Ahead of going in to hospital on Monday I had to get some toiletries, wax strips to tackle my gorilla like legs and some hair dye to cover up my hair that make me look more 59 than 29… I decided to do both today in order to have tomorrow to panic and flap about in peace.

I slopped on my hair dye and sat reading peacefully until the 35 minutes (yes, my greys are very resistant!) had lapsed and I gratefully skipped upstairs to a scalding hot shower to unveil my new look. Of course it was only when I looked in the mirror whilst straightening my newly glossy ‘Pecan Nut’ locks that I saw it.

Brown splodges on one side of my face that are making me look like I’m trying to take Tyson’s crown as ‘owner of world’s worst tattoo’. And all this on a day when I’m due to be going to a party tonight.

But my day didn’t end there… I was walking into the kitchen when I felt something tickling my ankle, I shook my foot thinking it was probably a spider (and god forbid I eyeball one of those!) but it didn’t make a difference and so I looked down.

To see a receipt for tampons and milks stuck to an errant wax patch on my leg. I’m not sure where the hell it had come to but grateful that I was alone in the kitchen I ripped that bad boy off and hurled it straight into the bin!

My final fuck up came in trying to clean my car (for the first time ever) interiors before she goes for her MOT. I couldn’t find an extension cable so used a dustpan and brush, so far so good. I grabbed some anti-bac wipes and went at my dashboard like a demon however didn’t quite get the effect I wanted when I saw the wipes were leaving little fibres so decided to get a bowl of soapy water and do it properly.

There I am, kneeling on my front seat scrubbing away with my bum hanging out of the door and the bowl precariously balanced between me and the steering wheel (you can guess what’s coming right?) when Grandfather Landlord swung into the driveway in his Jag, scared the bollocks out of me and I dropped. the. bowl.

Yes, I basically threw a bowl of soapy bubbles all over the driver’s seat of my car. Fuck. And, due to the aforementioned lack of extension cable I couldn’t even use my hairdryer on that sucker!

So I’m off out tonight with some workmates and I’m driving. I’m just hoping it’s dark enough that they don’t see the new face tattoo I’m rocking, OR that I’m sat on a couple of binliners so I don’t get a cold wet arse!

A large part of life given that it’s needed to keep us alive but if I’m honest, it’s the bane of my existence and I wish someone would invent a way to live without having to make the choice over what we put in our mouths.

I’ve been doing a pre-surgery diet that involves nothing but 4 pints of milk a day, 2 pints of water and a chicken stock cube and all I’ve been hearing from people is how awful it must be and how I must be absolutely hating it. I’ve been getting sympathy from all comers and have perfected a sad little face at the thought of all the delicious food I’m missing out on.

Only I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

I wish it was something I could continue with for longer, for as long as it takes me to sort my life out when it comes to food in fact. Although after so many years of being like this it really does feel like there’s no end in sight. You can guarantee that whatever time of the day or night it is, whatever I’m doing or saying, wherever I am, I’m thinking/fretting/worrying/stressing about food.

I can accept that I have no willpower over the contents of the nearest supermarket, I get that, but it also feels deeper and stronger than just not being able to shut my head up. Food has not only affected me deeply but it has also affected my relationships with family, friends and the world around me. I have days where the thought of food and of using it to squash feelings that I can’t deal with consumes me so much that I feel like an addict clucking for a fix.

I know that sounds dramatic but it’s true. I’ve tried so hard to get a grip on things, to eat three meals a day and not rely on food to fix me, I do really well for a couple of days and then the wheel start to come off, the steam in my internal pressure cooker builds up too much and I have a blow out and a pig out.

Something, something has to give. I’m just hoping it’s not me.

James getting his bike was the end of the story I’m afraid, although he did say that having to work so hard made his reward even sweeter and that he felt it made him love and cherish the bike more than if he’d just been given it when he asked.

But what has a childhood story from one of my colleagues got to do with me? Well apart from making me remember my first bike, a bright red ‘Poppy’ bike with streamers on the handlebars, it also made me think:

WHAT IS YOUR CHOPPER?

What is it that gives you a fire in your belly and inspires you to be better? What drives you towards greatness? I kept turning the story over in my mind, thinking about that grim determination to reach his goal that kept James on the straight and narrow.

I need to get a Chopper of my very own. Not a bike to ride round my yard whilst whooping and hollering but a something to work towards that will give me that fire in the pit of my belly. 2012 is going to be about finding and igniting that spark.

Tell me, what’s your Chopper?

The day of the class ranking arrived and James woke up filled with excitement, anticipation and dread. Would he have done enough to get his beloved Chopper? Short answer, no. He had improved his ranking by several places but still only reached number 5 which was closer than before but still meant no bike. When his Father found out the new rank he took James down to the bike shop to look at the bikes on display. James was allowed to look at his longed for Chopper but couldn’t touch it, let alone hop on it and ride off into the sunset. He was gutted but the sight of the bike ignited a fire in him and he resolved to work even harder at getting the top spot.

The next ranking arrived and James was sure he’d done enough to take his place at the top of the class and on top of the world as he imagined himself freewheeling on his brand new bike. Alas it was not meant to be and James came in third. On hearing this, his Father left the house and headed straight to the bike shop where he bought the blue Chopper that James had been lusting after for so long. Upon his return to the house, James’s heart soared because his Father had obviously recognised his hard work and decided that rankings weren’t that important after all!

Unfortunately for James his Father took the Chopper and mounted it high on the wall out of reach, once more leaving James able to look but not touch. The bike hanging on the wall started to taunt James and he knew that he couldn’t rest until his Father would proudly take it off the wall and give it to its rightful owner. Stepping up a gear once more James studied harder than he ever had before in his life, determined that the bike would be his.

For James, waiting for ranking day was like waiting for Christmas with the anticipation of whether he would finally be able to claim the bike as his own. He was jubilant when his teacher proudly told him he’d gone up in the ranking once more, but was dealt a crushing blow when she said that he was now second in the class, still stuck behind the brightest boy he’d ever known.

Utterly dejected James slunk home to break the news to his Father feeling like there was no point in carrying on. John was so clever he ran rings around the other boys and James felt the bike slipping out of reach. When James broke the news his Father, without saying a word, took the bike down from the wall and handed it to James, ‘Take it into the yard and ride it’. Well James didn’t need telling twice and he ran it into the yard whooping for joy before hopping on and pedalling it round furiously until his lungs felt like they were going to burst! When he’d cycled until it felt like his legs were going to fall off his Father took the bike from him and hung it on the wall once more. Having that little taste of freedom snatched away from him almost pushed James over the edge, he knew he needed the bike and if hard work wasn’t going to be enough, maybe hard and smart work might do it.

Swallowing his pride, James decided to ask John for tips on studying and organisation to emulate and then surpass the number one ranked boy, and after a while it started to work. By the time the next ranking was released James had done it! He was the top of his class and finally FINALLY after months of hard work and perseverance, he got his reward. Beaming from ear to ear and with his chest puffed out he ran home to tell his Father who gladly took the bike off the wall and finally passed it to his deserving son.

I believe that having a cheeky Google of your date actually only increases the pressure of a first meeting because if you’re anything like me you’ll spend the night biting your tongue so that when they mention their holiday to Thailand you won’t blurt out the story that you saw on their friend’s Facebook wall (because oh yes, you went to the next level) about him getting hit in the face by an errant ping pong ball at a ‘show’. The other thing is that if you Google and go in to your date with preconceptions you could end up missing out on something good.

A new social network called ‘Luluvise’, a ‘private social network dedicated to girl time, all the time’ has come along with yet another way to add to your preconceptions and stalk your man with their ‘WikiDate’ function. It appears as though their intention is to build up a dating-base of men, all rated out of 5 in the categories of ‘appearance’, ‘manners’, ‘humour’, ‘ambition’ and ‘commitment’.

I’m sorry but what the fuck? Is that what we’re reduced to now? Rating men as if we’re in some sort of meat market all in the race for the prize bullock? I know that girls are prone to having those sorts of discussions with their friends but to contribute to a database that can be seen by anyone who registers? REALLY?

I would hope that if I were to even consider using ‘WikiDate’ on a prospective man shape someone would spring up out of nowhere and smack me upside the head until I saw sense. I can only imagine the outrage if the situation were reversed and  it was rating women and yet because it’s girls doing the rating it appears to be flying under the radar as a harmless bit of fun. Underneath it all it smacks of something that young teenagers should be using to rate their idols like One Direction, that Bieber kid and the Jonas Brothers, but having had a look round today it appears to be grown women who should know better.

I got myself all psyched up for surgery, packed my hospital bag, repacked my hospital bag when I realised I couldn’t lift it, repacked it again when I realised I couldn’t zip it shut and finally I was on my way feeling like I was going to wet myself through nerves.

As I reached the hospital I realised I didn’t have my admissions paperwork with me and thus didn’t have the foggiest where I was supposed to be. I decided to head to the ward where I’d had my pre-op thinking that they’d be able to point me in the right direction. I’d just stopped right in the middle of the corridor to adjust my bag to stop my arm from dropping off when I saw lovely surgeon striding purposefully down the corridor. Wearing scrubs. Be still my beating heart.

He greeted me with a beaming smile, a crushing handshake, and some bad news. Bed shortage he said, trying everything he could he said, leave it with him he said. Oh and you need to head to theatre admissions (obvious really).

Well he tried his hardest but when the nurse called me through I knew it wasn’t to pop me in a bum flashing gown and prep me for surgery. She took me into a little office and told me that not only did they not have a bed for me, they didn’t have a bed for seven patients who were already IN hospital. It really was game over.

As if to illustrate how wonderful lovely surgeon is he came to see me himself to apologise profusely and promise me that he would fit me in ASAP and that seeing as I had already been cancelled once, the next date would be absolutely sacrosanct. I’m afraid I couldn’t help it and I got a bit weepy but he was brilliant. Gave me some time to calm down and answer some questions about the procedure before telling me that after 6 days of nothing but milk on the pre-op diet he thought I deserved a large glass of wine and a steak.

I left the hospital and headed for the station to get the train home feeling crushed. My spirits lifted when I realised I could actually have some proper food and so I couldn’t resist getting a cheeseburger from a chippy en route.

It was delicious.

However everything comes at a price and really, when your stomach hasn’t had any food for 6 days, let alone junk food, it doesn’t tend to react very well to a sudden onslaught of grease.

Sat at my table on the train I heard a worrying grumble but dismissed it as being from one of the other passengers. Then it happened again, this time accompanied by a sharp pain in my stomach and the sudden worrying urge to fart. Only I couldn’t be confident that it would only be a release of gas, there was a real danger that I was about to shit myself on the 14:26 from Cosham.

I was trapped. Not only by passengers and my ridiculously heavy bag but by the feeling that I wouldn’t actually make it as far as the train toilet. Let’s just say I broke into a real sweat and clenched my buttocks together so much my legs began to shake. The man opposite me shifted in his seat so I tried to give him a relaxed smile however given I was shaking and losing the feeling in my legs it was more like the rictus grin of a serial killer. A great look I’m sure you’ll agree.

The pain in my gut was getting worse and I began desperately looking round the carriage for options, a carrier bag, a handily placed bin, a little nook or cranny I could do my dirty business in. I even considered dashing into the empty first class carriage and dropping trou in there however just as soon as it had come on, the urge passed and I was left breathing a massive sigh of relief.

Especially when I looked up and saw the “CCTV is in operation in this carriage” sign.

Tomorrow after work I’m going to head back to Sussex to spend the night with my folks. I was going to go straight into hospital on Wednesday morning but this way I get to dump a load of stuff to keep me entertained whilst I recuperate with them before skipping onto the ward swinging a tiny bag and proclaiming ‘I pack light!’

I’m not sure how long I’ll be away from here for but I will be in hospital for a few days (and hopefully out of my box on morphine) before I’m reunited with my laptop but suffice it to say as soon as I am back up to some sort of speed I’ll start waffling on again.

This surgery is more serious than the last time I was operated on, purely because it’s a three for the price of one job, and yet this time I haven’t written any letters to my loved ones. Last time I went under the knife I felt sure that I wasn’t going to make it out the other side because it felt like things never went my way so why wouldn’t I be the one who died on the table and became just another statistic?

This time round I’m not writing letters to anyone because I hope that my attitude and demeanour has changed so much since I last got sliced open that my family and friends know exactly how much I love them, without me having to put it down on paper.

I’ll be back as soon as I can face firing up my laptop but for now, stay classy Scales fans!

Well enough with that shit. It stops here.

Sure 2011 hasn’t been perfect but life seldom is, especially the last week or so with family hospital drama taking centre stage, but instead of giving in to my negative head and beating myself up about it I’m just accepting it all as part of life’s rich tapestry. The ups and downs are what make the world go round and on the whole this past year has been a good one but just thinking about what lies ahead in 2012 makes my insides fizzy with anticipation because something somewhere seems to be trying to tell me that it’s going to be a legendary year.

I’ve lost the fear of turning 30, almost overnight it went from being this really massive deal, a huge landmark that felt almost catastrophic bearing down on me when I simply wasn’t ready. Of course it doesn’t matter that I didn’t think I was ready to go through it, it’s one of those things that you simply can’t change. I’m hoping that being 30 will allow me to put aside all the drama and woe of my twenties and continue to feel more comfortable in my own skin.

I think 2012 is going to be the year for love. I may not meet anybody I love or even like in that way however I’m determined to make love the overarching theme of the year. I am going to take time to do things I love, to work on loving myself (exactly as I am) and to make sure those people around me know how much I love them. With 5 weddings in the calendar already, love really is all around and I’m going to bask in it.

I hope that 2012 brings you lots of health, wealth and happiness and most importantly, a whole lot of love.

So after getting all gussied up thus:

I hopped in my Yaris and drove like I’d stolen it to collect all the girls together, including picking up our new friend Africa who’d started to walk because we were cutting it so fine. I was a little worried we were about to get busted for kerb crawling as in her own words Africa said she was dressed like a hooker but we got her into the car unscathed and headed to base to get on the coaches to head to the Royal Marines Museum which was to be our home for the night.

Polite conversation on the coach ensued and quite a few colleagues expressed regret at not bringing a cheeky coach drink to get the party started especially when the driver got lost but soon enough we landed and joined the back of a massive queue to be officially welcomed by management. I got a kiss on the cheek and an ‘Alice *sympathetic look* good of you to come’ as if it was such a hardship to me to attend an event with a free bar?! Of course it could have been the standard pity response because I was on my own, but it made me bristle with fake outrage all the same and might have been a contributing factor in me choffing my way through a LOT of Bucks Fizz at the drinks reception. It was weird to see everyone dressed up because at work it’s casual clothes and overalls and then as one guy put it “I’m not saying you ladies don’t make an effort Monday to Friday but come the Christmas party it’s like WOAH legs and breasts”. Plus who doesn’t like a man in a dinner jacket, am I right?

After successfully dodging the caricaturist who was doing the rounds (because I couldn’t run the risk of him drawing me with a big balloon fatty fat face) we were called through to dinner where we sat on ceremony for approximately thirty seconds before the girl sat next to me broke the ice and demanded the wine be opened. A girl after my own heart. Whoever did the table plan clearly had a sense of humour because they put me on the same table as the man from work that I had a dalliance with and have been dancing around ever since who happened to have brought a really good looking friend with him. Say it with me people… AWKWARD!

Actually it was okay because if there’s one thing my colleagues are good at it’s banter and innuendo which we had in bucket loads. My colleague H and I had been winding up one of the blokes at work about a picture of him where he’s surfing and has got his ridonkulous body out (seriously, the kid practically has an eight pack) and although he claimed to be embarrassed beyond belief he was of course loving the attention. I don’t think he was loving it so much when he got to his seat to find that everyone on his table had a copy of said photo under their napkins… Score one to team oestrogen!

Each table had a manager on it which I think was an attempt to rein in the crazy but our designated manager has just left the company and was clearly in the mood to let her hair down so she was great value. We hadn’t even had the starters delivered when one of the girls took an order and went to the bar because clearly the six bottles of wine on the table weren’t enough and we needed something stronger. Two glasses of wine and a G&T to see me through the starter made it seem like a great idea when one of the cheekiest boys from work swept past and whispered ‘jaegerbombs jaegerbombs jaegerbombs’ in my ear before giving me a wink. As a boy who is always looking for somewhere to sleep the girls at work had spent the day placing bets on who he’d end up with so there were some amusingly raised eyebrows when I was caught tippytoeing out of the room behind him after the first course.

The highlight of the evening has to have been the cabaret which totally blew my expectations out of the water. Not only was there a table magician (aka the DEVIL) who blew my tiny (drunk) mind with a trick with his balls but then the lights were dimmed and the hairs on the back of my neck rose up as I saw and heard the HMS Nelson Corps of Drums entering the room. It was so atmospheric that it brought tears to my eyes and gave me goosebumps. Sadly I didn’t film it but to give you an idea of what went on: 

The middle part of the evening is a bit of a blur although I do remember Africa telling the tax accountant she was sat next to that she was my girlfriend, me announcing that I’d stick my tongue in the cheek dimple of the handsome guy on our table and deciding it was a great idea to mix Southern Comfort with lemon juice and water before starting to disrobe Mr Dalliance by removing his bow tie and indulging in a spot of knee stroking. The night really got started when I sank a few more shots, kicked off my shoes and hit the dancefloor. I also started telling people I’d only just met that I loved them, entered a bingo wing competition which I won by a country mile and did that oversharing with people I don’t really know thing that I regret so much the next morning.

All too soon it was last orders at the bar and time to stagger out to the coaches talking shite and wobbling. I made it safely onto the coach and after embarrassing my colleague’s American wife by continually telling her how hot she was I made the executive decision to move away and leave them in peace. I stood up and was slowly making my way towards the girls when WHAM!

In front of a coach full of people I work with, I stacked it into the toilet stairwell and had to be rescued (twice). Oh the shame, the shame! Back at the base we corrupted a taxi driver to take us to the after party where I drank a lot of gin and got all moon faced at a man playing the guitar like the total sook that I am. Reaching saturation point after approximately sixteen litres of gin (I kid) and keen to avoid making an utter twat of myself by putting the moves on Mr Guitar I made my way home.

Remembered to take my hair extensions out, didn’t have a pint of water before bed and spent far too long sat on the edge of my bed trying to work out how on earth I’d managed to lose the left pad out of my bra when nobody had been near my jumper bumps all night. One of life’s great mysteries I suppose! All in all a brilliant night however don’t be surprised if you hear me uttering that great drinker’s lie for the next few months:

I’M NEVER DRINKING AGAIN!!

Yes folks, I’m off to a glam do tomorrow night where the chance to make a knob of myself is quite high given that it is my work Chrimbo party. Thankfully it’s not in the office so there’ll be no shenanigans in the stationery cupboard (or sound proof booth in our case) and nobody will be photocopying their T&A however there is a FREE BAR. Recipe for potential disaster right? Especially when LTA is wearing a very low cut dress and there is a dance floor.

I hummed and hawwed about going because I was feeling crap and thought I’d be mistaken for a baby elephant in my grey dress but sanity prevailed and this Cinderella shall be going to the ball.

However, unlike last time I got all gussied up and went out raving I shall not:

Drunkenly bid on ridiculous items that will 1) gather dust in my room or 2) see me end up making a tit of myself on national radio.

Spend the night (drunkenly) thinking that my womanly charms (tits) were so captivating that the openly gay exceptionally camp celebrity on my table was ‘checking me out’ and not in fact eyeing up the young lad sat behind me.

Give my number to a 20 year old barman and almost be convinced to let him come back to my room conveniently sandwiched between my Dad and Stepbrother’s rooms.

Kick my shoes off within the first half hour.

Get so bastard drunk that I actually make people worry that I may be about to cark it at breakfast the next morning.

I will:

Be a model of poise and sophistication.

Make polite small talk about worldly topics such as what Finland smells like or Rachel Crow’s X Factor USA reaction.

Charm the socks off management and be made Queen of the company.

Not get riotously drunk and vomit a) in my handbag b) over myself c) in a taxi.

Refrain from inappropriate behaviour.

Oh fuck who am I kidding, I’m going to get drunk, kick my shoes off and dance round my handbag whilst chatting shit and flirting with inappropriate people and I cannot sodding wait!