It's another New Year. I like New Year. A lot. So come on people. Celebrate with me.
Hic.
We'll be heading down to the South Bank shortly, to admire the London Eye fireworks, freeze our bits off and, no doubt, avoid vomit with every step. (If we're lucky.) It'll be good. I hope you're celebrating in proper style yourselves, and are as excited about 2005 as I am.
Big love everybody!
Hic!
So Western governments are stingy. So what. People are not. In the UK, donations from the public were at £5m last night; now it's over £21m. And, presumably, still climbing. And similar numbers are coming from other countries. It gives me faith, really it does. Sometimes I'm proud of folk.
Yay us.
Well, it looked classy for a while, but I heard mutterings of discontent. Sigh. Repeat: must learn html. Must customise. Yeah.
Christmas happened. It involved a lot of sugar. Through dedicated effort, we've managed to winnow the supplies down to half a box of Leonidas chocs (ooh... so damn good. Blessings on kindly finance eds), a handful of mini mince pies, and one preservative-stuffed chocolate yule log that Beloved Consort plans to offload on colleagues at Sky News. Hopefully they'll be so glad to get some distraction from the rising death toll in Asia*, they won't even notice they're eating cocoa-flavoured plastic.
Beloved Consort is now sleeping off the effects of four manic 12-hour shifts (actually, that's three 12-hour shifts and one 14-hour shift) in a row. (Yes, he ended up working right through the Christmas weekend, which would be bad, except for the obscene amounts he was paid for the pleasure... okay, I'm shallow.) I'm off to gym, which has finally reopened, yay! Esteemed Father is meeting his new boss to find out what he should teach the little blighters next week, and then flathunting. Life is almost back to normal. Except I don't have to work for another week. Yay!
Oh, and in particularly good news, for the first time ever I made a proper effort to get to the sales quickly. Well, just one sale really, the only one that counts: John Lewis. Habby. And I am pleased to say, it was well worth it; I am the proud owner of a large, large bag of assorted Rowan cottons in pretty, pretty colours. I got in there early (within about 90 minutes of the sale starting), I pounced, I escaped. Fascinating experience, though: the tube emptied out entirely at Oxford Circus. Getting back into the tube was much easier. I can only imagine what the street would have been like a few hours later. *shudder*
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*We have friends there. They were on the beach. Apparently it was a non-event where they are. Yet I can't stop myself continuing to worry a little... haven't heard from them since Boxing Day, are they still okay? What are they doing? Where are they going? They were supposed to be touring SE Asia indefinitely. I'm guessing South America is starting to look a little more appealing at this stage.
A corner of the desk cleared to make way for flowers, candles, nuts and - ahem - chocolates. Quite a lot of chocolates.
A very small kitchen in a very big mess.
Me having cooked a proper Christmas dinner for my dad, the Maestro Chef. And not being mortified at the results.
Our little London family of three well pleased with our respective gifts - small as they are - and extremely excited about a very promising 2005.
Really, quite a LOT of chocolates.
Gin. And wine. And port.
Shrek on the telly. Hey, you have Christmas your way - big dinner on the table; I'll have it mine, on the bed, in front of the telly. Only cos it was Shrek.
I'm going for another chocolate now.
And by the way, thanks for the kitty! I'm wearing her right now.
I once lived with an opera student. In fact I lived with her twice, though the second time she was no longer an opera student. In fact at one stage of the first living together experience, we had another opera student on the premises. Anyway. Opera students. And me. They could sing. I couldn't. I quite like singing, though, although I do it very, very badly. You'd think, as someone who has taken manymany music lessons over her life, including violin, I'd have some clue as to what the notes were supposed to sound like. But no. I don't even know when I'm off-key. No, wait, I do, I'm always off-key, so it's a pretty good bet that if I'm singing, I'm off-key. So I do know.
Anyway, living with these opera students, lovely as they were - well, are - well, one of them anyway - did some fairly severe damage to my singing confidence. This is probably not altogether a bad thing; it's good that I should be aware that my singing is deeply crap, and should not be inflicted on an unsuspecting public, or indeed, anyone. They were quite nice about it. It was just moments like, when I warbled (let's say) a Christmas carol imbued with tons of festive cheer, and as the high notes died away, lovely flatmate said reflectively: "Not bad... a little flat on the B." Huh? I was singing a B? Who knew? This introduced a measure of self-consciousness to my singing.
Which brings me to my point. Because I left that opera-filled abode, lovely as it was (it really was, I miss it; remember how lovely that flat was, my faraway friends?) to live with Beloved Consort. That meant me plus my Dr Demento tapes. And Bombalurina. And Chess. And so on. That meant me banging around in the kitchen, in this tinytiny little bachelor flat, singing. And he loved it. He actually enjoyed me singing. Even when 'wailing' would be a more fitting description. Even Poisoning Pigeons in the Park. Even when I didn't know the words.
And he still does.
Reader, I married him, and now you know why.
(Note: no, I'm not singing now, I'm in an office, and Beloved Consort isn't anywhere around. I was just reminded of this by something I read. Remembering it made me happy.)
So here I am, two days before Christmas, and everything seems to be going right. Beloved Consort not only has a job, he has a spare (freelancing gig), plus various other interested parties with offers, or the possibilities of offers. Esteemed Father (now staying with us btw, and in need of much internet time, so keyboard time may be limited from when I leave the office this evening till he finds his new place, so if I'm unduly silent, sorry, and you know why) not only has a job, he has a significantly higher salary than he was expecting, plus cash in hand to get set up in new home. We seem to have figured out the optimal use of heating, so don't have to freeze. Our bath is working. In short there is absolutely nothing to worry about on any front.
I'm terrified. Yes, in principle I believe that things all work out, that when you get your mind in the right place the universe steps in to make things happen, that everything's for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
Probably.
But after two years of increasing strain, I've been having trouble believing in my belief. Not really feeling it, you understand. Now... well, it's all very nice to have all this good news. Really. I'm not complaining for a second. I like it. I just don't trust it. Sad, really.
Somebody wished me yesterday that 'the best of this year be the worst of next one'. I'm about ready for that. Bring it on.
Not to sound sorry for myself or anything. I did promise an end to the whining, didn't I? Right. I better have myself a mince pie. That'll help.
Ooh, and I did get an unexpected (and promisingly chocolate-shaped) pressie yesterday. And have received one entirely unsolicited card, and one in response to a card I sent. So I'm shutting up on the 'bah humbug' front too.
Merry merry to you all. Mwah.
When did street Christmas lights become just another merchandising vehicle? I'm puzzled. I expect snowflakes, Santas, reindeer... ok, Santa is just a Coke pusher, but if a lot of people still don't know that, surely he's come to be something More. Right? Or Less, possibly, but whatever - there's no obvious product placement in the traditional Christmas lights.
Except on Regent Street this year, we have The Incredibles; and on Oxford Street, we have an absolutely ghastly Harry Potter thing that says Christmas not at all. Picture it, my faraway friends: megapowered spotlights aimed up at the clouds, mounted on iron bridges advertising the latest Harry Potter DVD. Festive? Hardly. At least The Incredibles are in the time-honoured red-and-white cola colour combination. And of course Holborn is a complete loss, with just a few fibre optic dandelions attached to random street lights so that, one imagines, the councillors can shrug mournfully and say, 'Well, we tried...'
It is left to Carnaby Street, as usual, to bring some class into the proceedings. Although not as fun as last year's supersized fairy lights; or was it the year before? Whatever. They went well with that giant electrical plug. Sorry chaps, I tried to find pics from this year, but no joy; presumably everyone else is as unimpressed as I am with the West End's effort.
I love sleep. Sleep is one of my favourite things. Right up there with cats, and chocolate, and knitting. Never enough sleep in my life.
So why is it that when I am allowed to sleep in until 9am at least, I wake up at, oh, 3 or so... and that's It. No more sleeping. At all.
I feel horrible.
How is it that, having officially abandoned all attempt - for the present - at strength training in favour of a dedicated cardio routine; how is it that, when my workouts consist entirely of walking, or running, or cycling, plus some abs work just for laughs; how is it that, with absolutely no strain whatsoever being applied to my arms, today I can barely lift them?
Damn those lead-filled mince pies.
New look. Classy.
New Year's resolution #1: learn html so I can customise. Yeah.
Well no, really, that was last week. This week is all about boredom. We're at work - some of us anyway - and occasionally we have something to do. But not often, since there won't be another magazine out for three weeks. So we're twiddling thumbs, and surfing, and eating mince pies. Mmmm. Seems to me that this is truly the essence of Christmas: food and boredom. Come the day, everywhere is closed, you're closeted with a greater or lesser sample of people you spend the rest of the year avoiding, pressies are all opened at a fairly early stage and the entire afternoon is a big yawn. Unless you've gotten the Lord of the Rings special edition for Christmas - as we have the past two years running - which will keep you entertained for a very, very long time. Peter Jackson bless us one and all.
Beloved Consort has a job! (Touch holly.) Assuming he makes it through the week's trial period in January - and he will, let's face it, nobody works as hard as my boy - he will be gainfully employed very, very soon. And the best part? The best part is it's a four-day week (but 10-hour days, so full-time pay). This will be a great novelty for me: Consort spending time with me and making money. At the same time. Gosh.
I can stop whining now. I know, I know, I've been a real brat, going on and on about the stress and strain and deprivation. No more. Oh, it's going to be a very happy new year. Yay!
Can't stay. Must go find something to celebrate with. Yay yay yay!
You may not know this, but I have very significant magical talents. Untrained as I am, however, these talents manifest themselves in subtle and surprising ways. Some of my magical abilities - such as the ability to make a whole chocolate cake vanish without a trace, or to create a beautiful garment from nothing but a piece of string - will be familiar to you. You may even share them. But there are others, and as my secret magic leaks out with increasing frequency, I am in a quandary.
The two clearest signs of my talents are these: first, the Power of the Lift. I hardly ever have to actually press a button to call a lift. The moment I enter a building, I hear that soft chime and the doors open to welcome me as I cross the lobby. Not the world's most useful power, I admit, but an undoubted Sign.
Second - and far more useful, though sadly unreliable - is the Recurring Fiver. I came to notice, some time ago, that when I spent the last five pound note in my wallet, it returned secretly. Next time I opened my wallet, there it was. This happened quite a few times over the course of a month or so, but sadly, I made the mistake of telling people about it and it was lost. (Which is why I'm safe in revealing myself now: this talent is already lost, and the lift talent is frankly not that exciting. Do not imagine that I am giving away all my secrets. I may be keeping something back...)
Be that as it may. Magical talent is clearly a dangerous thing in the hands of an untutored adept such as myself. I need discipline. I need training. I need to harness the mystical powers and bring back that recurring fiver; in fact let's make it an escalating fiver, tenner, twentyer...
So if anybody knows of a powerful sorceror looking for an apprentice, drop me a line. I promise not to bewitch the broom.
Take note, boys and girls: if you're hanging around somebody famous, trying to get up the courage to approach them, do not accept food from waitpersons. Especially not crumbly mince pies. Or you will find yourself suddenly being introduced, with a mouthful of food, and this is embarrassing and a hindrance to conversational grace.
Equally, if you are in fact somebody famous, being the on-duty sleb for a charidee bash, be restrained on the mince pie front in case of a sudden tap on the shoulder.
This is how I found myself holding the birdlike hand of Dame Judi, while we both held our other hands to mouths, trying to convey with expressive rolling of the eyes and crumb-laden smiles: "Yes, wonderful, honoured/charmed to meet you, so sorry about this embarrassing mince pie that is preventing me saying the scintillating things that would otherwise be tripping off my tongue even now, really, you're missing out on the night's most wonderful conversation..."
I did not test the 'cleansing ale' theory. I did not alternate booze and coke. I did not leave at a sensible hour. I did not, in fact, behave very well at all. I did not sleep very well.
I do not feel very well.
Mostly it's my feet, but the rest of me ain't too happy either. Ouchouchouch.
And tonight I am to be donning high heels, singing carols (not these ones) and quaffing champagne. This is supposed to be a good thing.
Ooh-er.
Someone has put it into my head that glamour be damned, I don't actually have to wear the heels. I cannot believe this had not previously even occurred to me.
My colleagues are lovely. So lovely. They will dance right through the ABC of cheese* and not give up until the DJ goes home and they kick us out. They will deliver drinks and foot rubs to keep the party jumping.
And there's always someone I can count on to keep me away from Scary Boss.
Even if I then have to be careful about keeping away from that someone.
Why is it some people don't understand that dancing is not necessarily a vertical expression of etc?
Oh, it's the way I dance, is it?
Oh.
Still, they're all lovely.
____
* Abba, Beyonce, Chesney Hawkes. Seriously. Chesney Hawkes.
It's the office Christmas party tonight.
It's press day tomorrow.
Colour me glum.
How many Christmas cards have you received? I have one. No, actually I have none. But when I complained about this, one of my friendly workmates took one of hers, scribbled my name in it, and passed it on. How sweet. I think.
Yes, I know, after all that griping about sending them, I can't complain. Much. I only send Christmas cards to people I don't want to talk to, actually; people I do want to talk to, I talk to, and a card seems superfluous. People I don't want to talk to, I send cards to shut them up. (This is not a considered strategy; this is just what I have just realised. If anybody reading this ends up somehow getting a card, I didn't mean it, obviously. Why are you reading my blog? Go away.)
Oh, I'm full of seasonal love, here. Right, but see, I send cards, and of the recipients, I think maybe 5% ever bother to send me one. I'm guessing they don't care. I'm guessing they've forgotten I exist. I think maybe next year, I just won't. Nobody will even notice.
Bah humbug.
Reverse kittens.
As in, people happily untangling lengths of string (wool would also do).
It would work as a verb, too.
Anna Pickard, whoever you are, I love you.
As vaguely promised a few days ago, herewith my dearly earned insights on Why We Pay for Gym.
I don’t know.
But if I did, my carefully developed hypothesis would be based on the following truism: It’s hard to go to gym if you don’t belong to one.
Not as blindingly obvious as it sounds, I discovered this over the course of nearly two years in the Lap of Riverside Luxury™. Our lovely flat had a lovely, if overchlorinated, swimming pool and jacuzzi, a sauna, and mini-gym with equipment that – while limited in number, and antiquated in design – was natheless perfectly adequate for a pretty decent workout. Especially when someone brought in a physio ball. So, having to walk about five steps from our building to the gym, and having free and easy access at any time, you’d think I would have been more dedicated than at any other time in my gymgoing life.
Not so. I did go through phases when I was quite good about working out, and would do my duty four or five times a week. I might keep this up for, say, two months at a stretch. If that. I don’t think there were many periods when I didn’t go at all - even if only once a week. But most of my ‘workouts’ didn’t exactly overtax me.
When the physio ball disappeared, I got one of my very own for Christmas. I decided to keep it upstairs, rather than in the gym, because clearly it would be more convenient, and hence, I would be more likely to use it regularly.
Er, no.
So there I was last week in the mat room, trying to push the physio ball around with my toes without falling over, and pondering: why do I do this here, and not at home, where I have a perfectly good ball? (Answer: because there is no space to inflate my ball in the hamster cage we call a home, but that’s beside the point.) Which led me in turn to ponder the mystery of the treadmill (see ‘Colour me stupid’, below). Which led me to mull over my appalling record of using our at-home gym, as compared and contrasted with my serious and regular efforts at the commercial sweat factory.
My conclusion, if you can dignify it with that name, is that gym is like psychotherapy (as described by the good Dr Freud): you have to have a stake in it. I’d like to think it’s not all about money, necessarily, but there has to be some kind of stake. For me, the commitment of walking down the road in the frozz is enough to ensure I make a proper effort (or it’s not worthwhile, is it?). That doesn’t explain why I go at all, though. Maybe it is about having paid – having chosen to allocate a substantial chunk of my severely strained budget to this, I’d better make the most of it. But honestly, I never have a mental argument going ‘Oh but you have to, or it’s £50 down the drain.’
Put your thoughts in the box below, please.
As many of you know, I’ve been energetically gymming quite regularly for the past few months* and should by now be enjoying the results.
Result #1: I ripped my trousers.
Result #2: A lot more washing (those sweats get really sweaty, you know).
Result #3: No, that’s about it.
Daily mirror checks reveal to me that my shape is indeed changing. I can hold my tummy in slightly more convincingly. Taking a back view, there are less creases around my waist – at least first thing in the morning, when I’ve burnt off calories with all that sleep. Or maybe it’s just before gravity kicks in. I dunno. But I swear my waist looks better when I wake up.** My bottom is, I think, more round – less saggy.
And I have Big Thahs. This, I think, is the cause of the ripped trousers.
Now I’m not exactly complaining. Accepting that I am naturally big and curvy (to be kind), I may as well whip those curves into some kind of well toned shape. Taking those well-haunched Hawaiian chicks from Lilo & Stitch as my model. Okay. But really… do my clothes have to get tighter? Do they have to, really?
(Note: any mention of chocolate, rationing of, will earn a cyberslap.)
_______
* Not counting regular sick leave
** Possible solution: take regular naps throughout the day. Yeah. We all know that lack of sleep makes you overweight, so clearly, the more you sleep, the thinner you get. Is logic.
Shopping for Christmas presents at Spitalfields last year, Armin and I were surprised to find a stall selling magic mushrooms. Nice suburban saffers that we are, we couldn't quite believe this was legal. Apparently, neither can the police.
Since then I've noticed these sellers, well, mushrooming all over town. (It seemed even more surprising than having someone quite casually and openly offering us grass on Clapham Common; there's a special leniency policy in Lambeth, apparently.) The rule is, the Spitalfields guy kindly explained to us, selling fresh mushrooms is okay; selling them dried is not. Do you have to dry them to get an effect? No, he says. (I confess to never having bothered to try shrooms, so whatever I say here may be a load of bollox.)
In any case, the Guardian tells us this is no longer a reliable rule. It's true that the law allows fresh mushrooms to be gathered and sold, but not 'prepared' mushrooms; but it's all in the interpretation. So does gathering, packaging and transporting fresh mushrooms turn them into a prepared product? And then there's the VAT issue...
These policemen are crazy.
I have a long post in mind about the peculiarities of paying to do things in a gym that could as well be done at home or on the streets, and that will be written another day (probably), but this morning I gained insight into at least one of the reasons: gym is warmer.
As of today I am giving up my usual, self-devised workout routine for an eight-week Fat Loss Cross-Training Programme, courtesy of Shape (hat tip to Faye Sooth). On Day One, I am instructed to 'walk, easy to moderate, 25-50min'. Ok, I think, but 50min walking on the treadmill will be terribly boring and will attract scorn from the well muscled personal trainers and similar who understand that treadmills are for running on, as fast as possible. But wait! There's a perfectly good park not too far away! So I'll just slip on my light tracksuit top (since my heavy jacket is too warm for exercise, and I don't want to sweat in my heavyduty fleece, cos that's icky).
First mistake: thinking Regent's Park was 'not too far away'. Well, it's not, but it's a good 20 minutes of rather brisk walking. So: arrive at nearest gate, enter, walk to the next best gate, exit, walk home.
Second mistake: thinking light tracksuit was in any way suitable attire for a December day when I wasn't planning to take my pace above a brisk walk. Running, maybe, though I still woulda fruzz, I think. A beanie and gloves woulda helped. But I had none of these. By the time I got to the park, hands were bright red and numb. My pace was indeed brisk enough to be keeping me mostly warm - which was a problem in itself, because by the time I entered the park, I'd broken a light sweat. Which then rapidly became an icy chill. The homeward walk was not pleasant. Actually it wouldn't have been pleasant anyway, because I was travelling north of Euston Road, which is just that bit more dismal than the other side. Which isn't great either.
Moral of the story? Next time, I'll be on the treadmill, and snotty personal trainers be damned.
PS. Beloved Consort points out that the cold probably helped freeze off a few extra calories. Damn near froze off my fingers too, though. Not sure it's enough of a plus.
I don't normally get to see much animal life here in the Big Smoke. Pigeons, mostly, and the occasional squirrel. Also a lot of guide dogs, since there's an institute for the blind across the road. But recently, I discovered a pair of sheep. Big, black, woolly sheep, with long woolly tails. They are, sometimes, to be seen in Coram's Fields, in the small patch of grass between the outer fence and the... er... some kind of building that runs down that side of the field. Presumably the rest of the time, they are in the inner field - possibly? - or in the building itself, which could be animal pens. Coram's Fields is a nursery school and I guess maybe they have a mini-petting farm type arrangement. Or maybe the sheep are there to keep the lawn mowed. Whatever. Sheep. In London. How odd.
Now today I am particularly pleased with these sheep - to be known henceforth as Ewe and Ewe Too - because they finally acknowledged my existence. Well, one of them did. Every time I see them (not that often) I stop, offer a few friendly words about the weather, the usual. But they're proper London sheep, they give me that 'look, fook off, alright?' stare, and I duly fook off.
Not today, though. Today, Ewe saw me and took a few steps forward, before she remembered herself. Stopped. Looked suspicious. So I crouched down to get onto eye level, and explained that no, I didn't have any food, but she could come talk to me anyway. So she did. Not actually talk, that is, this not being Babe in the City, but she came over and offered her head for scratching. Then she really liked that - pressed her chin down into my hand, looked very happy - so she turned sidelong to the fence and pressed up to it, inviting me to make nice. Much happy petting and scratching ensued. (And the lady is absolutely filthy, I'm sorry to say, very sticky coat.) She was very sorry to see me go, and I hope she'll remember me next time and come for some more attention.
Strike two. Last night I finished the first side of my gorgeous, funky, stripy rib jersey. (Note on my proceeding Anglicisation: 'jersey' is sounding weird to me, but I can't quite bring myself to use 'jumper' instead. Woolly jumpers are what you get when you cross a sheep with a kangaroo. Not something you actually wear. Then again, jerseys are cows. Quandary.)
Anyway, so I finished the piece, laid it out, and thought: hm. Hm, I thought. Also more words of a more generally obscene and expressive nature. Bother, and that. The dang thing's lopsided. I did the whole thing without once noticing that the centre decrease was not, in fact, in the centre. Start again, again.
This is very distressing. I thought I was a good knitter. Once.
I can't quite make up my mind whether I like my new yoga class. I've been three or four times now - for a couple of months I never made it out of work in time. And I always feel good afterwards, and sometimes in the middle of it, but mostly I feel bloody stupid. It's a different style of yoga to what I'm used to - not sure what it is tecnickly; ashtanga maybe? - with more emphasis on balance than bending, and the class is constructed differently too: one long sequence of poses flowing into each other, with the instructor intoning the movements. So those who've been taking the class for a while don't really have to listen to him at all - they know exactly what comes next, and how to do it - but if you're new, or newish, or just not very good, it's quite confusing. Teacher wanders around prodding people into place occasionally, telling you to point toes forward, etc, but by then you've already done the whole sequence wrong four times. And then he says bizarre things like 'keep your legs soft' (yes, my legs are soft, but what does this mean?), or 'relax your bottom' when that bottom is the only thing keeping me from falling on the floor.
And then there's the problem of balance. I have none. I've always been fairly confident in a yoga class, on account of being really bendy, so even if I look stoopid I can at least do the movements. But now - if I'm doing really well - I draw my right knee to chest, concentrate fearsomely (it's pretty scary catching my eye in the mirror at this point), open leg out to the right, look over left shoulder, fall over. Regain balance, lift leg, return to centre, extend leg, point toe, fall over. Then do it again to the other side. Place right foot on left thigh, raise arms, look at thumbs, fall over. Again to the other side. And so on. And so on. Even some of the poses where I get to keep both feet on the ground result in falling over, because my left foot cramps up and becomes useless. Why, I don't know, it just does. Very reliably.
So that chunky chick at the front of the class, glaring furiously (it's concentration, but looks scarier) and wobbling... that would be me. Is this fun? I'm really not sure.
I once saw a whole book devoted to women's dreams of Madonna. Actual night dreams, not day dreams or fantasies, y'see. It wasn't supposed to be lesbian dreams, necessarily, but there was a significant note of Sapphic yearning throughout. I found this quite fascinating. Why were all these women dreaming of Madonna? There were a lot of dreams. Enough to publish a whole book, in fact. And if this was such a key pop cultural experience, why was I missing out?
I am proud to report that some years later (and a year or so ago, now) I joined that happy throng. I, too, have dreamed of Madonna. Not with lust. (She's not my type. Too stringy.) But there was a girl-on-girl theme, all the same. I dreamed that Madonna had married my sister. And they were having a baby. I didn't approve. I didn't think she (Madonna) was good enough for her (sister). I thought she was a spoilt, selfish diva who'd just break her heart. (Can't imagine where I got that idea from.) At the same time, though, I was getting the most exquisite thrill from being able to tell people 'Yeah, Madonna's my sister-in-law.' I think this reveals far more about me than I like.
All this apropos of absolutely nothing, except that there was a 'Madonna's TV Moments' thing on last night (v boring, but nothing else was on), and having 'enjoyed' a 30-minute whirlwind tour of her 20-year career, I can honestly say: I still don't get it. There's nothing there. Yet she made it into my dream life. This is just wrong.
Words I never thought I'd hear myself say: 'Yippee! We're having another pub quiz!'
But that was then, and this is the new, Quiz Champion Scrivener. Oh yes. Last time there was a work-related quiz (as in people from work, that is, not questions about work, that would be dull), I was on the winning team. Admittedly I didn't contribute that many of the winning answers - I think I did get the Monopoly one, and Scrabble; but I got the date of the Lady Chatterley trial wrong* - but, champions nonetheless. By a whole, vital half-point. Ours to defend! We have a cup and everything.
And in further good news, I get to go to the Story of Christmas! This is an annual charity shindig with carol singing and Bible readings and stuff, which is all very dull (except possibly for the joy of lustily singing silly things very off-key), but the readings get done by slebs, see, and after the churchy stuff you get to rub elbows with them in a Champagne Reception. My Worthy Employer is one of the sponsors, so we get a bunch of tickets every year. I went last year (and got my free money's worth, believe me); this year I didn't get one, originally, but after some cunning footwork (read: shameless begging), me and partners in crime Debbie and Lucy are in!
Sadly, a certain suave, debonair and unnecessarily tall Star of Stage and Screen will not be making a repeat appearance this year - though his good friend Judi will be. So I'll have to look elsewhere for my bid for the gossip columns. Jeremy Paxman is to make a showing, I hear; I flex my flirting muscles**...
_____
*Only because Philip Larkin lied. Or was imprecise. See:
'Sexual intercourse began in 1963,
Which was rather late for me,
Between the end of the Chatterley ban
And the Beatles' first LP.'
You see how I could get confused. Apparently the ban actually ended way back in 1960.
**Located quite close to the pecs, in women.
I've just remembered one little catch to this Christmas lark. (Or robin, perhaps. More Christmassy. Right, to this Christmas robin.) Christmas cards. They have to be sent, yes they do. And I could not feel any less interested in writing 'em right now. Not that I should say this, of course, not out loud on the interweb like this, because any of you who get a Christmas card from me will be thinking 'yeah yeah, merry Christmas, right, we know how sincerely this was wrote'. And those of you who don't will be thinking 'oh so she does actually send cards, right, just not to me, the cow'.
Oh but wait, that's okay, because nobody does read this, so that's all right then. Apart from my hurt feelings. No problemo.
I've been worrying all weekend - about the ridiculous state of my immune system (must I really eat more vitaminy stuff? do chocolate oranges count?), but mostly, about something a friend said on Friday night. She read a claim - just a theoretical claim, admittedly, nothing to stake your pension on - that "people who like everybody and aren't judgmental, aren't able to judge themselves, and so have no motivation".
"I thought of you," she said.
I find this utterly depressing. It does sound like me. I can even see the logic to it. But I really, really, really don't like it. I always thought that being able to get on with everybody, to see the good in people, etc etc was a great boon and a gift. No, apparently it's a curse. It dooms me to being Unsuccessful. Okay, so I have said many times that I don't actually want a Career, so admittedly I can't really complain about the idea that I might not have one. But... butbutbut... surely I should be able to have one? If I really wanted to? Does this mean that if I want that champagne lifestyle (ooh, yes please), and accept that I have to work for it (bugger, but okay, acceptable) I have to learn to be critical and dissatisfied?
And here's an interesting corollary: should one then be automatically suspicious of anyone who is really successful, because they probably hate everyone, including you? Clearly misanthropy=motivation=success. Clearly. No wonder rich bastards all drive big darn SUVs/superfast sporty gas guzzlers with no care for the planet, or their fellow road users, or anyone else. It's not just because they can. It's because they really are assholes. We don't have to hate them because they're rich (and, usually, beautiful, because they're also motivated to get to the damn gym); we can hate them because, now, we know what they're really like. Aha.
Flaws in the above logic should be pointed out to anyone but me.
How am I supposed to maintain my rigorous and carefully planned exercise schedule if I'm always getting sick?
And if I don't maintain said schedule, how am I supposed to drop a dress size, boost my energy, be svelte and beautiful and happy?
Screw it.
Here's a lovely way to spend a December evening: meet some friends in Covent Garden, have a glass of port, go see a bona fide Star in a very pretty ballet.
Here's a good way to screw it up: develop a cold. Spend most of the ballet fiddling for tissues, desperately trying to choke down a cough, and avoiding the cross glances of your neighbours.
But never mind that. I was okay most of the time. (But did you know that coughs are catching? Just like yawns. There was a terrible breakout in the third act.) Darcy Bussell was amazing; fluid, almost boneless at times, yet precise. Nice to know there really is a reason for all the fuss. Though I was, again, annoyed at the shoddy timing of the corps de ballet. I'm really not an expert, but I think it's a basic rule that synchronised movements should, in fact, be synchronised. In unison, that is. And on the beat would be nice. They do it right in Cape Town, you know. And the costumes! The nymphs in the first act were quite prettily decked out, but after that it all went rather wrong. The men got the worst of it; utterly daft they looked. Probably this sounds a bit self-evident - aren't men in ballets supposed to look daft? - but trust me, this was excessive. I mean, almost all of them were in skirts. Little flappy things around their hips, like Roman tunics but girlier. The peasants - peasants, mark you - were in skirts and little satin capes. Really. One character, who I later discovered from the programme was 'Orion, Evil Hunter', I had mentally named 'Mad Drag Queen Sorceror' - because he was wearing purple MC Hammer pants, with more purple satin on his head, and some kind of spangly yoke thing. And a lot of make-up. What would you think? But apparently he's a hunter. I can't imagine what he'd be hunting in that get-up.
Still, Ms Bussell was gorgeous, and that made it all worthwhile.
Apparently, for the duration of this winter, I will be at least a bit snuffly for one week out of four. That's been the ratio since we moved in, anyway. In August. I've been approximately healthy for, oh, ages - since Nov 12 or thereabouts - so of course I have to start feeling kak again. This wouldn't be anything to do with our cold, damp flat, would it? grumblegrumblegrumble...
And I so hoped I would sleep well, and I didn't, but at least didn't have to get up early today. Should've gone to gym. Didn't. Sulked instead.
Now I'm here at the computer, struggling to type because my fingers are numb with cold. More layers needed. More heating. This is ridiculous, I bet it's not even cold outside. Just in here. Our own special Arctic zone. Lucky, lucky us.
In this day and age, with so veryvery many Technological Advances, and so manymany Consumer Offerings, I cannot understand why I am unable to watch Days of our Lives.
Leaving aside the question of why I would want to watch DOOL - it is brilliant television, I promise you; don't be rude - don't you think here, in London, with digital TV and everything, it should be easily accessible? But no. It used to be on, apparently. But no more.
What I want, see, is this. I want customised TV. I want to be able to order, not just the channels, but the programmes I want. Get me DOOL! But no other soaps, please. I'll take Buffy, but not Angel. Any series HBO cares to offer. And, you know, occasionally I might try something new. Surprise me. But don't you dare deny me the essentials. DOOL. Now.
Is it any wonder I watch so many DVDs, and so little TV? Any time I switch on the telly I seem to have a choice between gardening, cooking, What Not To Wear and The Simpsons. Obviously the Simpsons will win, but when that's the only option, frankly, it palls. It palls.
Hands up all those who sniggered smugly at my 'failproof knitting project' hubris. Take a bow. Go on, enjoy yourselves.
It's beautiful, of course - all 15cm of it so far - and I love knitting it, and all that. But it's clear there simply won't be enough of it. This yarn just won't go as far as I'd expected. So I could finish what I have, get a pretty antique-y brooch such as to be found in every Dotty P or other high-street shop this season, and wear it as a little cape thingy. But that's really not what I want. At all. Can I get more yarn? No, bought it ages ago, colour won't match.
Sigh.
Another project, then. Put the stole on hold until after Christmas, when with any luck I'll get something delicious from the John Lewis sale - buy lots of it - and stole away until it's good and long.
Meanwhile, I'll be adapting the Purple Monster pattern (which, I'll have you know, I have typed up properly - a first for me - in three theoretical sizes) to make something funky and stripy. It's a good pattern, I think. Now that I've spent a year whuppin it into shape. Will make it earn its keep.
I watched The Madness of King George last night. Good film. Funny. But what really struck me was how utterly obvious it was that a monarch should go mad. I mean, they refer to themselves as 'we'. Nobody looks them in the eye. They never seem to see anyone's back, cos everyone backs suspiciously out of their presence. You've got paranoid schizophrenia right there, surely? And then there's the whole 'God's anointed' thing, which don't get me started. The whole institution is self-evidently nuts. Maybe these days protocol is slightly relaxed, I don't know, I don't begin to understand the very concept of having a royal family that you take at all seriously. Maybe the modern royals are more sane; I don't know, I think there are a few questions there at least.
But consider this: a colleague of mine was quite unable to wrap her head around the idea of not having a monarchy. How can you have Christmas without it, she wanted to know. Who gives the Queen's Speech?
It's not just the monarchs, then. It's the whole bloody country.
Did I mention I like Christmas? Now there's even more to like. A little Christmas present from my favourite blogger (don't know the lass, wish I did, she defines cool) - and her sister. Bookmark for a daily treat.
Ich bin nicht schlau. Die Sprache ist zu schwierig.
Gloomy image my ass, the language suffers from a complete absence of logic. Ask Mark Twain.
Attention span? Fruit fly. Memory? Goldfish.
This is why, when I email something to myself at a different address (eg: a reminder to put on my home calendar, or something for me to do on the work intranet) and then I get a notification that says 'you have mail', I actually get excited. Right up until I open the mail and see, oh, wait, it's from myself. Bummer.
This is now happening with my blog comments. I reply to someone. I get mail. Exciting! For a few seconds. Cringe.
Then again, I have actually been known to tell someone to ring my phone in order to hear my voicemail message - the reason why escapes me - and when they did, I ran for my phone. And answered it.
Someone slap me. Please.
So it's the 1st of December, and I want you to know: I. Love. Christmas.
Back in SA, Christmas was fun for the actual day, or maybe week, but mostly it was annoying. Starting in September, when you heard the first carols being piped in the supermarket, all Scroogy feelings would rise to the surface and I'd wander around going 'bah humbug!' a lot. Presents good, of course, I love getting presents and I love giving presents, and food good too, but there was just too darn much of it. Christmas overkill. And in the sunshine and everything it was fairly garish and hideous, to be frank. Just pure Kitschmas.
But in London, Christmas works. It really makes sense. It gets me excited. And I'm a grown-up, and I don't even have any kids around me, but it so works. From about the second the clocks go back, I wander the streets and suddenly it's dark and cold, but there are Christmas lights all over and spangly gold crap in the shop windows and it's so cosy and cute and magical - honestly, magical - everything makes me gasp and go, ooohh! Christmas! yeah!
It makes all of winter worthwhile.
At least until January.
I had some wine at lunch. I shouldn't have.
I said something I shouldn't have to/about my boss. Loudly.
He said, 10 minutes later, 'It was very funny what you said about...'
I am but a stranger on these shores, yet I can translate. He means: 'That was mean and rude and I'll get you for that.'
Bugger.
Lesson no 1 in finding a new home: it's not all about looks, kids. Don't be seduced by the funky tiling, or the great view. Keep an eagle eye for telltale signs of damp, etc. These things will haunt you.
You'd think, after 28 years and almost as many moves (I have literally lost count, but as close as I can calculate, it's about 25), I would know this. But no. We viewed this flat twice - two whole times - and I thought it looked great. Really cute kitchen. Groovy bathroom, too. Character building. All that. Until the day we moved in, when suddenly I realised that the place was actually falling apart. We hadn't bought it, of course, or we would have become aware of all these issues. So we have a landlady who is supposed to deal with our various problems, and she's a dear and well-intentioned soul, but completely useless. So's the building managing agent. How soon can we move out? Not soon enough. How much am I looking forward to moving again? Not. At. All.
But I don't think I can face another winter in this place. I can barely face this one, but I have to, since we just moved in and all. At least we can now take a bath without imposing a shower on Mr Downstairs. But the bath doesn't get very hot. We can now open the bedroom window, too, which had been painted shut for a goodly while (a year? more?), and get some fresh air in. Which is nice. I think I could do with a little less fresh air in the lounge, though - would be nice if the windows really closed tightly - and I could definitely, definitely do with less damp. We discovered a veritable forest of mould on a pillow that had the misfortune to be shoved up against the ceiling inside the bedroom cupboard. This was after just a few weeks. No wonder I'm always snuffly.
I miss our last place. I miss the space. I miss the incredible river view. I miss the leisure centre, complete with jacuzzi. Mmmm. I miss the ample cupboard space and the double glazing. Heat actually staying inside? How novel.
I don't miss the long bus or tube ride required to get anywhere, though, and I don't miss the dismal grimy street the bus rode down. I do love our new neighbourhood: cafes, bookshops, and dozens of buses and tubes to anywhere. I love walking to work. I love living on our own - just me and Beloved Consort, sans flatmate. So there's good, definitely. I just wish I could have all this, plus comfort.
That would be nice.
I spent most of last night on the M25. Not actually, you understand. Actual body was in actual bed. But DreamScrivener was on the M25, with my sister, who in my dream was moving to London and was Very Confused. So there we were, driving around, bickering - sisters, right? Actually I haven't bickered with her since, ooh, long ago. Except in dreams. Though I managed to keep my sense of humour, which I thought was pretty good for a dream. I defused her with a witty comment about how our bickering was better than that of some people next to us at the service station, 'cos we're sisters, we've been doing this all our lives, our bickering is Quality'. Hey, it worked in the dream.
But the fact remains, spending a night on the M25 - especially bickering - is not conducive to waking up refreshed and raring to go. Especially when it's the second night in a row. Not that I was on the M25 on Monday night; I can't remember what DreamScrivener was up to then. But I can tell you, there wasn't much sleep happening either night. Just enough to enter dreamworld; not enough to go beyond dreams into actual rest time. Now I like dreams, really. Dreams are groovy. I think it's very cool to have access to this whole other reality every night, and really, I wish I could spend more time dreaming. But not at the expense of real sleep, please. Now I'm walking around bleary eyed and stoopid.
Say a big hello to Zombie Scrivener.
Just another way to glamorise eating disorders?
Actually I quite like it. I think it would appeal to many more women than just those diagnosed anorexic. I know very few women who do not have Issues around food. And the food sounds gorgeous, so it wouldn't be as niche as all that, no matter what the critics say.
Sehnsucht. It's a lovely, lovely name. Take me to Berlin, honey, I want to not eat very much.
Ooh, just thought, that's a major drawback. If you - a regular sized woman - are eating somewhere run by anorexics, for anorexics, aren't you going to feel even more fat and guilty than usual about ordering dessert?
Apparently a lot of folks would like to get rid of coppers. No, not them, the other kind. The kind that clutters up your wallet. Which, in principle, seems fine. I don't think those little 1p and 2p coins really add up to much of a difference in anyone's life. I seem to remember Pick 'n Pay in SA made the bold move of wiping the spare change off all till totals - rounding down to the nearest 5p I think - for customer convenience. Lovely idea and all. But what would I pick up off the street?
Yes, you read that right, I'm saddened to think my heart would no longer be gladdened by the bright glint of a lucky penny. It's a habit I picked up from a friend - you know who you are - who's a keen-eyed and fervent believer in stray pennies as a sign of luck. I've adopted that, to the point that I've started to feel a bit cheated by fate if I don't have a small gathering of coinage clinking in my pocket at any one time, or if the streets are stubbornly empty for, say, a week. Occasionally there's a little silver - once I even found a whole pound - but, unsurprisingly, for the most part it's just pennies. Get rid of the pennies, get rid of my luck.
Or I could just get a life.
Seems to me with every year that goes by, my writing gets worse. Not that I was ever that neat. My sister, now, she has the kind of pretty, rounded, immaculate script that could almost sit on an architect's plan. Me, not so much. Especially, not any more. I'm quite proud of my 70wpm typing, mind you, but I do wince when I look at my handwriting. I don't even seem to be able to hold a pen properly any more. I get this tetchy cramp down the side of my hand. It's very disappointing. See, I really like writing, as a manual process. Especially with a nice, soft pencil. I like the whispering, rhythmic movement across the page. And on a good day, I like the way my writing looks. Curvy, with cute little spikes and long, sexy tails. Completely illegible, mind, but pretty. High on flair, low on functionality - the Manolo Blahniks of handwriting, if you will.
But that's the thing with handwriting: it's all about functionality. Any time you write something that anyone else is intended to read - which is nearly every time you write anything - it's a bit rude to assume that the reader will admire the original way in which you connect o to f and consequently not mind about the actual content being a closely guarded secret. And this is where block letters come in. Supposedly this is the failsafe way to make sure your scrawl is legible - hence the anxious instructions on all kinds of form: PLEASE COMPLETE IN BLOCK CAPITALS. As a courtesy, I try to write in block capitals quite a lot, for fax headers etc. I have to do quite a lot of these in the course of a day's work. And every time, I wince. Because my block capitals are hideous. They are ugly. I have never gotten the hang of capital letters. Spiky in all the wrong ways, unbalanced, wonky. And it seems the harder I try to even it out, the clunkier it gets.
But what I wonder is this. Given that once, I was able to write acceptable block lettering - not beautiful, but not ugly - and given that even my regular longhand is getting worse and worse; will I reach a point at which I can no longer do any better than a scrawl, and that when pushed? Is handwriting officially dead? Because it's not just me, you know. I bet everyone's writing, except maybe primary school teachers, is on a steady decline.
Maybe handwriting is becoming one of those antique skills that serves no real purpose for the average citizen. Maybe it will dwindle, become unfashionable, something only sad old women do, and try to teach their uninterested grandchildren. Maybe it will eventually be rediscovered by people with too much downtime, like actors on film sets, spawning a weird retro craze, with a few dozen adepts leaping out of the closet crying 'Away, latecomers! I've been doing this all along!'
Maybe handwriting is the new knitting.
I did something momentous this weekend. I slew the purple monster. Possibly not as interesting as it sounds, this translates simply as: "I finished knitting a jersey (purple)." (And this is probably as far as anyone should read who doesn't have some interest in the fibre arts; or at least a macabre fascination with the bizarre fact that people really do this.)
But that really doesn't do it justice. It fails spectacularly to capture the significance of putting behind me, for good, the manymanymany hours of frustration and sometimes loathing that went into this jersey. It's not really one jersey, even. Oh, its final manifestation is but one jersey, yes. But it's really three. Or more, depending on how you're counting (I figure the amount of stitching I did, I could have made at least six jerseys, had no pulling out been involved).
[snipsnip: details excised for fear of causing readers to expire]
So anyway - and to the point of the title - I now get to knit something really, really straightforward. A rectangle, in fact. A nice wrap to solve the office aircon problem. (It doesn't work; it's either too cold or too hot, but usually too cold; so you need something handy to bundle over your regular clothes, and cardigans don't always work from a fashion point of view. In fact they don't often work, do they.) I'll be clacking away in proper granny style, on a nice lacy stole. Clack clack clack. I'll start going nuts soon enough - with no shaping to keep me on my toes - but it's a good easy stitch pattern, just busy enough to keep me enjoying it - no plain stocking stitch in sight -without requiring any actual attention. And this is the great part: it's pretty much guaranteed to work. No pulling out here. Happy sighs.
1 hour primping (*)
+ 1 hour travelling
+ 40 minutes hobbling in search of the party (**)
+ £10 entry and cash bar
+ very bad drinks (***) in very small glasses
= disappointment.
The music was good, though.
And I did get a cute compliment.
Chap [leans forward, charming smile, good eye contact]: "You have a wonderful decolletage."
Self [returning smile]: "Why thank you!"
Chap [nods happily]: "I really mean it."
For the record, I wasn't wearing anything outrageous. Honest, guv. I might not wear that to work, but I'd wear it to a work party. So.
_____
* 1940s costume doesn't just happen, you know. The hair! The underwear!
** Our inviter and guide, bless her, didn't have a clue where she was going. And her shoes were even more impractical than mine. And her stockings were falling down. Poor lass. I've had nights like that.
*** I'm not that picky. Drinks:good, really. But I really couldn't stomach that wine. How bad does it have to be to get me to give up on a glass of red wine? Pretty darn horrible.
Everybody else is doing it, why can't I?
Well because I have to get dressed up for a party, for one. No time to blog. Must primp.
Stay tuned for a full report of the proceedings tomorrow.
