You know, I find a new good blog and I'm immediately composing posts in my head completely bastardizing the author's voice. I think it's a hang up from reading Bridget Jones, oh about 50 years ago, and writing forevermorethereafter: 'v. good'. (Helen Fielding may not have been the first person to abbreviate 'very' to 'v.' but god, she did it so effectively. Almost all of my most 'London' moments while living there were based on feeling like I was living just like Bridget - WWBD, if you will. Except with less crotch-cam-on-a-fireman's-pole.)
Today's find was Bend it Like Becker who made me giggle. Rigging up a system to get the rubbish into the bin from the second storey deck to avoid having to go downstairs is actually frigging genius but having the commitment to buy carabiners to achieve said goal? I've got nothing but snorts and applause. Brilliant. I immediately wanted to rip her off which must be the highest accolade I've got in my (admittedly limited) Positive Praise Bank. (What I've got stored in my Disdain and Contempt Bank is extensive. I don't even save it for special, I apply it liberally). Anyway, Sarah has a thingo she calls 'blurbs' which appears to be a conglomeration post of bits and pieces and I'm totally ripping that off today. Credit where credit's due and all (um, assuming this counts as credit?)
So, anyway. We're having a house warming this weekend. (OF COURSE you're all invited, internet stalkers! Um, your invitations are in the mail! Yes, that's it!) P has purchased about half a beast (half a lamb anyway) to feed guests with and I am in that stage of concern that reads: 'well we're going to look ridiculous when only three people turn up and we've catered for the population of a medium sized town'. Those three people aren't even a given - my Mum's not in town. But look on the bright side: when have I ever been upset about eating leftovers for a solid week?! NEVER. NOT EVER. I cry when the Christmas ham runs out four weeks after the event.
Also, I am going to see Beyonce in concert (as opposed to over tea, you know) tomorrow with a veritable gaggle of women. One, a high school teacher, has already emailed to express concern about the reaction of a class of 15 year old girls - 'YOU listen to Beyonce?!' 'Destiny's WHO?!'. Look, I remember 2000 clearly when Say My Name was the only thing we'd play on the high school common room stereo (which if I recall rightly was so wrecked it had to be sat on the foam cushions from the broken-ass common room couch in order to work). I'm now however quite concerned that I will be the oldest, saddest woman at this concert because I've already ditched the idea of wearing heels in order to be more comfortable and I'm planning how to get home after. Shit.
On the plus side, at least we're having dinner first at quite a nice restaurant so I'm guessing it won't be like the heady days of the 2007 JT concert where we destroyed ourselves on Lindauer Fraise (exactly as classy as it sounds. EXACTLY).