Over-paid, over-pampered morons

Today, I hear on the radio that a Liverpool player, who hasn't played much this season and wants to leave, has described his time at the club as being a slave.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought slaves were taken from their home against their will, sold into miserable lives where they worked long hours, for no money at all and treated no better than animals.

Unless Liverpool have radically changed their players' pay structure, I'm sure he isn't working for free and that he isn't being kept chained up when he's not playing. In fact, I'm sure he has quite an enviable life compared with many people in the world.

I used to like football a lot more than I do now and I think the reason I've gone off it is largely down attitudes like this from players who are so out of touch with real life that it is often offensive.

Happy St George's Day

Every year, there is an outcry of 'why isn't today a public holiday?' or 'why don't we celebrate our national saint's day like other countries do?'.



Whilst another day off wouldn't go amiss, the last two hours have convinced me why we don't celebrate it more. The pub next door to my office has had a brass band playing traditional English songs for what seems like an eternity.

The first tune, I thought 'how sweet' but twenty or so numbers later, they all sound the same and I want to bang my head against a wall. In fact, I'm not even sure whether the band are still playing outside or if they are just playing in my head. If this is the best celebration of our culture we can muster up, then I don't think we should bother.

(and who are these people drinking all day in the pub? They aren't tourists or students so how come they aren't at work?).

Living Normally

Truth be told, we are still feeling a little unsettled in our new place – it doesn’t feel quite like home yet. I think this is largely due to the lack of a sofa in the lounge (it is ordered but delivery date still unknown) which means we haven’t really been using the lounge. We are mainly sitting in the spare room, which is quite nice as it overlooks the garden, but it feels a bit strange. The original plan was to move the sofabed into the lounge was scuppered by our narrow hallway which restricts the free movement of the sofabed without dismantling it. We’ve also been going out a lot more than usual which I’m not complaining about as the OH used to be very difficult to move from the comfort of the home, but I have been worrying about not feeling more ‘at home’.

Last night we were out for my friend Colin W’s birthday drinks in Richmond, which was a good evening, spent mainly with people I used to work with at various times and who I feel very comfortable around. Anyway, we were talking to my friend Ruth about this unsettled feeling and she was telling us about her parents buying their first home and being too poor to buy furniture so they sat on crates for a while. She said the fact alone that it was ours should make it feel special and that we should have a house-warming pronto before the arrival of any more furniture. The thing with Ruth is that she talks ten to the dozen, but by cramming in lots of words, she manages to cover a lot of topics and with the law of averages means she does sometimes speaks a lot of sense.

Then coincidentally today on a browse around Urban Outfitters I came across this book ‘Living Normally’ which is described as an anti-style bible:

‘a refreshing reminder that a home should be a place to escape to; to feel happy in; and to live in. This affectionately photographed look at our everyday homes is a celebration of nice people, the modern family and our need to surround ourselves with memories and the curious ephemera of daily existence’.

I just had a quick look through it but it seemed lovely, a real refreshing change from pictures of minimalist over-stylised living. I think I'll go back and buy it soon as a reminder of what is actually important should I lose sight of it again.

Party Politics

I don’t have an answer to the Irish problem. I don’t particularly have any strong views on the situation one way or another except my rather hippy thoughts of ‘why can’t everyone just get along?’

However, today at work, I’ve had to contact the Sinn Fein!

I know they are a legitimate political party etc etc but the association with the IRA is still there in my mind and it felt rather risqué looking at their website.

I do worry from time to time that I might be on some sort of ‘list’ based on my internet usage, book buying habits (i.e. I’ve bought a couple of books by Mark Steele, the Motorcycle Diaries and various Spanish books off Amazon, which I’m sure now has me marked down as a wannabe revolutionary in South America!). Browsing the website of a controversial political party can’t be helping with this profile if someone out there is tracking my moves.

Anyway, I couldn’t find the information I was looking for on their website so I had to email them! Again with some trepidation. I’ve also emailed their big rivals the DUP as well as the Welsh National Party , Plaid Cymru too today, but so far the Sinn Fein are the only ones who’ve replied to me. They were very helpful so whatever else they may represent, I can’t fault their efficiency!

No Big Surprise

These little beauties from Topshop are in the sale.

However, what does surprise me as that they've only been reduced to £30 (from the original £50).

Even if they were giving them away, I could not be persuaded.

My day today...

has consisted of:

• lots of curtains that are not long or wide enough
• lots of people who can't fill in forms properly
• the Data Protection Act
• a big plate of salad
• a little bit of sunshine

Last Supper

We’ve been watching a lot of Prison Break recently – in fact its pretty much the only thing I’ve watched since we moved. We are watching the first series on DVD rather obsessively, then the latest episode of the second series on the television every Monday. When this programme first came out, I scoffed its ludicrous storyline and didn’t watch it, but at the start of the second series, the OH had to write about it at work so he thought it would be a good idea to watch it rather than just relying on Wikipedia. And we’ve been hooked.

Don’t get me wrong, it is nonsense. Surely there must have been another way of breaking his brother out of prison other than having a cryptic encoded version of the prison’s layout tattooed over his (rather fine) body and then getting himself put in the same prison for armed robbery. But it is very watchable.

The other night his brother was facing the chair and was asked what he wanted for his final meal. He picked blueberry pancakes. I was rather disappointed it was just one course, as I’d always assumed you got a big slap up feast of three courses.

This is a favourite ice breaker/lull in the conversation topic of one of our friends – what would you pick for your final meal? I still don’t have a definitive answer after months of on & off thought:

Starter – French Onion Soup with the cheese covered bread crouton thing (if I’m allowed to be very specific, I would like it from Steph & Nic’s restaurant next to Madison Square Garden in New York!).

Main course – I really don’t know. I do love a curry but thinking practically, it wouldn’t go with my other two courses and it is quite filling. Perhaps something Mexican, something with a bit of chilli. This needs more thought.

Dessert – Summer Fruit Pudding with vanilla ice cream. No contest. Its not very healthy but at this stage, I don’t suppose calories matter.

What would you have? Most people surveyed by our friend would apparently have sausage & mash and apple pie.

La vida loca

Not how I would normally spend my time, but on Sunday evening we went to watch , El Superclásico, which you probably don’t know (I didn’t until yesterday) is the local derby game between two Buenos Aires football teams, Boca Juniors and River Plate.

Obviously, the OH will watch anything sport related but the reason I went along was because we were meeting up with Red Malc and his girlfriend Lara, who is from Argentina. It was a great night out – good company and one of those times that makes you glad you live in London. (I can’t imagine there being a very big Argentinean community in my hometown, where you are treated with suspicion if you come from the next town along).

The screening was in Zoo, a bar/club thing off Leicester Square, which isn’t the sort of place I’d normally frequent (they are the place offering the new style karaoke in front of live band). The atmosphere was brilliant – mainly people from Buenos Aires, with a few other South Americans and a few British people as well. There was lots of good natured singing of football songs which Lara kindly translated for me as my Spanish isn’t up to much.

At half-time there was a disco of Argentinean pop classics – a dubious selection the highlight of which was a reggae version of ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’. The DJ was apparently a member of Argentina’s mafia, known as the ‘El Gordo’ who as well as DJ-ing runs a market selling Argentinean produce, not usually available in the UK – bizarrely one of the best selling products is Hellman’s mayonnaise which people are convinced doesn’t taste the same here so there is a large market for importing it from Argentina!

Before last night, I had no allegiance to either side but since Lara is a Boca supporter, it seemed polite to cheer on her side who also seemed to have the most support in the room. Our friend Marc for some unknown reason decided he would support River Plate. Later, I asked Lara what dictated who you supported back in Buenos Aires – in her case it was because that was who her family had always supported, but generally Boca are the team of the poor, in Lara’s words ‘from south of the river, where it smells!’ whilst River Plate are the team of the rich. So I think I would have picked Boca too anyway.

The game got off to a very exciting start (although rather later than expected) with a goal in the first few minutes from Boca, but it ended 1-1. Whilst I won’t be hunting down every screening from their league, I will keep an eye on the progress of my new found team.

My new toy

I bought this last night at Ikea (in blue).

I'm very pleased with it. Sometimes little things make me disproportionately happy.

I have one hanging basket in the garden to water with it. I've remembered to water it every day so far but was using various cups and glasses until I bought this - I'm sure it will be even more of a pleasure now.

There are also several large pots in the garden which may or may not containing living plants - it remains to be seen - I give them an occassional water just in case. I'm not a natural gardener - I love flowers but am impatient and want instant results. I'm also a bit forgetful, which doesn't help. But I'm quite determined to make the most of our little outdoor space, so I may yet overcome these obstacles.

Any recommendations for things to grow that give quick results but don't die if you forget about them for a day or so would be much appreciated.

A Bridge Too Far

I'm scared of bridges.

Not all bridges - I'm fine on footbridges over water. The type of bridges I'm scared of are bridges where there are lanes of traffic running next to the pedestrian path or even worse, foot bridges over busy roads. Perhaps its traffic that I'm scared of, although I'm not that keen on bridges over railway lines either but I can just about manage those without vomiting.

In Prague, we went the wrong way back to our hotel one night and ended up walking along the side of a dual carriageway, right next to the traffic which also involved a bridge over yet more traffic. I was terrified. I didn't fair much better walking across Brooklyn Bridge. There is a lot of camera shake on my photographs - it doesn't look artistic, just a reminder of my horror.

Last night I went to Ikea. The quickest way to get there from the tube station involves firstly a bridge over a railway line (with traffic running alongside) and then crossing a bridge over umpteen lanes of rush hour traffic. I had to cross the railyway bridge - there wasn't much alternative. My palms were soaked by the time I got over it. I had every intention of facing my fear of the bridge over traffic but I was too shaken by the first bridge that I backed out. This added about another 15 minutes onto my journey time and I was very disappointed with myself.

A pedestrian bridge over a busy road just outside of my home town once collapsed - I don't think anyone was hurt but it has stayed with me so may be at the root of my fear. There were some lovely window boxes in Ikea that I didn't buy last night so I'll probably be going back there soon and perhaps next time I will manage to cross that bridge.

Don't Look Back

I keep receiving emails and letters from my old University reminding me about a 1990s reunion event which involves a campus tour and culminates in a disco. A thought crossed my mind about going, getting in touch with the one person from Uni that I’m still vaguely in contact with to see if she wants to go along. Of course, she won’t – she has a young daughter now – her days of university discos are long behind her and possibly something she is even in denial about now she’s a mother since hers were wilder than most.

Today’s email mentioned that there was an attendees list online so you could see which of your old friends were going. Curiosity got the better of me and I looked. Of course, there wasn’t a single name of the list I recognised. The sort of people I was friends with at university weren’t really the sort of people to go in for organised alumni events, just as they aren’t the sort of people to be on Friends Reunited, although I do still keep an eye on it to see if anyone interesting will pop up.

I know all this nostalgia isn’t healthy but I would like to know what became of people, how their lives worked out. I did bump into someone I knew from uni at the NFT about 18 months ago, which was a bit of a shock. Someone I had been pretty good friends with for a time and very briefly a little more than friends with. I didn’t recognise him and even when he said his name, it still took me a while to place him. It was actually a bit awkward, I blushed a lot and didn’t really know what to say, then our respective partners came back and we went our separate ways into the cinema.

If that was encounter was anything to go on, a big reunion event probably isn’t for me and no doubt would be full of people boasting about how wonderful their lives/families/careers are.

We're In!

So we've moved.

The actual move itself went briliantly, thanks to the lovely pair of removal men. I must admit, I had my doubts as to whether they were up to the job at first as they weren't exactly hulking specimens - one of them (Jari) wasn't much bigger than me, but thankfully he turned out to be a lot stronger. They were so friendly and helpful too.

The same could not be said of the man who came to clean the carpet in the old place (a term of the lease was that we had to have the carpets professionally cleaned before we left). He cancelled coming on Thursday and came on Friday instead and then had the nerve to moan that the carpet was dirty. Well, of course, it wasn't spotlessly clean, otherwise we wouldn't have hired a cleaner! Actually, it wasn't even that dirty - we had vacuumed the day before - but it isn't the newest carpet. It felt like a waste of money getting it cleaned but at least we did things properly so I'm optimistic we should get our deposit back.

The weekend was spent unpacking and arranging our things. It still feels a bit odd - we don't have a proper sofa yet so aren't really using the lounge much (we are sitting on the sofabed in the spare room which is quite nice as it overlooks the garden). It feels like we are on a strange sort of holiday but with our own furniture. This feeling was probably exaggerated by the glorious weather and the lack of internet access (although the phone works fine, there is a fault with the BT exchange so we can't get our broadband yet).

Being without the Internet is strange - until its gone, you don't realise how much you've come to depend on it. In a way I quite liked having a break from it, except when I turned up at the shopping centre on Sunday to discover everything was closed because I had no way of checking before I went out. I wasn't alone though - there were hundreds of zombie-like people wandering around the centre, not quite knowing what to do since the shops were shut and I thought about how much we are driven by unthinking consumerism. Not a pretty sight.

Packing

Packing to go on holiday might be fun but there is no joy in packing to move.

Nearly all of our worldly good are now packed in boxes, bags and any other recepticles we could lay our hands on. There are just a few niggly little bits left that we need to use in the next 20 hours.

Just like the last time, we started well - months ago we sorted out books and videos. I thought we'd left ourselves plenty of time and that this time my packing would be super-effecient and organised, so that unpacking would be easy. But we ran out of time. All of our time and energy over the last three weekends has been spent on decorating the new place so packing has become a last-minute, cram things wherever they'll fit and hope for the best affair.

The old flat now looks like a warehouse. Its not pretty. I'm convinced the removal company either won't turn up or won't be able to fit it all in their van.

Tonight, amongst the boxes, we are having our final meal there - a takeaway from a restaurant that delivers its wood-fired oven pizzas to this postcode but not our new area.

The Power of Freecycle

I mentioned Freecycle once before but today for the first time, I offered some things on it. And I've been blown away by the response.

As part of the Big Move, we are having a Fairly Big Clear-Out. The OH surprised me by suggesting we freecycled his acoustic guitar! I should point out, he can't play guitar, his ex bought it for him what most have been about 12 years ago and it has a string missing. It has been gathering dust in the corner of the lounge. He probably could have sold it but I think I may have sold him on the Freecycling idea. Within minutes, I'd had umpteen offers for it in my Inbox, which made me wonder if we might be unknowingly sitting on a valuable antique!

We've also found new homes (subject to collection) for our old microwave (OH's gran owned it before us), old scanner & printer and the coat stand (the hallway is too narrow in the new place for this).

I've really been amazed by it and highly recommend it if you have any old junk you want to get rid of. I'm now wondering if there is anything else I can get rid of...

Decorating Boot Camp

That is what our weekend has consisted of. Non-stop decorating under the sometimes harsh directions of the OH's father.

The lounge is finished now and the bedroom will be at the end of today (OH and his father are finishing it off this afternoon).

My arms ache from vigourous roller-ing. There is still an awful lot of packing to do before Thursday. Then we have to start the industrial levels of cleaning on this flat in an attempt to get back our deposit. This next week is not going to be much fun.

Excess Baggage

Is this a trend I'm missing because I keep seeing women on the tube doing what looks rather pointless and impractical - carrying a small paper bag (usually from a designer or cool brand) in addition to their main bag. I don't mean a full sized carrier bag, just a dinky little thing with a rope handle, a small gift bag size really. The woman I saw doing it this morning was carrying a book and her make-up in it (which she was applying en route - another thing I just don't get), but it wasn't really big enough for the book which was sticking out the top.

What is the point?

If there isn't room in your main bag, why not a) get a bigger bag b) take a second proper bag for the overflow. These little bags can hold so little it hardly seems worth the effort, aren't that easy to carry & aren't water-proof. Is it to show-off that you've bought something very small in an expensive shop?

A Chic Retreat

I knew it would happen. Having previously vowed to forego a holiday this year, I have found myself thinking about a little break. With the moving and decorating stress, I feel that I will soon need (and indeed, deserve) a little holiday and yesterday I found myself browsing holiday websites. In particular, this one - Chic Retreats. Why did I have to look at this site. Everywhere on it looks beautiful. Some of them are wildly expensive but others are affordable for a mini-break if (and this is a very big if) we get our deposit back from our rented flat (there is no real reason why we shouldn't get it back but its always a struggle with landlords & letting agents).

So thoughts of boutique hotels have temporarily pushed aside thoughts of curtains, cushions and rugs.

Common Sense Prevails

I was pleased to see that the judge ruled against that silly cow who was suing her landlords because she fell through a skylight she was dancing on whilst drunk. Her complaint was that her tenancy contract didn't warn against doing this. But the skylight was on a garage that didn't below to the property she was renting so as the judge pointed out, she was trespassing anyway.

Its very rare for me to take the side of a landlord as I've known a few who were underhand and probably negligent, but this case was nonsense. I'm surprised it even got so far.

Anyway alls well that ends well. The snooty little madam has had her picture in all of the papers, so is now a laughing stock as she was roundly ridiculed in the papers.

A twisty mystery tale

Last night we forced ourselves to go to the theatre. We were both tired, stresed and overworked but I thought it would be a good idea to get out and do something rather than just collapsing in front of the television.

We went to see Underneath the Lintel, which sadly has had its run cut by a couple of weeks so it was our only chance to see as well. I'm glad we made the effort. Richard Schiff (Toby from the West Wing!) was excellent. It was a one-man show - the OH was astounded that anyone could stand on stage for 80 minutes talking on their own and remember all their lines!

The play is about a lonely Dutch librarian who gets caught up in a mystery involving an overdue library book and in his quest to hunt down the borrower, he lives his quiet life and travels the world.

The premise of the monologue is that he has hired some community hall type venue to give a talk on his adventure, so he looks out and speaks to the audience. Rather aptly, as he peers out into the auditorium at the beginning he says something like 'Is this all there is? I put up lots of posters but they were covered by other posters. Its very expensive here so I'm only doing this tonight'. He could have been talking about the productions own struggle competing against the big musicals. There was an unruly mob outside of the Lion King and baying crowds waiting for Evita, while this play struggled.

Still at least it meant I got the tickets cheap.

Art Nemesis

We have a new painting in our entrance way (at work, not home!) and I hate it. I despise it. I loath it. Every time I walk past it, it offends me and I glower at it.

Its on loan from the Arts Council (cheers!) because the art that was there before went on tour. I can't remember the one that was there before - I think it was another abstract thing but somehow that one didn't offend me so much.






I'm not normally against abstract art - in fact I often prefer modern stuff to the Old Masters. But there is just something about this that annoys me. I think it might be its sheer blandness. It doesn't shock me, it doesn't make me think about anything, it really is just a series of squiggles. If they were aesthetically pleasing squiggles I wouldn't mind but they aren't.

I tried to look it up on the internet to see if I could find out any information about the artist Jack Smith (know thee enemy etc) but could only find references to an experimental film-maker of that name. Not sure if its the same guy, but if it is, he should have stuff with the moving image.

Cover Versions

Having mentioned below the cover of a Smiths song, I thought I would list my favourite cover versions.

The Man Who Sold the Earth - Nirvana
Lost in Music - The Fall
Come Together - Ike & Tina Turner
Winterlong - The Pixies
Brass in Pocket - Suede
Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley
Jump into the Fire - LCD Soundsystem
Sympathy - Janes Addiction
Hounds of Love - The Futureheads
Ms Jackson - The Vines
All Along the Watch Tower - Jimi Hendrix
Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon - Urge Overkill
Dolphins - Beth Orton and Terry Callier

and then the multiple entries from Johnny Cash (the king of cover versions):

Personal Jesus
One
Solitary Man
Hurt

and our course, Primal Scream's covers of Kick Out the Jams, Born to Lose and Slip Inside This House.

I would also probably also add Candy Flip's version of Strawberry Fields Forever, which I realise is pretty dreadful but it reminds me of my formative years...

Watches to Go

If you are ever in central London with a broken watch, I urge to go to 'Watches to Go', the little watch repair booth in Piccadilly Circus tube station. The man who runs it is a real gem - a character and a genius with watch repairs.

I dropped my watch on the hard floor at the new place which broke the strap off, so I took it along to him at lunchtime. It cost £1 to have it fixed, but I only had a £10 note, so he let me off with it, saying with a wink 'Drop it by the next time you are passing'. But this wasn't an isolated incident. The last time I was having a battery replaced, the man in front of me was telling him he was unemployed and he told him to come back & pay him when he'd found a new job! My friend who put me onto him in the first place was let off the price of a new watch strap because her request for a non-leather one because she was vegetarian made him laugh so much!

I wonder that watch repairers might be a dying breed as everything in society becomes increasingly more disposible. It would be a shame as its a skill and he is great.

(I know also a good cobbler in the North East of Enland, if you ever lose your heel in South Tyneside)

New Home Update

As predicted, we spent the whole weekend decorating and it will be more of the same next weekend. I'm exhausted but it has been quite satisfying to do the work ourselves (with a huge amount of help & direction from the OH's parents) and we starting to see real progress now.

The lounge is ready to be painted but already looks so much better now the walls are smooth and clean. And I genuinely like this room again - the high celing, the cornicing and the original fireplace (picture taken before the clean-up began - it looks better now).

I investigated the contents of the shed further yesterday. I had been a bit annoyed that the previous owner had left a lot of junk in there, but there were a couple of useful things. Here's what I found:

• 2 Directors chairs (dismantled so it took a while to realise what these were)
• 4 rolls of masking tape
• mop & bucket
• fold out dressing table mirror (the type with three parts)
• decking paint
• pair of crutches
• lawn mower

The last two items, I'm less than thrilled about - the garden is decked so a lawn mower ain't much use and I'm hoping we won't ever need the crutches.

I also met one of the neighbours - the OH's mother instigating conversation with her when we were in the garden. Silvia (probably mid 60s) who lives at 188 with her daughter - she bought her place for £1,040 40 years ago. She likes gardening but the woman next her (Scottish with a daughter) doesn't look after hers very well. She also told us where the nearest tip is, which local doctors were best and when the garden waste is collected. I suspect Silvia may be a bit of a gossip but she was friendly-enough and after 40 years, she must be a wealth of local knowledge.

Blog is 1 tomorrow

I'm writing this post now because I doubt I'll get near the computer tomorrow - our gruelling schedule of decorating will commence at 8am tomorrow morning.

So as of tomorrow, I'll have been writing this blog for a whole year. It hasn't really turned out as I expected - firstly I've stuck with it and secondly, it has become a lot more personal than I originally anticipated - I intended to write more review type things but in the end I've ranted alot about work & buying a flat and moaned about lots of other things. And as a result I talk outloud to myself a bit less these days.

It just isn't cricket (Pt 2)

The news that Pakistan Coach Bob Woolmer was murdered!

Suddenly cricket has become rather exciting - more the stuff around it (murder, drunken goings-on etc) rather than the game iteself which remains a slow-burning acquired taste.

I have to remind myself though that is real life rather than an episode of Morse. But I don't think I'm alone - when his death was first announced David Gower said to a reporter 'It's wrong to speculate, but..' before forcing the reporter to do just that. He seemed to be enjoying it all far too much but I suppose it was a welcome respite from talking about England's lacklustre performances.

I've been trying to get the OH to give me a list of possible suspects as my own knowledge of Pakistan cricket is rather limited. I only know the big one who doesn't like running (probably not stealthy enough for murder and he looks like he's quite nice!), the one who used to be the only Christian in the team until he converted to Islam and his run rate increased enormously, possibly the strangest religious propoganda ever (too busy praying?) and the one whose name sounds like actor (Aktar?) who is like a bad actor when he appeals and reminds me of Dev from Coronation Street (he isn't the squad this time so in the clear). My other suspect was Imran Khan but apparently he isn't involved in cricket anymore and has moved into politics.

I know its wrong to find it exciting but I do love a mystery.

Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before...

especially if you've heard the original version by The Smiths.

I'm off work today (hence lots of posts) and have just heard the Mark Ronson cover version of the above titled Smith's song on the radio. I don't mind an interesting cover version now and then, but this was dreadful. What a travesty!

Call me a pale-faced miserablist, but some things are best left alone.

Tell it to a Horse

Perusing the television listings, I saw a programme about Ulrika Jonsson and her sex addiction. I certainly won't be watching it but read that one of the therapies they suggest to her is 'Equine Assisted Psychotherapy' which The Times explains as 'telling problems to a horse'.

Is this for real? Does it work? I heard of dogs being prescribed for people with depression which makes sense, but talking to a horse? Is it because its non-judgmental? Why a horse - why not a cow?

I don't understand, but really I don't want to watch the programme and I'm scared of what search results search any enquiry might produce.

I love John Simm (and couldn't think of a cleverer title)

In between house-stuff, to relax on an evening (or as near to relaxing as I ever get before I inevitably fall asleep), we have been watching the first series of Life on Mars. Somewhat behind the rest of the country I know. I'm not sure why we didn't watch it when it was on the television as we usually watch anything with John Simm in and it is a detective programme which is usually enough justification for me.

The programme itself I must say is rather silly. The introduction is particuarly had to watch without laughing 'I'm Sam Tyler, I've had an accident and woke up in 1973. Am I in a coma? etc' - it hardly has the tension of Jack Bauer's 'This is the longest day of my life' intro. But it is easy watching which is essential at the moment when I really don't want to have to concentrate too hard on anything.

But really I'm watching it for John Simm. I've always liked him (the actor for my generation in Boston Kickout, Human Traffic, 24 Hour Party People, State of Play), but I didn't realise quite how attractive I find him until watching Life on Mars. He isn't particuarly good looking , rather ordinary but I find him ridiculously sexy. It might be the clothes - whilst the others are wearing garish worst of the 70s stuff, his clothes are very cool. Its taken alot of self control not to make small yelping noise of adoration as we watch.

So I've got a bit of a crush on an actor - I feel a bit old for such things but that is pretty much what fuels Hollywood. But this morning, I may have gone too far - I've booked tickets to see him in a play! I can justify this - I work in the theatre industry, I really should go to the theatre more often, its on our way home, the OH likes him as an actor too, I haven't just booked a ticket for myself. But shamefully, I've done this before. When Gael Garcia Bernal was in Blood Wedding a few years ago - the OH actually insisted on coming with me to that one, as he was worried I might leap on stage and accost the young Mexican boy (I used the same justifications then with addition of being interested in the works of Lorca/anything to do with the Spanish Civil War).

On top this, I'm worried I'm becoming the sort of person who is killing proper theatre by only going to see things with Hollywood stars or 'people off the telly' in. But at least I'm going to see plays, rather than just the big musicals, which is the bigger problem in London at the moment where the blockbuster musicals are making it very difficult for plays. 'Underneath the Lintel' has had its run cut which we were hoping to see (mainly because it had someone from the West Wing in!)

Papering over the cracks

Things don't seem quite so bad now.

Friday was difficult when John Lewis were unable to get our sofabed into the flat properly. We do have a very narrow corridor but they refused to take it out of the packaging which was what was making it bulkier. The delivery men were like comedy villians - a tall thin one and a short fat one, but I wasn't laughing. It now has to be redelivered next week, dismantled and will be put together 'on-site'.

I am slightly concerned that we won't be able to have our choice of sofa for the lounge but the person we bought it off had a large sofa so it must be possible to get something in and out of there somehow. So we've paid for an access check to make sure before we order anything. But it may mean we'll be sat on deckchairs for a while.

Yesterday was better. The OH's parents came over. They didn't recoil in horror at the place but instead offered some practical advice on what to do with the walls. They then took us to Homebase and bought us a load of decorating materials and equipment, which I'm hugely grateful for. And we now have a plan of action. We are going to concentrate on doing the lounge and the bedroom before we move in and will leave the rest until after we are in. So I will have to live with a lilac corridor for now (I have an aversion to the colour lilac - too many mother-of-the-brides wear it and it suits hardly anyone). We've made a start now - cleaning the woodwork and sizing the walls (a new term to me!), and next weekend, they will return and the four of us will commence the decorating in earnest.

There are some things I'm very happy with. The kitchen and bathroom (although small) are modern, well-designed and don't need anything doing to them at all. The water pressure on the shower is fantastic. The lounge and bedroom have lovely high ceilings. What I assumed were dead plants in the garden, I've been assured by OH's mother are still very much alive and will blossom again (I have so much to learn!).

We haven't opened the champagne yet - we'll keep it on ice until we are moved in properly, but I was able to sleep last night and my enthusiasm for the 'project' has returned.

What have we done?

I feel drained and deflated. Not how I hoped I would feel.

The flat looked awful empty and its going to take a lot more decorating than we originally thought. After all of the hassle, it was an anticlimax - its not my dream home, its just a small two bedroom flat, all we could afford in west London. I've been awake all night worrying that we've made a huge mistake.

I don't think we'll be having a housewarming party or inviting anyone to stay because although it was the best place we looked at by a mile, it really isn't anything to be proud of and it will give certain people further cause for looking down their noses at us or worse the patronising as the 'poor relation' of the friends who've got rich partners & no idea of what it is like to have to work for anything.

And on top of this, the thought that this was my Dad's legacy. All of his life for so little.

Just one more day

In about 24 hours time we will get the keys to our new place, but it isn't making me feel happy. Part of the deposit money, was money I inherited when my Dad died, so no matter how pleased I am about buying our own place, part of me is sad because of what that money represents.
I would swap it and live the rest of my life in an awful rented flat if I could have just one more day with him.

Mrs SandDancer Goes to Work

My mother has got a new job. I'm so pleased for her. She hadn't been working for the past year or so - at first she was officially my gran's carer but since she went to live in the home, she hasn't really been doing anything (well, apart from the endless decorating she seems to do) and she was getting bored.

The new job is chef in a respite home (where disabled people go temporarily to give their families a rest). She didn't think she had any chance of getting the job but they rang her back the day she had the interview to offer her the job. The conversation we had at this point was bizarre - the lack of self-belief things she said, were things I've said myself e.g. 'I thought it had gone badly, but I suppose they must have liked me to offer me the job, but I can't see why'. It was like talking to myself and I realised how frustrating it must be!

It was her first day yesterday. They hadn't agreed exact hours yet but told her to come in for 8am. I called her at 7pm to see how the day went and there was no answer. I called back at 8pm and she had just got home. A 12 hour day on her first day. She was exhausted. Apparently she was dropped in at the deep end as the other chef is off sick all week. But she thinks it will be ok once she's settled in and she was so happy when she got the job that she would be 'working somewhere that is doing some good'.

I'm very proud of her and perhaps not as alarmed as I once would have been by how similar we are.

A deserving winner

The smiling Tibetan Terrier won Crufts Best in Show.

I was so pleased, I thought I might cry.

Talking in my sleep

Apparently the other night, I was laughing in my sleep and saying 'He's was hit in the face with a number eleven' and laughing more.

The OH asked me yesterday what this was about. I've no recollection of saying it or what the dream might have been about, but it made me laugh again much to his annoyance.

The book I've just finished reading had a chapter on twins with autism who liked prime numbers so I wonder if it was connected to that. Although the prime numbers they like were ones with about 10 digits - the number 11 hardly reflects the same sort of genius for numbers.

Fantasy Dinner Party

I've been mulling this one over since Miss Forthright posted about it a few days ago. I still can't decide who I would invite,so I asked the OH who he would invite - 5 people, living or dead. His response was thus:

Susanna Hoffs- lead singer from The Bangles. He said this without hesitation. He's always had a thing for her and apparently as a teenager did consider saving himself for her.

Steve Nash - his favourite Basketball player.

There was a bit of deliberation before he decided on the rest of the guests.

Guy Fawkes - OH 'He tried to blow up Parliament'.
Me 'He might not have done. He was possibly just fitted up for it' (we did a lot about this in History at school for some reason).
OH: (slightly annoyed at me questioning his choice) 'Well, he's got a day named after him. Not many other people can say that. He's coming.'
Me: 'Better not have any candles though just in case.'


It gets tricky now.

OH: 'The other two guests really should be women, so we can sit boy, girl, boy, girl. I like it when they do that.
(This was news to me - we've never been to a dinner party together, and can't imagine he'd been to one previously).
Big pause while he tries to think of some other women.

His next choice..

Jack Nicholson - 'He'd be good value. Yeah, Big Jack'

He considers inviting Bob Dylan but decides he's too unreliable,, probably wouldn't turn up but would ring with a lie about why he couldn't intend and leave him feeling crap (he's getting quite into the whole idea, taking it very seriously, but the boy-girl idea has now obviously been abandoned)

Then quite quickly, he picks his final guest.

Ian Botham - the cricketer.



But he is still going.

OH 'I would Larry David to come, but only if he really really wanted to come. I wouldn't want to force him otherwise it might get awkward.

I briefly mention who I might invite and he's off again

OH 'I'd definitely invite Mark Steele. (political comedian)
Me: 'You've got your 5 guests already. You can't invite anymore'
OH: (looking a bit hurt) 'But I'm a popular guy. If these people want to come, its not my fault.

Drivel

This has been bothering me since yesterday. I really should learn to just ignore him but yesterday the Colleague came out with this gem:

‘I read a survey that said fat women do better in the workplace because they feel can just get on with their work as they aren’t objectified by male colleagues like they are when they are thin’

He also added some drivel about men assuming thin women are bimbos, the exact wording of which I can’t remember.

This came about because I said I really liked this woman we deal with and he agreed and said he found her very warm and approachable because she was fat! I’ve never met her, just spoken to her on the phone and emailed her, so have no idea what she looks like. I didn’t respond to that part (what do you say to that?) but then he went on to talk about this ‘survey’.

I commented that surely the people surveyed would have had to have experienced being different weights and he said this is what the survey was. I find the whole thing rather improbable and offensive. It assumes that all men find the same size women attractive, that men think thin women are stupid, that women are distracted from their work by the attention of male colleagues, that all men behave inappropriately towards women at work etc etc.

Now as I've pretty much been the same size all my adult life, I wouldn't have been included in this survey and I'm pretty much average size so couldn't say whether its been hindering or helping my career. He is incredibly ‘anti-thin’ so has probably made the whole thing up. I don’t just mean Size 0 thin, but he looks down on anyone who is ever cautious about what they eat (i.e. me because I sometimes have salad for lunch and don't really like chocolate or Chinese food).

I know I should be able to ignore this rubbish and I am getting better at not reacting to his face so much, but needed to rant here to get it out of my system.

Last night's television

Last night was spent in a television studio in Wembley (oh the glamour - the 'regeneration of Wembley brings to mind the rather course expression 'polishing a turd'). We were in the audience for a new panel show 'Would I Lie To You' (coming soon to BBC1). I appear to be on a mailing list for such things, although I've no recollection of ever signing up for it.

Anyway, I was enticed into it by the promise of David Mitchell as a team captain (him from Mitchell & Webb and Peep Show). I don't find him attractive (geeky posh men are not my thing) but I do find his constant look of bewilderment rather endearing and funny. And the other consideration - it was free - vital in these penny-pinching times.

I was rather pleased with the rest of the guests - David Mitchell had a dream team of Frankie Boyle (consistently the funniest person on Mock the Week) and Duncan Bannatyne of Dragon's Den fame who I do find rather attractive (dour arrogant Scottish men are my thing!). The other side was less inspiring involving as it did Sonia from EastEnders.

We were herded into the studio and seated by a pair of flustered shouting fishwives (one called Beryl as her partner yelled every 30 seconds) who really made the process of getting people into seats look alot more complicated than it was.

The show itself was pretty funny but for what will presumably be edited to a 30 minute show, it took two hours to just do the quiz part. It started with a warm-up man, which is a concept that I don't really think works with British audiences that well - if anything being told to laugh & rehearsing clapping, makes us retreat further into our stereotypical reserve.

Then afterwards, there were the dreaded 'pick-ups' - basically re-doing bits of the show, sometimes over and over again - although to the untrained eye, there didn't seem to be much difference to each take, except the audience weren't really laughing on fourth hearing of the joke. Lots of the audience tried to leave at this point, burly bouncers tried to re-seat them but with less authority than Beryl & friend, so by the end there weren't many of us left. It was a shame it had to drag on so long as it did put a dampner on an otherwise good evening.

I definitely laughted alot although this morning I've little recollection of what at.

Whose job is it...

to name paint colours? And do they enjoy it?

I suppose it must be the marketing department, but I can't quite decide whether this is a great or awful job.

Naming the first hundred or so colours would have been fun, but after that it must have become quite a chore to avoid repeating names they've already used or being used by competitors.

This is probably why the sophisticated grey colour I'm considering for our bedroom goes by the awful name 'Quaker Drab'. All the good names for grey have already been used up - 'Night Jewels', 'Quartz Flint', 'Mineral Haze', or my favourite, 'Elephant's Breathe' - a name so great Farrow & Ball have registered it.






Why did Dulux decide to rename 'Cookie Dough' (much favoured by my family as I think my mum and both sisters have rooms in their houses painted this colour) as Cappuccino Candy 3 ? Has it improved sales? I want to know the answers.


This has just reminded me of the Ex who once woke me up in the middle of the night to ask why a banana wasn't called a 'yellow' when orange's were orange and called orange and lemon's lemon. He clearly had no future in the paint naming business.

A small wobble

I'm now feeling a little bit uneasy about our move. I'm very worried I won't like the flat when I see it again. Although we saw it twice and had a good look around, it was 5 months ago now and I'm struggling to remember what it looks like. I know I really liked it at the time, but I have that nagging doubt.

We still have too many belongings. My savings account is looking rather pitful.

I'm moving out of my comfort zone of the five block area that I've lived in the whole time I've been in London (except the 6 weeks in hell/Neasdon - see below). I won't know the newsagents and shop owners, and I'll have to swim in a different pool.

I think this panic has started to set in because for the last few weeks, I've been madly busy sorting out legal stuff, then I started on the practical things (removals, utility companies etc) but I've not had so much to do for the last couple of days which has given me room to worry. I've learnt from this whole process that I need to be kept occupied and have little details to worry about - it stops me from worrying about the big things, the uncontrollable things, the abstract.

Hopefully, once we are in, I can happily 'worry' about paint colours, washing machine deliveries and broadband connections and that will push away the big question mark.

Its good to talk (as they also say in the ads)

I'm working my way through a list of utility companies, banks and other organisations to notify them of our move. Last night, I rang British Telecom and heard the following message.

'We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls. You may wish to call back between 11 and 4 or after 8pm when we receive less calls"

And what time does this call centre close? 8pm.

I decided to remain on hold and wait. It seemed a safer bet than ringing back when they were closed.

Proud to be Different (as they say in the ads)

Nationwide Building Society, a branch somewhere in west London.

They didn't have any of those quick deposit slots so I had to queue for the cashier to pay my cheque in. This wasn't a problem but it was time enough for me to observe a strange man.

This man was wandering around the building, brandishing a paintbrush in a menacing way. A small artist's paintbrush (not a decorator's paintbrush), which I know it is quite hard to brandish menacingly, but he achieved it somehow. He was wandering in and out of the cubicles where people were talking to advisors, about personal and possibly delicate financial matters, but nobody stopped him. So perhaps he worked there? Yet, he didn't really have an air of authority about him - just a glazed expression and a small paintbrush.

This sort of thing doesn't happen at the NatWest.

Home Number 12

We have just exchanged. Apparently the seller's seller rang at 5.20 yesterday to say he still wanted to go ahead - the myssterious 'cash buyer' obviously disappeared.

Coincidentally, I read in the Metro this morning, that young people (I'm still counting myself in this) will have an average of 16 homes in there lifetime which is an increase on an average of 5 for the previous generation.

The new place will be my 12th home. I was quite shocked by how many I've had as I don't feel as if I've moved much and I lived in the same place for the first 18 years. So as an excuse for another list, these are the places I've lived

1. Family home - a large old house by the sea, that my father also grew up in. The family catering business was in the ground floor of the building so I grew up with a bizarre extended family of chefs, waitresses and van drivers. It was not a normal childhood. My mother always hated the house for its lack of privacy, but I know that if my sisters or I ever won the lottery, we would buy the house back from the present owners, The Walton (not a joke) who are professional foster parents.

2. Fifers Lane Halls of Residences in Norwich. The Dam Busters was rumoured to have been filmed theere, our block was subsiding at a rate of 1 inch per year and had a ratio of 1 shower to every 36 students. We were the last year of students to live there before it was condemned. But it had its own bar and the community spirit was great.

3. Rented house in Norwich's 'Golden Triangle', a phrase I struggle to think of without smiling. Sharing with two girls I loved, and two I couldn't stand.

4. On Campus for third year. Living with seven other people but a much better shower ratio - 8 to 2.

5. Out of the family home and into living above a pub that my mother had decided to run in a moment of menopausal madness (according to her). It was a huge pub so the living area was massive too and I ended up with a room bigger than my old one. We had a roof terrace and my mum bought Miss Ellie, our lovely dog. But I was the world's worst barmaid and the pub locals were scum, so I 'ran away' to London.

6. Awful bedsit in West London that I took in a hurry so I could take my first job in London. It was vile, but somehow I ended up staying there six months and without a television!

7. Studio - better than the previous one but not by much, about five minutes walk from the other one. I stayed there 18 months despite its proxity to a the train track and my view of a brick wall.

8. Flat share from hell with the boyfriend of a university friend in Neasdon, opposite Ikea. My friend split up with him, he went weird (left the stove on all weekend, slept in lounge sleeping bag covered in vomit while I was away) and then didn't pay the rent. The landlord threatened to come down from Leeds and slit my throat even though I had paid my share. I moved out quickly.

9. The 'United Nations' houseshare as it was nicknamed. At various points, a Canadian, an Italian, a German, and two Irish rented a house of a dodgy Greek bloke - rent to be left in the cutlery drawer every two weeks. We had to stage a 'sit-in' to get our deposit back.

10. Loft conversion with OH. The landlords, a pair of liberal Canadians lived downstairs - he was a student (and frequently spirit drinker judging by his breathe & speech in the later period), she was a writer of historical romances. There was a lot of wood panelling and it was always too warm. The floorboards were dodgy and fell through one night. 'Did you drop something on it' said the man. 'Like what? A Truck?' said the OH. They had a 'builder' who did all of their repairs - he actually wore Cowboy boots which was an accurate reflection on his building expertise

11. The current flat - located on the street between the previous one and the UN house. Its ok - I've never loved and made the brave decision of letting the OH view it alone while I was away. The people upstairs make strange noises at random times. I'll probably still cry when we move out though.

11th Hour Crisis

We were supposed to exchange contracts today. It hasn't happened.

The seller's seller had given them a deadline of 11.30 today to exchange. Apparently they have had a cash offer and were threatening to go with that if this sale didn't speed up, although our Estate Agent said people often lie about these things to get things moving faster.

So our solicitor did what she was supposed to do this morning. The seller's solicitor did what they were supposed to do. But the seller's seller's solicitor was stuck in traffic so they missed the 11.30 deadline.

The seller's seller is not answering the phone so nobody knows what he wants to do. Even though it was his side's fault.

Our Estate Agent assured me that our sale will still go ahead with our seller renting & putting her things in storage if necessary. But whether this affects the completion date remains to be seen. So our exchange is now probably going to happen tomorrow, but I'm not counting my chickens, holding my breath or any other metaphor until it happens.

Pete and the Penguin

The OH has to keep abreast of what is happening in popular culture & the news as part of his job, which means he often has to read the tabloids. Honestly, we aren't normally Sun readers.

This morning, he read out to me a story from The Sun about Peta Docherty feeding a joint to a penguin at a zoo. This is one of the most ridiculous articles ever (although the report that Billie Piper had smiled in the free papers last week was pretty bad). The story was pretty standard tabloid/Docherty fodder. It was a terrible juvenile thing to do and I wondered why he wasn't arrested on the spot by the branch of the police force that seems to specialise in arresting him?(He also seems to have his own chamber of judges to counteract this who pretty much let him off with whatever he is arrested for).

The Sun had kindly mocked up a picture of a penguin smoking which I'm sure most of its readers needed to help them understand the story.

Apparently it is very dangerous for the poor penguin. The article claimed that this behaviour would 'anger fans of the recent animated film, Happy Feet'. No, surely it would upset anyone who likes animals/doesn't like moronic musicians.

I'm all for people in bands behaving in a 'rock 'n' roll' way but really, he just plain stupid. I don't think Mick and Keith would have done something like this.

What a morning

I set off 40 minutes early to allow myself plenty of time to go to the bank to transfer the deposit before work. I thought it was plenty of time, but yet again London Transport intervened. The Central Line packed up en route - annoyingly with our train stood just outside of a station for twenty minutes and the station that the problem became apparent at is one in the middle of nowhere so no use for changing. Eventually, we moved one more stop down the line and everyone was advised to get off and make other arrangements. I managed to get onto a bus to Piccadilly Circus - there were still hoardes left on the pavement.

Once on the bus, it was a rather pleasant journey. The sun was out and I enjoyed looking out of the window as it went through Notting Hill and Bayswater, then down Oxford Street. Plenty of things to look at - beautiful houses, parks and then the shops. If I hadn't been in a rush it would have been a lovely start to the day and much preferable to being stuck underground.

I managed to get to the bank eventually where I was asked a series of riddle like questions in order to prove it was my bank account which to be honest I struggled with, having no idea what my overdraft limit is as I've never asked for one, nor my credit card limit which I'm sure is something outlandish that I have no intention of using. Eventually she seemed satisfied that I was me and the deposit has been sent. The OH meanwhile was entrusted to arrange the buildings insurance which he has done without any hassles, so we have now completed 29% of the Moving list.

For All You List Lovers

I've just discovered this website

http://www.listsofbests.com

It allows you to make lists - lists of your favourite things and lists of things to do, goals to achieve etc. For lists of 'goals', you 'tick' them off online when you've done them and it updates to say what percentage of your list you've completed. Very rewarding!

I'm 11% of the way through my 'Moving' list that I started yesterday.

I'm not giving up on the Excel spreadsheets and Word document lists just yet though.

State of Independence

I think I may be too independent for my own good.

I've never been the type to need a boyfriend and I'm quite happy to do things on my own. Despite chronic shyness and woefully low-self esteem, I've still always been pretty independent - I never got home sick as a child or at university like many people seemed to and at 21 I moved to London, where I didn't really know anyone and lived on my own for 2 years.

My oldest friend is the opposite - outwardly very confident but cannot even go on holiday and couldn't go away to university because strange environments bring on panic attacks. However, who is better off? She has a boyfriend who does pretty much everything for her or where he doesn't his father does. All her previous boyfriends were the same. When I told her we were having troubles buying the flat, she said 'P's dad did all that for us. I don't even know how much our mortgage is'.

The current flat buying process, I have done pretty much the whole thing. I've spoken to estate agents, solicitors, banks, insurers. I've never bought a property before yet somehow its been left to me to sort out because apparently I'm 'good at this sort of thing'. Which is all very flattering but I'm a nervous wreck. I wonder if perhaps my life would have turned out better if I'd been a bit less independent and had people do things for me instead?

My friend Liz says she took charge when her & her now-husband bought a flat too but she wouldn't have had it any other way as she is self-confessed control freak and aren't I glad I'm in control? My mother says that once its all done, I should feel satisfied as I will have done it myself which is better than relying on someone else to do things for you. I know deep down that they are probably both right, but sometimes it does feel as if I've made life difficult for myself.

Floating my boat

Following Northern Monkey's recent post on what is rocking her world, here are a few things, I'm liking:

Saxondale - Steve Coogan's recent comedy. Ok, so it Alan Partridge laugh-out loud stuff, but we have just watched the whole series on C1 (Homechoice's television on demand channel) and I thought it was pretty good. Perhaps it does require some knowledge of classic rock and the behaviour of its devotees to fully appreciate it, but I did find it rather funny.

'A Brighter Beat' by Malcolm Middleton - the new album from former member of Arab Strap (also Mr Lauren Laverne). The OH bought an advance copy of this last week, played it to me the other day and I've relistened to it on the way into work this morning. I was initially sceptical of his favoured song 'We all going to die' but it was, as promised, a surprisingly cheery number (comfort in the universal human condition perhaps?, which must be the most pretentious thing I've ever written). According to the review in the Metro this morning, MM described the album as pop music for people who hate pop music, which is a pretty good description.

House - I resisted watching this for so long, because I really don't like medical dramas (although for some reason the deaths in detective programmes don't bother me). But I caught one episode of it late last year and actually it was pretty good. This weekend was House weekend on the Hallmark channel so for want of anything better to do, I watched umpteen episodes of it yesterday (I didn't sit around all day - I did go for a swim in the morning)


'The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat' by Oliver Sacks - I've been meaning to read this for years, but have only gotten around to it now (courtesy of ReadItSwapIt). It is fascinating, moving and disturbing. Some of the ailments are at first almost comical (as in the title story) but ulimiately tragic in the cases were no solution could be found. The human brain is a truly wonderous thing, although perhaps reading this whilst watching House, I'm in danger of medical overload.

Man versus the Flat Pack

We went to Ikea yesterday morning to buy a few bits and pieces, in particular a shoe rack as the OH thinks my shoes are getting out of control.*

The trip was a success - we got in and out quickly with a trolley full of useful things, including the shoe rack and a match hat rack. I suggested that we may as well construct the shoe rack now rather than wait until we move. We have a system for putting together furniture - I look at the instructions, he does the physical labour part. I also have a system of 'swear rationing' where I allow him a set number of expletives according to the complexity of the item.


So we set about constructing the shoe rack. I opened the box and emptied the contents on the floor.

'Oh, this will be so easy' he said optimistically 'I just put those bits in there and that bit on top and its done.
'No, it involves screws' say I stopping him from getting ahead of himself.


There then followed five minutes of searching for the screws - cue much shaking of box and the first call of 'cheap mass produced rubbish' from him, before we found them attached to a bit of plastic wrapping we had almost discarded. Then we were off.


50 minutes, 2 thrown poles, 1 lost & refound screw, 4 different screwdrivers and a red face later, it was done. I'm rather pleased with it - my shoes are tamed and the hallway is tidy.


However, I am now dreading having to put together a wardrobe in a few weeks time.

*He also believes I have too many pairs of shoes, which I would strongly contend as I read the results of survey that the average woman in the UK has 16 pairs. I have a couple of pairs less than this average - although I am taking it literally to mean shoes, and am not including any other footwear (in particular boots) in this total, which would bump up my total significantly.

My own Britney moment

No, I didn't go out without any underwear or marry/divorce a white-trash wannabe rapper.

Last weekend, I had a bad haircut.

I hadn't mentioned it before now as it seemed churlish - its hardly the end of the world, it will grow back, at least I still have my health etc. But I've just re-examined it and it is awful.

Unlike Britney's, mine wasn't self-inflicted, but caused by Arta (of Yugoslavic origin) as opposed to my usual hairdresser Sonia (from Russia, where she was an accountant!). Sonia is a wizard with the scissors and a wonder with the hairdryer. Arta is a butcher.

I didn't say anything in the salon hoping it would look better when I got home and besides there isn't much that can be done when too much has been hacked off.

The sides and back are ok, its the front that is the shocker. And I still can't quite put my finger on what exactly is wrong with it, but I think she might have put a few layers in the fringe bit(!!), its too short and not especially even.

'Its not that bad' said the OH helpfully 'although it does look a bit Eastern European' he added accurately, but less helpfully.

So I've spent the week trying to sweep it back without it looking like a comb-over and experimenting with scarves and hairbands. It will grow back but until then I'm avoiding any unnecessary social engagements.

Date for the Diary

8-11 March. - Crufts

This year I fully intend to watch all of the television coverage - last year I only saw the final day, but it was so brilliant. The best thing on television - wall to wall dogs for hours.

Unfortunately, we've been invited to a house-warming party on the Saturday but I'm sure they won't mind if I watch it with the sound off. At least, my favourite section Utility Dogs (Tibetan Terriers, Minature Schnauzers, Shih Tzus) is on the Sunday.


I can't wait.


In other dog news, the OH sponsored me a dog for my birthday - 'the next best thing until you can have one of your own' he said. His name is Harry and he's a terrier cross, who is over-confident and likes digging.

All systems go

After weeks of ineptitude and apathy, our seller's solcitor today faxed our solicitor to say they want to complete within the next couple of days because they are in danger of losing the place they are buying. They have shown no sense of urgency until now.

Two weeks ago, we were all worried it wasn't going to go through within our mortgage offer period (end of April) and now the ball seems to be rolling again at quite some pace. They still have to take out a Deed of Variation to correct some of the faults in the lease (its dull and complicated) but that will apparently be done between exchange and completion.

So we will now be spending the weekend pouring over paperwork. Yesterday, it felt like we might never move, and now today, it doesn't seem like much time at all as there are still so many things we need to sort out. None of it much fun.

As for the flat, I can barely remember what it looks like now and it being London, it is really just an overpriced shoebox. But it will at least be our shoebox, and it was a nicer shoebox than the other shoeboxes we looked at.

Banning of Photography in Public Places

There has been quite a bit of fuss recently about the Government's online petitions. I must admit, I wasn't particularly interested in it, until I was sent an email from a photographer I worked with when I ran the children's gallery, urging me (and a trillion other people) to sign a petition to stop proposed restrictions regarding photography in public places.

"There are a number of moves promoting the requirement of 'ID' cards to allow photographers to operate in a public place. It is a fundamental right of a UK citizen to use a camera in a public place, indeed there is no right to privacy when in a public place. These moves have developed from paranoia and only promote suspicion towards genuine people following their hobby or profession."

Who on earth is trying to bring in these restrictions? Is it to protect celebs from the press? Or is it paranoia about terrorists taking photographs to assist in their plans? Either way, its all going a bit 1984 round here.

So I've signed the petition. I don't know how much good it will do - I don't have a huge amount of faith in politicians listening to public's opinion - but it is better to have at least tried to do something. And it might not be the most important issue in the world at the moment, but all of these little erosions of our personal freedoms add up.

http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/Photography

Happy Birthday to Me.

32 today.

I'm was trying to think of a positive upbeat post to write about my achievements and high points in my life so far. But I've had an exhausting day and I can't actually think of anything at all - I'm struggling to even remember my name at the moment, let alone anything else.

The day began with a call to the solicitor to talk about the further problems relating to the flat-buying. I think I used up my daily allowance of brain power on this - I am learning an awful lot about conveyancing though. Although the problems are going to take a while to sort out, it should be ok, which is a relief since all my family gave me John Lewis vouchers.

I've had a frantic day at work but still managed to fit in buying cake for the office (a strange tradition this - surely as its my birthday, someone should buy cake for me?). I think I bought too much though. I also bought a dress to wear for my birthday 'do' tomorrow, which I shouldn't have really.

I also treated myself to a salad for lunch and realised that this is probably a strange thing to do, but I do genuinely love salad. That much I've learnt in my 32 years on this planet - anything more than that I'm not too sure about at the moment.

Itt's Live, Anything Could Happen!!!

Last night we watched the Brit Awards. They were being broadcast live for the first time in 18 years, since the terrible ceremony hosted by Sam Fox and Mick Fleetwood. Before it started, the announce made the above declaration in an overcited manner as if it was going to be the most startling, revoluationery piece of television ever.

Of course it wasn't.

I was pretty much universally disappointed with the Awards - in most of the categories, I either hated or was completely apathetic to the nominees, the few categories where there was a band/artist, I remotely liked, they didn't win. I was almost pleased to see Take That win an award even though I never liked them (I have met Jason's mother though) but only because there were other nominees that I hated (I would have preferred Razorlight to win but that was never going to happen) and I hope their refound success is rubbing salt in the wounds of that talentless bore Williams.

Then there was the live aspect of it. Yes, Russell Brand made a few off-colour remarks that went unedited but the bleeps covered up any swearing which must have counted for much of Oasis' performance and they blurred out Lily Allen smoking, which was strange because it isn't actually illegal and I'm sure people smoke on television in dramas and films. Who were they worried about offending really?

Was it in case children were watching? Surely a warning beforehand would suffice so any parents who didn't want their children to hear such language could turn it off? I'm sure any children old enough to be interested in this have probably heard swearing before and I think parents should take more responsibility for this themselves - its another symptom of an increasingly nanny-state where nobody is willing or able to take responsibility for anything in their own lives.

I thought Oasis were pretty poor (what wasn't being bleeped out) and I did like them once back in 1994. I still (embarrassingly) find Liam rather attractive - I realise he isn't very bright, is surly and somewhat simian looking, but I've a terrible weakness for the Manchester accent and arrogant frontmen. (I would probably rather go out for a beer with his brother though).

Garage flowers, emergency wine & last minute cards

Yesterday, I travelled to Bristol and back for work. During the course of my journey, I saw so many men clutching pathetic bunches of flowers, clearly bought in train stations or garages. Then in the supermarket near home, there was a man desparately searching the few remaining cards for the least inappropriate one for his wife and several others panic-buying wine. This is not romantic.

As we do every year, we stayed in with some good food and a bottle of champagne. We exchanged cards and small gifts too. I don't really like Valentine's day but not enough to do nothing.

The cynical part of me does think its just an excuse dreamt up by card manufacturers, florists and restauranteurs. But really I think my cynisim is born more out of my idealism. It shouldn't be like the scenes I witnessed yesterday. Romance should be spontaneous, the gestures should be personal. Inside this cynic, I really do think there is a failed romantic.

The Verdict - Poor

The Verdict – why on earth did we waste 90 minutes watching this last night?

The premise of the programme is a fictitious rape trail with a jury made up of celebrities (or what passes for a celebrity these days which covers anyone who has ever had their name in a newspaper).

The victim, defendants and witnesses were played by actors who had apparently improvised something off camera previously, but judge and the lawyers were real. I couldn’t work out whether the acting was really bad or if it was that the people were supposed to be lying unconvincingly. It also differed from a real trial in that there were lots of breaks, giving the jurors chance to discuss what they thought so far i.e. argue with each other.

We only watched it because the Sunday Times talked it up but then they also claimed Patsy Palmer was ‘one to watch’ but all I saw her do was stuff her face with the fruit platter. It might improve over the course of the week but do I really want to devote that much time to it? And the conclusion (or the verdict I suppose) is on Friday which is my birthday and I really don’t intend to celebrate turning 32 watching poor reality television.

(But I do kind of want to know what happens)

In the swim

For a while I was considering changing this blog's title to 'I failed to go swimming' because that is how most of my days begin. I'm full of good intentions to go, but recently more often than not, I don't. But today I had a great swim, which is even more surprising considering I went out last night and still managed to go to the pool at 8.15. I am growing more sensible it seems.

I swim at the local authority pool, which is best described as functional - its near, cheap and does lane swimming on mornings. The facilities are basic, cleanliness sometimes remiss and the staff often surly. But it is one of a few (if not the only) remaining Victorian 'public baths' remaining in London so there isn't much they can do with it, short of knocking it down and starting again (which is threatened every couple of years). The pool also has a different kind of heritage - it is the pool in The Day Today's spoof documentary about a swimming pool - this might be the reason its been saved from the bulldozers.

Besides the poor changing rooms and feeble showers, the pool has posed a new problem recently. The poolside clock has broken. It wasn't working one day, was working on my next visit, broken the time after, cruelly ripped from the wall by last weekend, leaving a sad clock-shaped hole in the tiles.

Unfortunately I seem to possess no natural sense of time which makes it very difficult to tell how much exercise I've done. I thought about counting lengths but the swimming relaxes me so much I lose track. Today I thought the problem was solved - someone else asked the pool attendent what time it was. 'Good idea' I thought 'Now I'll know how long I've been swimming' . It was only when he said the time, I realised I had no idea what time it was when I got in.

I eventually got out when I realised a few people had been and gone from my lane. I estimated I had been done ten more minutes after the timecheck, but when I looked at my watch in the changing cubicle, it had actually been 25 minutes, which at least proved I was right about uselessness with time.

This same unawareness of the passage of time is probably to blame for my disbelief that I will 32 next week, when it only seems like a year or so since I graduated. Undoubtely there will be more posts about the imminient birthday as it looms closer.

Snow Business Like Snow Business

As forecast, it has snowed overnight.

Rather disappointingly I managed to get into work without any trouble. I was a few minutes late but only because I was dithering over what to wear. In the end I did something I've never done before - wore trainers and took a change of shoes with me in my bag. I haven't worn trainers for ages and had forgotten how comfortable they are and they cut my walk to the station probably by about 3 minutes.

On the way, I passed this snowman (rubbish and for some reason tiny picture, hastily taken on my phone). I think it may be the first time I've seen a snowman in London in the 10 years I've lived here.

The great and the good of British theatre are struggling to make it to our offices today for a meeting, with various tales of delayed or abandoned journeys being phoned in. Whether we will get enough people for the meeting to go ahead remains to be seen, but on the plus side, there will be too much food so it looks a free lunch for us minions today.

Number WIthheld

My mobile rang this afternoon. A withheld number. I don’t normally bother to answer these as its usually someone trying to sell me a new phone. But as I’m expecting calls from the Estate Agent and my solicitor, I make an exception and answer it.

‘Hello is that Miss Sanddancer?’ (obviously though she used my real name
‘Yes’
‘Excellent. Good to have got hold of you. I’m calling from Studio 64 (I think this is what she said). You’ve applied via our website to come in for a free photshoot, so when are you free come in?
‘What?
‘A photoshoot in our studio. You applied through Crap Offers R Us website’ she says brightly in her best telesales voice (again that may not have been the exact name, but it was something along those lines’
‘I certainly haven’t’

And with that I hung up and had to explain to the people around me what it was all about.

If she could have been me sat her in my best woolly jumper, she would not have been offering me a photograph of myself, even if it is one of those rip-off services where they give you a makeover by covering you in an inch of orange foundation, coiffure your hair to death and then take pictures with a Vaseline smeared lens so that you come out in soft-focus, looking perhaps more attractive but essentially nothing like yourself.

I’ve seen the results of these sessions before – a few friends were conned into them. They were then pressurised into spending £120 on the resulting photograph, which in which even one my friend’s mother’s failed to recognise her daughter.

Incapable

I had to sign 100 letters today. After about the fifth one, my signature was completely unrecognisable, by the hundredth it was nothing more than a squiggle.

I blame Chip & Pin. I’m so used to entering numbers, that I rarely need to sign my name these days.

It just isn't cricket

When the OH was in Australia, one of his hosts gave him a gift of two talking figurines, "Boonie and Beefy" ( in the likeness of somebody Boon a famous Australian cricketer and Ian Botham).

They were produced by the cricket sponsors Victoria Beer and when activated they banter with each other, Boonie taunting Beefy with jibes about us being rubbish at cricket and drinking warm beer etc. They are cleverly programmed to start talking to coincide with the games of cricket starting and to then make the odd comments during the course of the game. Unfortunately the Botham one is blatantly an Australian trying to speak in an English accent which ruins the effect somewhat.




'Great more plastic tat' I thought, but the OH seemed chuffed with them so what harm could it do to allow them to live with us for a while...

Imagine my fright at being awoken at 3am by the sound of an Australian talking in the lounge. It took me a few minutes to realise that it was the plastic man rather than an intruder.
Little did we realise that once activated, there is no way of turning them off. He tried to separate them, hoping that keeping them more than the instructed distance apart would silence them, but it didn't work - they still continued their inane conversations.

For the past few weeks, they have been residing in a kitchen cupboard. We had hoped that at that distance we wouldn't be awoken by them when we are asleep, but I'm a light sleeper and every time there's a game on, I'm woken up. I thought today might have been the last time, but no England only went & won today so we are now in the tournament final, so more talking will no doubt follow.

I've no idea what will happen to them after this - perhaps they will self-destruct?

Structure

OH and I were discussing what we would do if we had so much money that we never needed to work again.

This conversation came about because his recent stay in Australia was with his former boss, for whom the above scenario is no longer a fantasy but a reality. But he doesn't seem to be sitting back and enjoying his wealth & leisure time and in particular is embarking on one business scheme that doesn't seem very viable and is causing him loads of stress. His former business partner on the otherhand seems very content, is building his dream home and doing lots of travelling. The OH said that with that amount of money, he would take the second route and do very little except committing to getting fit and going watch lots of cricket.

Now whilst I wouldn't take on ridiculous projects that would cause me nothing but stress, I don't think that I could do nothing. Since leaving my other job at the gallery, I'm finding it difficult enough to occupy myself on weekends - I really wouldn't be able to cope with a whole lifetime of not doing anything. The problem is that I don't have enough self-discipline to structure my time myself - I need an external force such as a job to give me a structure to build the rest of my time around. Left to my own devices, I just end up pottering about, hardly able to motivate myself to do anything other than noodling around on the internet, watching bits of television and drinking endless coffee.

So its probably as well that I didn't win the lottery last night and still have to go into work tomorrow!

Good Mood

I've been in such a good mood today. I really don't know why. Perhaps its because we had such a good night last night. Perhaps its my lovely new jeans. Perhaps it was walking down Charing Cross Road this morning in the sunshine.

Whatever has caused it, it seems pretty unshakeable. I've had the best day at work in ages. Colleague's behaviour hasn't upset me. I've tackled a boring job with enthuasiam (partly due to realising that there was no reason why I couldn't listen to my ipod while I did it). I've got dust down my white top, but I remained cheerful. The Colleague left an hour and a half early - I smiled and wished him a good weekend. The Estate Agent rang to say there are further problems with the lease which our solicitor hadn't bothered to get in touch about - but I'm unfazed.

This is not usual. Somewhere in the universe three must be a normally optimistic person feeling unusually down.

How to behave in the theatre

It didn't ruin the evening, but the behaviour of a lot of the audience last night was terrible.

One mobile phone going off is annoying, but it is made worse by the five minutes of rummaging and rustling that followed as half of the audience panic they've left theirs on too. And then the people talking loudly during the performance. Its rude to the rest of the audience and to the actors.

But these weren’t underprivileged teenagers on their first trip to the theatre who don't know how to behave (this is a common worry in the industry that young people are intimidated by theatre or just don’t know what is acceptable behaviour, - not something I've actually encountered myself - I think it actually sounds pretty patronising).

No, this was largely a middle-aged, middle-class audience who really should know how to behave but these are people who are so confident of their place in the world that they think their conversations are more important than the performance.

Its only Rock n Roll, but I like it

Last night, we went to see Rock n Roll. We'd been meaning to see it for ages and I don't know why we kept putting it off, because it really did have lots of things I'm interested in; politics, music and Syd Barrett, and it starred the wonderful Dominic West.

It really was excellent. The play covers the lives of people in Cambridge and Prague between 1968 and 1990, and between each scene they played a piece of music from that year, - Dylan, the Stones, Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett, even the U2 and Guns n Roses songs didn't ruin it. It reminded me again how much I love Pink Floyd - as unfashionable an opinion as that may be. I've also have a long-stranding fascination with this period in Czech history, stemming from reading alot of Milan Kundera and I loved Prague (except the food - I'm not a fan of meat, potatoes and dumplings), but I'm not sure that was essential to enjoying the play.

If it doesn't win the Olivier Award for Best New Play, I will eat my hat as they say.