Diary of Lisa Taylor, reluctantly 42 (and a half)

Or.. 'f.ck me I'm forty.. two.. and a half', though can look 38 on a - not so deluded - good day. Or 'How to reconcile a well experienced mind trapped in a still - but for how long? – youthful body.' Don't have the 30somethings angst/problems, neither have the resigned (?) ageing baby-boomers in safe family territory outlook yet. Here's how I cope, one day all sexy women will get old... but never invisible. © Lisa Taylor 2005/6/7/8/9. Jeez.. so much for the 42 and-a-half delusion

Thursday, March 03, 2011

4 March - Alcohol & Poisoning

Well known side effects or damage of growing older is intolerance to alcohol, then again I have never before made the mistake of drinking on an empty stomach, am much too practical for that, me and my banana or me and my piece of bread. But meeting D&R at Bohemia evil cocktail den under the pavement near Liverpool st led to spectacular downfall ending with £35 cross city cab at 1opm when the central line would have been fine.

So, don't mix grains (first cocktail was brandy based, second one vodka based), plus don't taste all the other 3 your friends are having. Thirdly, don't order second one the minute you've finished the first one as that dose of alcohol has not fully penetrated your blood stream yet so you don't realise you're a bit drunk already till you get up the stairs after the second drink.

You will then cross the road to go eat at Pizza East (not a favourite but needs must) and miss the dinner because you spent it sat on the (very clean, I was impressed) floor of one of the toilets, as you try to regain composure, go upstairs, sit down and look at your pizza only to excuse yourself again. You will also marvel at how your friends who have had the same mixture and have now finished a bottle of red are managing and conclude that the age difference is the only variant here.

Just as well we had chatted plenty and quickly before hand, at time of first cocktail though I don't remember much. Or actually I do, so I was not drunk, merely unwell as the spirits fought it out inside my veins.

D. admitting his foray into his own production company had done nothing but suck his own money for a year and he was back freelancing for others. R. enjoying living together - 8 months and counting - and perfectly placed to understand his struggles with cheesy TV as she had booked talent or some such for that CH4 gross bodies or teenage sex or whatever it was called prog. She confirms that the fat sex therapist of whom Toph very unkindly thought 'when's the last time she's had a relationship' simply because he would not find a size 16 to 18 sexy, is the sister of James Corden, so the fat runs in the family but look at half the country fancying Smithy.

A brief post mortem of Outcasts was conducted (friends are involved and Hermione Norris takes at least one kid to a school near my home) and revealed I was the only one who had seen more than 2 episodes (if 3 and a bit counts). D. thought it was good for the relationship of our friends that super successful one in the couple would now have to cope with this critical failure, as may re-balance the power lines. Mmmmhhh I just said no, she'll be depressed and p issed off that good cast and good writer turned out a turkey and he will be upset for her. We urged D & R to watc the Insider Job docu on the robbing and incestuous banks (which revealed to me that top tier Uni professors are also in the pockets of whoever pays for them to write papers for them and they plays stupid as pretending that the exchange of 100k here or there does not colour what they say. At this point I'd say don't send your kids to Harvard for Economics degrees. It's all bent.


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