onlyemma's Diaryland Diary


*Tumbleweed blows past*

Wow, my life’s a disaster at the moment. Not in an obvious way though; no, no. I’m more of a silent ruin wrapped up in a weak smile.

Let’s start with the romance. Well, there was a sporadic sniff of it, on and off, for about a month. It was fun; we had our last date last Friday and I was feeling quite lucky. I’d almost got myself a boyfriend and everything, and he even said he eventually wanted to be that lucky guy, with barely any cajoling.

However, within the space of a very long week where things initially seemed quite perky but in which the romance slowly dissipated due to not hearing a peep out of him; I am now unfortunately left once again feeling bewildered, extremely disappointed and kind of like the initiator of an enthusiastic high-five, embarrassingly left hanging. So with all this taken into consideration, it doesn’t bode well for the future of this relationship, methinks. With him not giving a crap and all.

I don’t think he meant it though; not initially – the playing it cool thing. He’s just the kind of boy that I imagine when he was a kid and had a Where’s Wally? book, he was content just knowing Wally was in there. And that’s just not me. That’s not really me - So sadly, it kind of looks like another one bites the dust.

But I’ll be fine though, right? It’s not like I haven’t got over things like this about a million times before. As soon as this hollow feeling leaves my stomach, I’ll be fine.


I’ll be fine. He wanted a brunette anyway.

Luckily, work has been better than my love life and working on Big Brother has been amazing – I’ve made some friends for life working there, and it’s by far the best job I’ve ever had. If I wasn’t running in and out of the Big Brother house, I was in the gallery with the producers and directors. Cleaning out bins mainly; but in the thick of it nonetheless. Can you believe Rachel won? No, me neither. My one vivid memory of her was when i had to turn on the hair straighteners and peeked through the one-way mirror at her sitting patiently waiting for them. As soon as I switched them on she shouted, “thank you Big Brother!”, not knowing that the omnipresent being that heated her straighteners was actually me, a frazzled runner who’d been called away from her plastic tray of canteen food in order to plug them in.

Anyway. Unfortunately now Big Brother’s over, I’m left with a 2 month gap between now and my next contract on Celebrity Big Brother, which in a week leaves me jobless. It’s all familiar ground but the disappointment in my love-life, paired with the impending unemployment hasn’t left me feeling too chirpy this week to be honest. Most nights after work I’ve been sprawled out on the sofa with a cup of sugary tea watching Friends and when my housemate Gemma comes in, she’s usually bombarded with a cries along the lines of, “What the hell did I do wrong? What the hell did I do this time?” Which promises a happy night for the both of us.

Anyway, so last night Gemma decided to drag me on a night out with the prospective of me cheering the hell up after a good few days of wallowing (switching from: “no one loves me!” to, “no one wants to employ me!” with absolute ease), and decided that West Hampstead was the place to do this cheering up, as the gates were open at both train stations so it was a travel freebie (thriftiness always sways me).

It was an interesting night; I got chatted up by a really old man at the bar, who was out for a Guinness on his own. He kept talking bout how old he was and how he used to be a chef and how he remembers when TV was black and white, which I think he may have used as a bizarre chat up line. I eventually tried to get away by saying I needed to rescue my housemate from someone else’s clutches. This was my plan anyway - as Gemma had been cornered by a very animated Irish man whom earlier had started talking to us about football, but when left to converse soley with Gemma the conversation consisted mainly of her shouting, “what?” and him repeating things. Then Gemma announcing that she might be going deaf, but really we knew it was because she couldn’t fathom his accent. I acted as translator for a while and then we got a bit fed up so I used my tactfulness to end the conversation like this:

Him: You’re the nicest girls in West Hampstead, ya know?
Me: Really? How do you know? We could be mental.
Him: Haha! [he takes a swig of his pint] Are you?
Me: Might be.
Him: Really? [He looks at Gemma] Really?

Gemma nods in agreement.

Me: Yeah. Gemma’s my carer.

I’m not sure he really believed us but he left us to it when I rolled my eyes and did a little bit of the old jazz hands.

We went and sat down after that and ended up chatting to a policeman and his friend. The policeman really enjoyed telling us how he had been the first on a murder scene that day, which was perfect conversation between drunken strangers. I asked if he drank brandy, as people at murder scenes usually seem to do that in books, and then they abandoned us after a little while; he probably went back on the beat.

So looking for pastures new, Gemma and I landed on a grubby little club which was free to go into because I can only assume that if you had to pay for entry, they could only conceivably charge 10p as it was the most rubbish place ever - with what can only be described as the ugliest people in West Hampstead all crowded in one room. Unfortunately we got trapped in there due to straight away being cornered by the only marginally human looking man in the place, and his friend, who as we peered through the doors and turned on our heels ready to leave, grabbed our hands and shouted, “Stay! Please stay!”

We talked to them for a bit, to be polite and all. I think one of them was trying very timidly and politely to make a move on me, but after 3 glasses of red wine I wasn’t much company and eventually just rolled my head back like a frustrated teenager and cried, “Gemma, let’s GO! I’m too TIRED!”

We missed our train though. We had to wait an hour, so we reluctantly went back into the Room of Ug (for the warmth) and Gemma went back to snogging this Australian she’d pulled when I’d had my back turned, and I sat with my head on the table and tried to get a nap in.

We fell asleep on the train home, after too many packets of crisps from the 24 hour convenience store on the way to the station, but managed to get off at the right stop as my head jolted upright just as the train shuddered into Elstree. We sang old hymns from school assemblies and the odd line from a Joseph song on the walk back to the flat, like proper drunks. You should’ve heard our rendition of I Close My Eyes. We knew about 3 lines between us. It was gorgeous. Then I sang a song about meatballs and we were home.


11:33 a.m. - 2008-09-20


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