub in Darwin, circa 2006. I was going for Natalie Portman in 'Closer'. Nobody got it. Although I did manage to pull the winner of Australian Big Brother 2005 with it. Mmmmm hmmmm, nothing but A-Listers. That's my second celebrity pull claim to fame. (The first is from Coronation Street. But I'm waiting til I get really poor with that one and can sell my 'night of deviant passion with well-known Corrie star' to The Sun. Or, more accurately, 'he ate Doritos and then tried to initiate intercourse under a Christmas tree in Salford').

But I digress. The second wig (blonde) was purchased, at great expense, for my 30th 'Sex, Drugs and Rocknroll' party. I decided to be Marianne Faithfull. Once again, nobody got it. The conversation generally went like this:

GUEST: Happy birthday! Who are you?
ME: Marianne Faithfull! (DUH)
GUEST: Who?
ME: You know, she dated Mick Jagger, sang 'The ballad of Lucy Jordan' from the Thelma and Louise soundtrack....
GUEST: Who?

That was fun. I should have copied my friend Ed's example and gone as Ozzy Osborne. EVERYONE knew who he was.

So the third wig is for next weekend - Jem and The Holograms. In writing this post I've come to the realization that I now own more wigs than most drag queens. I could probably advertise my services as the Go To girl for most of Auckland's transvestite needs. It's all Deepthi's fault - what with her talk of corsets and FM heels and huge hair.... this is the last time I allow a drag queen to give me advice on clothes and make-up. I am still recovering from the time I allowed my friend Phil to give me eyeshadow tips when he was going through his 'Miss Pippa' phase and advised me to wear a white base with bright red overlaid at the corners. I thought I looked amazing until a colleague asked me, in a shocked tone of voice, why my eyes were bleeding?

So I was talking to The Physio about classes and told him how The Sonchuation had personified the programs in the following way a few years ago:

BODYPUMP – Raoul Moat. Sounds extreme, but she said she feels like it is a mean, threatening program, who is going to shoot you if you don’t lift the weight it orders.

BODYATTACK – the jock in the changing room who is thwacking you with a wet towel, daring you to go harder and more energetic.

BODYCOMBAT – Beyonce. Because it’s on your side.

We discussed it further and decided that in fact you could also compare the classes to novels:

BODYPUMP - Moby Dick. It's hard, and nobody really wants to do it.

BODYCOMBAT - The Emperor's New Clothes. You're dressed like a fighter but you're not actually hitting anything except air.

BODYATTACK - something that requires a very short attention span. And brightly coloured pictures. Like The Hungry Caterpillar.

That was Friday afternoon in the office.

I wish to end with triumphant news: I may work in a fitness office; I may be surrounded by Elite Athletes and encounter bowls of fruit and nuts at every turn; it might be more normal to see the legal team in spandex rather than suits... but I have still managed to instate the BBC tradition of The Chocolate Drawer. I suspect this is rather frowned upon from up high, but I refuse to bow to the (Paleo) pressure. Screw you and your clean diet and your sugar free superiority! I am going to eat this pain au chocolat and I refuse to hide! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN!!

That, of course, is a complete lie. I hide in Centro 3 to eat my cinnamon brioche.

(Please don't tell anybody).