books

I love this tumblr.  So much.

FUCK YEAH, BOOKS AGAIN, VIA

I'm a book whore.  Will read and reread over and over and I love to get my sticky mitts on something new.  A friend recently suggested I get hold of the short stories of Haruki Murakami.  Wow, these were seriously emotive and just beautifully composed.  After reading them I spent a few days all horrendously introspective and, y'know, DEEP.  I felt incredibly disjointed and weird afterwards; next time I'll dole out the stories one by one instead of swallowing the collection whole like a glutton.  I don't think I've felt that unsettled since I read The Bone People.  You don't get that from a Marian Keyes novel, let me tell you (I'm not bashing Keyes or Murakami or, indeed Keri Hulme - I read and enjoy them all in different ways).

All in all a lengthy way of saying I'm looking for some new booky inspiration for my trip away this week.  Tomorrow evening we're on a plane to Croatia; very much looking forward to it.  I've got my fingers crossed for some sunshine as we are hopping on a boat for a substantial chunk of the trip.  I'm not the most seasoned of yacht passengers, that's for sure.  I will do my level best to keep the vom under control - wish me luck!

Please excuse my bloggy absence for the next week; I shall return with hopefully abundant tales and pictures of interesting people and places. 

In the meantime, lay your fave holiday books on me...

thirty is the new something-something?

Sooooooooooooo.....you know how I've been all "30?  I'm fine with 30!  In your 30s you know who you are, are comfortable in your own skin, hit your sexual peak (if lucky enough to a woman, sorry boys you've been on the downhill for aaaages)" etc etc?  I've just been emailing Hat Friend extensively over this 30 business and we've been pretty self-congratulatory about how incredibly cool we are about it.

AN IGLOO MADE OF BOOKS BY MILLER LAGOS VIA FUCK YEAH, BOOKS
I NEED THIS IGLOO AS MY SAFE PLACE.  READ INTO THAT WHAT YOU WILL, IMAGINARY THERAPIST

Just had a minor moment, checking a new tick box on the medical history forms needed for a dental check-up at a new practice.  30.  Wow.  Which was compounded by receiving an email from the SIL about whether I wanted her to save her newborn baby clothes - would I be sprogging up in the next 1 to 2 years?  She meant well but HOLY CRAP that freaked ten types of shit out of me.  Suddenly, the implications and societal expectations regarding being married, moving closer to home and turning 30 have just become apparent to me.  And here I was all "I'm turning 30 and then four days later I'll be unemployed and wandering the world, fuck I'm so COOL and HIP and YOUNG don't you worry about me" when what I was actually doing was EVERYTHING people expect you to do when you get married and turn 30. 

Sorry, I'll try to fucking ARTICULATE next time.  This is a RANT. 

I just said thanks, but no thanks on the baby stuff.  I'm having enough trouble deciding what to eat for dinner let alone thinking about when I'm going to spawn.  Actually, that reaction right there has calmed me a little. If I were properly grown up, I might, you know, not have lost my shit at a well meant and kind offer.

As you were. 

back in business

OK boys and girls, mama has a brand new phone and can stop whinging now!  YAY for everyone!
I had it *fixed* at the Apple Genius Bar - I have to say, the process was relatively painless.  Even though they eyerolled at me when I weakly attempted to suggest that perhaps the damage should be covered by my warranty, the whole experience from entry to exit with a shiny, working new toy took half an hour.  Not sure where some of my apps went (I'm sure I backed up?) but I'm not complaining (too much).  Far better than the suggested service timeframe and price quoted to me by Vodafone, that's for sure.

We spent the weekend with P's fambily and it was good.  Village fete was a blast (straw bales! knocking beanbags off poles with balls! raffles!) and we had a delicious outdoor bbq, sitting out in the sunshine for ages.  Bliss - and so very nice to get into the countryside again for a few hours. 

Irrefutable proof that summer has arrived from yesterday (post-picking up the new phone, obvi):

WOULD I* BREW UP A JUG OF PIMMS WITHOUT GOOD REASON?
*FOR I, READ P.  I MAKE HIM DO THESE THINGS FOR ME.  SUCH A GOOD WEE HUSBAND.  HE PUTS UP WITH IT BECAUSE HE THINKS I'M EASY WHEN I'M DRUNK

But just in case you thought I was changing the tune from Doom & Gloom to Sunshine & Roses, the weather forecast for Croatia next week is looking a little dim.  Have I mentioned we'll be on a boat for a week?  Have I mentioned I get seasick? 

IN OTHER NEWS: what is it about 4.33pm on a Monday that makes me want to smother a french stick in butter and cram it in my cakehole?

bits

I will shut my cakehole on the subject of my smashed phone for a while (sniff), while I inform you about all the other extremely important things I feel you should know about my life, just at this moment in time. 

P's mum has arrived for the weekend.  I cooked a meal last night and it had more than three ingredients and wasn't completely inedible so that counts as a win, right?  I also managed to vacuum the floor so I like to think I'm two for two on the domesticity front.  Except that there were no fresh towels because I'm a sloth and apparently had been saving up every possible rectangle of towelling for a laundry date that never occurred.  So two for three, maybe.  Before yesterday evening's clean up extravaganza, I emailed a friend that the house looked like a filthy brothel and she expressed some incredulity about this concept.  I stand behind it though - the flat was practically carpeted in underwear (clean! from the unfolded laundry I did do!) and hair. Wanna come stay at my house?

Where was P in all of this, you ask?  Oh he was helping, don't get me wrong.  He has had a busy time at work of late and pitched in where he could.  Plus he brought home wine and flowers (the essentials).  But don't think I'm not banking that favour and milking it later for all it's worth. 

I booked the last of the airline tickets for the Big Trip this morning! YAY but also DESTITUTE!  Before we leave, we have trips to Croatia and Lithuania planned.  The Big Trip now looks something like:

Wimbledon (camping in the queue)
Scotland
Ireland
Back to England so P can do some GodAwful Car Thing
Barcelona and the Costa Brava
Provence
Tuscany
Venice
Greece (Athens, Paros, Santorini for sure)
Istanbul
Chennai and Bangalore
Rajasthan
New Zealand!

So excited, honestly.  I've said it before but it bears repeating (or I will repeat it anyway until it is done good and driven into the ground) I CANNOT WAIT.  Don't worry, I'm not letting the burglars into any secrets by telling them this because we will be homeless during this period and thus have no place from which burglars can steal things.  THWARTED, potential criminals!  Take that!

Also: the sun is still here!  We are off to a village fete this weekend (quaint, no?) and the English sun shall shine down on our pasty limbs and it will be glorious.  I shall eat cake and be merry.

Happy Friday, one and all. 

glum update

Phone still broken.  *SOB*.  Vodafone trying to charge me something extortionate and leave me phone free for seven to ten working days I THINK NOT.

This situation is so serious I'm going to visit Apple in Covent Garden tonight EVEN though my mother in law is arriving this evening and the flat looks like a bunch of slovenly fourteen year olds with shedding issues reside in it.  EVEN though I have a borderline phobia about discussing technology related issues with people who actually know things about technology (see: ridic basic and uninspired blog design - wouldn't want to have to actually talk it through with someone, y'know?).

Sun is still here though!  Bright side! 

I hope to be back with better news soon (she says darkly). 

somebody play the last post, please

Yesterday was veritable TUMULT of emotions for me, you guys.

First, let me just say: warm weather.  It is finally here!  I was so excited when I left work last night I went on a photo-snappy and twittery BONANZA recording what feels like the first day Great Britain has reached double digit temperatures in, oh I don't know, THE LAST CENTURY.*

TOWER BRIDGE AND LOOK IT! PEOPLE WITHOUT SLEEVES!  SO EXCITED!

THAT IS THE SUN.  IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO RECOGNISE IT.

LOOK! BARE SHOULDERS! SUNGLASSES REQUIRED! MANKY ASS HAIR! BUT BLUE SKY!

And then I must have been totally over-excited because in the course of losing my shit over the weather, dropped my phone and shattered the screen.  I AM BEYOND DEVASTATED.

Actually, it wasn't just over-excitement.  It was probably just that I'd conned P into having a few wines with me and I was tiddly-clumsy while fumbling for my purse in the supermarket.  Tiddly-clumsy is not covered by the terms of my warranty, allegedly.  (Side bar: we had the wines sitting in the open window of one of our favourite locals, which looks out at the neighbourhood church.  We sipped and people-watched quite a number of folk heading in and out of the side entrance to the church....and then we realised it was an AA meeting. I felt so terrible, swilling piss in front of those who have cut it out of their lives.)

I raced home to get online and frantically research fixit options for MY BABY, MY POOR BABY.  P looked at me with piteous side eye and deigned not to comment; he knows I'm useless with material possessions and had made me promise to look after this particular expensive acquisition. 

It is only 11 months and one week old.  I've never had a fancy phone before.  My last phone was a £5 clapped out Nokia.  I've only just come to appreciate the beauty of having the internet with me whereever I go, not to mention the plethora of shitty camera apps. 

Let's all take a moment's silence, shall we, for the spoilt girl who lost her favourite toy?  YOU WOULD NOT KNOW FROM READING THIS THAT I AM DAMN NEAR 30. 

*For which, read: first time we've gone over 20 degrees celcius since last summer.

two nephews (nephii?)

I am somebody's aunt.  Two somebodies, in fact.  Two extremely cute, blondie, chubby wee somebodies.  One has only met me online or in utero; I've had the pleasure of a week's company and a first birthday party and a wedding with the other. The first was not even conceived when we left NZ for the big wide world; we come home to two brand new relationships. 

My sister-in-law is the mother of these two wee cherubim.  She's a wonderful mother; I admire her and her husband's parenting skills tremendously.  They have been kind enough to say they'll open the spare bedroom to us when we first arrive back in Aotearoa, in exchange for babysitting services.  We'll gladly provide these, but the idea of being in charge of keeping two little 'uns ALIVE all on our own practically gives P and I hives.  At the moment, we share custody of a droopy wee poinsettia.  It's survived 18 months of our neglect; better than the parsley plants and lavender we keep outside the dining room window.  I think this is possibly our personal record of sustaining life other than our own (I deliberately do not count whatever is growing on the grouting in my shower.  That survives DESPITE my best attempts to kill it DEAD).

Still, it gives me great pleasure to say that I'm an aunt, that I have the privilege of being involved with another generation of family.  I think uncle-hood played no small role in P's evaluation of the merits of moving back to Auckland.  These two small boys are going to be lumped with our ham-handed affection and will no doubt become ridiculously spoilt with the surfeit of attention (and noisy toys. P's sister and brother-in-law are going to hate us). 

But, in the spirit of my naming woes past, I cannot stand the idea of being Aunt or Aunty A.  It JUST sounds wrong.  I think that has a lot to do with my maternal family: Mum can't bear being called Aunt and we have names of endearment for her sisters rather than calling them Aunt So-and-So (though I have, on occasion, reverted to referring to one simply as Auntie.  I can't remember why; it must have been a joke). 

Confusingly, my own name is very close to Nana, the boys' name for my mother-in-law.  They can't simply call me A, then.  P's family don't have a nickname for me (THAT I'M AWARE OF, that is…), so there's no simple answer there, either.

Maybe I'll just have to wait and see what name the boys choose for me.  In the interim, all suggestions will be welcomed.

Tante?

Tia?

Bibi?

Teta?

Jesus H I'm fond of dissecting relationships.  That, and Google Translate. 

snippets

London, Saturday, 10pm: the first time we've ever had a carriage on the tube to ourselves; the rest of the population were watching the dying minutes of the Champions' League Final.  A little eerie, but endless fun as D bowled googlies down the centre to P's invisible bat. 

ACTION ON THE JUBILEE LINE

We were home in time for the penalty shoot out.  I watched cricket the following day; I must be something like a local now...

************************************

India.  We're going and I am BEYOND excited.  One minor detail: our trip is during the monsoon.  I'm not sure P has appreciated that fact yet...I think I'll keep quiet about that for a little while.  It should be dry in the South East where we'll be for at least a week - Rajasthan, not so much.  Still, it will be fascinating to experience rain and humidity in a place where life just rolls on (Auckland rain? We all come to a standstill with ruined umbrellas, waiting for the inevitable brief break).

Anyone gone through the visa on arrival process in India?  Kiwis, Finns, Singaporeans?  Very interested to hear your experiences if so.

************************************

The weather may be terrible but the least the light is good for more pictures of tulips. I make a terrible Pollyanna.

I need to bulk order asphalt

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions then I think that at least 28% of those paving stones, on what must surely be a VERY long road, have been placed there by me.

[The rest? 50% people making political promises, 13% people embarking on a new healthy lifestyle involving diet and exercise, 9% people buying recyclable tampons because that's a good intention that will end up in a bad place if ever I heard one.]

[Jeebers that's a terrible pun.  I wholeheartedly apologise - but not enough to delete it, apparently.] 

Why is it that I am so entranced by new beginnings and the opportunities they offer to do a great job?  Why can't I just finish what's in front of me? It's not that I think that I'm genetically incapable of finishing a task:

• 50% of my genetic material comes from a certain someone who likes the beginning of a task and the big picture, feels ambivalent about all the tiny detail of the execution but does it anyway. 
• The other 50% arrived from a certain someone else who will weed the garden until there are NO MOAR WEEDZ with singleminded devotion.  

I'm frankly pissed that my synapses don't fire in the same way. (Is that a correct use of synapse?  I'm too lazy to look up the proper definition or scientific explanation and use it correctly - is that not the essence of what I'm talking about here?!) 
I start out so well…and then I put things down/rush them /start something else.  I suspect it's some kind of fundamental laziness.  That, right there, is a character flaw I'm glad I'm only admitting in this semi-anonymous place inside my computer; too shameful to admit in person.

It's a good thing that I'm an ambivalent atheist, bearing this probable singlehanded paving of the road to hell in mind.  Have no doubt, the first few paving stones on that road will have been properly laid but then I will have cut corners because damn, paving is HARD, so it will be a road on which you either stub your toe or get a flat both of which SUCK but would be low-level appropriate given it's the road to ETERNAL DAMNATION. 

Ambivalent atheism, in case you were wondering, which you probably weren't, is the school of "CONTEMPLATE THE EXISTENCE OF A HIGHER BEING? MEH, TOO HARD.  ANOTHER EPISODE OF THE BACHELOR PLZ" that I tend to follow.  P reads Richard Dawkins and thinks about faith before wishing to have a discussion with me.  That's when I'm all "I went to church one time with a friend when I was 8 and got really cross because (a) they wouldn't feed me the cracker and drink everyone else was getting and (b) I didn't know what was going on and felt SO LEFT OUT", at which P sighs and saves his metaphysical conversation for someone who has an adult opinion. 

It's all very insightful to recognise one's faults in oneself but what good does it do if one does not get off one's chuff and change one's sloppy ways?  Let's revert to first person because third person is annoying: I cannot keep promising myself that I'll get there next time.  Work habits, life habits; in all seriousness, I need to check my attitude and follow through. 

Just get on with things.

Things I'm avoiding by writing this post making light of my character flaws. Which I take seriously but cannot resist mocking because that's how we do, in my family.  But we don't usually say 'how we do'.  It does not sound natural coming from the mouths of middle-class New Zealanders, somehow. 

Let's just say that I'm a work in progress. 

idle threats (i'm losing my mind)

On my way to work this morning (where all the big thinking happens), I had this horrible, horrible thought WHAT IF P DIES BEFORE I SEE HIM AGAIN AND THE LAST THING I SAID TO HIM WAS A THREAT TO CASTRATE HIM WITH A HOT, BLUNT SPOON???

I mean, that's going pretty far, even for me (past insults/threats of grievous bodily harm include: I'll soap your toothbrush, so's your face, I'll punch you right in the ovaries etc - fairly mild stuff according to my catalogue of awfulness).  I practically broke down on the street imagining the eulogy I'd have to write for my poor, dear departed husband ("I loved him with all my heart and I often told him so; but our last moments together involved a tender kiss while I threatened him with amateur castration by utensil").

And then I got into that weird zone where I'd practically convinced myself that he'd been hit by a bus.  What would I do without him?  What would my life be like?  How on earth would I ever break the news to his family?  Etcetera, etcetera, on and on ad nauseum.  I was almost in tears by the time I walked into my building, all thumbs as I tapped out terrible soppy messages to P to assuage my guilt over our last words.  Am I the only person who ever has these horrible death scenarios play out in a waking situation?  Please, please tell me I'm not...

I think I'm officially losing the plot.  The countdown tally conducted in the steam on the shower door is telling me 21 working days left before I leave in which time I'm likely to go completely batshit crazy.  I shall have to rally to restore sanity (with apologies to Jon Stewart)....

My husband, meanwhile, is completely unable to account for the inpouring of love in his text message inbox. I think he suspects he's forgotten an anniversary of some sort.


***********************************************************
PS I am marginally concerned about the increase in traffic to my post about rape fields.  I can't see that any *ahem* specific word searches have been used, but I'd be grateful to know that I'm not alone out here in my computer with only people who are SICK. 

Love, Sincere Regards, With a Complete Lack of Irony etc, The Woman Who Threatened Her Husband's Reproductive Organs With Dull Aluminium Cutlery.

yes, talking about the weather again

The weekend was a freak.

MORE RAPE, CAMBRIDGESHIRE

WHAT SPRING SHOULD BE

The rain, and the grey, have descended once more.  Hulking above our heads, dampening footpaths, moods and the inner soles of my cheap black slip-ons. 

THE FOOTBRIDGE CONNECTING WATERLOO AND EMBANKMENT (NAME ESCAPES ME)

I will admit that the City sometimes feels like it's meant to be this way.  Trudging commuters, black umbrellas: the modernised image of Father in Mary Poppins making his way to the Bank for the day.  So, all in all - a quintessential London experience? 

my mum

An ode to my mother

On the occasion of being late for Mothers' Day*

You're my favourite mix of the everyday and the sublime

The everyday is your banana, cereal and toast for breakfast

Complete with the clinking as you work

At spooning up the pattern off the bowl

The everyday is your walk, ride and run for the farm

Complete with the swishing as you haul

My horse's cover through the grass

The everyday is your laugh, rise and fall for conversation

Complete with the echo as you take

The telephone into the bathroom

The everyday is the pipe, water and spray for hydration

Complete with pattering as you hose

The latest crop from your garden

The everyday is your ticket, scratchie and numbers for the win

Complete with the exclamations as you record

The win or loss from the paper

The everyday is your brush, finger-comb and pat for the mirror

Complete with squelching as you rub

A new product in your hair

The everyday is your trowel, weeds and barrow for the beds

Complete with skittering thumps as you whack

The soil off the roots

The everyday is your book, biography and crossword for the couch

Complete with the reviews as you give

A copy to me for my enjoyment

The everyday is your pride, love and joy for your daughters

Complete with the smiles that you wear

As you joke about our competence

The sublime

Is in the everyday

For me

*Flowers and telephone call both arrived late.  Sigh.  She forgave me.  I think. 

weird free association

My god I'm terrible at ten pin bowling.  That's I what I learned this weekend (didn't need to learn I hated losing; already knew it).

I went with friends to an undisclosed location in Cambridgeshire for the weekend.  FINALLY FINALLY the sun came out and though it was crisp, we had some good weather this weekend for which I am eternally grateful.  I am also eternally grateful to have lovely friends who appreciate the value of laughter, even if it's IN MY FACE when I bowl yet another gutter ball.  Thanks guys; keeping me humble since ages ago. 

The fens in the East of England were verdant.  I spent an inordinate amount of time on the train on the way home thinking about fens and wondering if all the visions I'd had of Cathy and Heathcliff were completely geographically inaccurate.  I think I was seeing some kind of marshy arrangement but with heather for moors?  In any case, the fens were lovely and the rape flowers were glowing eerily where ever we looked. 

 CAMBRIDGESHIRE, MAY 13 2012.

Fields of rape always seem to have a kind of otherworldly glow to me, irrespective of the lighting and the time of day.  I always think of the ectoplasm from Ghostbusters when I see rape; I think I have a problem.*  Everything comes back to some kind of pop culture reference, which reminds me that I was flicking channels last night and came across a young Dan Ackroyd and Jamie Lee Curtis.  Made me infinitely happier than it should; P and I launched into Blues Brothers/Ghostbusters reminisces followed by a detailed dissection of the body count in True Lies.  WE ARE SO COOL. 

*Fields of rape are planted for rapeseed oil, just in case I needed to clarify that.  I appreciate this sentence sounds horrific if you don't realise I'm talking about the plant - SICK SICK SICK AND VILE! 

monologue about a monologue

CILLIAN MURPHY AS THOMAS MAGILL IN ENDA WALSH'S MISTERMAN AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE

Last night we saw Misterman at the National Theatre and I came away still thinking about it.  It's a one man play but by no means is it a classic monologue - Thomas Magill is caught in an endless recycling of his relationships in Innisfree using tapes, recording devices and his own reproductions of conversations with Innisfree locals.  An unbelievably intense, piercing and thoroughly devoted performance by Cillian Murphy.  Enda Walsh's script and direction I enjoyed (though that seems the wrong word - perhaps appreciated?).  Some of Thomas' pieces in which he was caught up in his/the town's spiritual development were perhaps a bit drawn out, but that was of a piece with the character. 

However, I'm still not sure I've properly processed it all.  Ever have that feeling that you've just scratched the surface? 

on loss (people and dignity)

It's been a sad few days in many ways.  I know these are the topics-du-jour of the interwebs right now but I felt obliged to comment (when do I not?). 

• Maurice Sendak's death.  His work terrified me for years in the best way possible.
• MCA.  I don't have anything more to add, I'm just sad.  An era has ended (for me, personally and selfishly, his death kind of frames the end of my youth).
• North Carolina and the constitutional amendment: effectively a ban on same sex marriage.  Gosh this makes me terribly, terribly sad.  I can only hope that those who voted in favour of the ban are swimming against a strong tide. 
• This man's offensive, unsubstantiated and ill-advised comments.  I'm going to be all smug here - a few months ago, I commented that NZ politics often picks up the live issues in foreign politics like a kind of 'political hangover' - and what do you know?  Mind you, the same post commented that there wasn't yet an overt war on women in New Zealand - apparently I was wrong about that too.  Colin Craig can likely be dismissed as an attention gathering sideshow, but the free contraception debate in NZ is taking a really, really weird shape which makes me sad.  For some commentary, I recommend reading this.

Two cents, consider it contributed.

bordeaux

I am a new woman.  Thanks to the Bank Holiday weekend I have acquired a pink nose, the beginnings of a tan, a cheese-and-bread tummy-pooch and a truckload of very nice wine.  All of these things have done wonders for my attitude (though the pooch is problematic in relation to future bikini-exposure.  I suspect Summer 2012 will always be The Summer I Should Have Tried Harder to Curb Carbs).

VINES AT CHATEAU FONPLEGADE, JUST OUTSIDE ST EMILION.  SKY BORDEAUX'S OWN. 

Together with 15 others, I schlepped over to Bordeaux this weekend.  SUCH A PUNISHMENT.  We hired a converted watermill near Bergerac for the weekend's accomodation; luxury.  It had a wonderful, rustic kitchen with open fires and so many bedrooms - plus a pool!

SOME OF THE DAMAGE.  TASTY, TASTY BORDEAUX BLENDS.  WE WERE WINE-SNOBBING IT UP BY THE END OF THE LONG WEEKEND.  IT WAS RIDICULOUS, HILARIOUS AND DELICIOUS.

Work tried very hard to ruin the weekend: I missed the flight everyone else took on Friday.  I vividly recall watching the clock hit 3.15 for takeoff, still stuck in a Courtroom on terribly hard benches with a numb bum and sweaty palms (but it worked out alright in the end workwise, thank the baby Jebus!).  Having foreseen the potential for this calamity, I had arranged an alternative flight the following day, but it involved a bit of transport drama:

• Taxi to Paddington (approx 20 mins)
• Waiting on the platform FREEZING cold, inhaling tea (15 mins)
• Train Paddington to Bristol Temple Meads Station (1 hour 39 mins)
• Bus from Bristol Temple Meads to Bristol International Airport (20 mins)
• Going through the standard airport palaver including a detailed conversation about some All Blacks from the 60s with a nice man who was testing my shampoo to ensure it wasn't drugs or explosives (approx 1 hour and 30 minutes)
• Extremely embarrassing incident in the Ryanair passport check queue involving stuffing my carry-on with my handbag then breaking the zip, trying to ram the carry-on into the bag size check thingo and failing miserably, losing a bunch of toiletries out of the open zip, a line full of people actively wishing bad karma on me for delaying the orderly procession of the queue, a frustrated but fairly calm staff member finally waving me by just to get me out of her hair and unexpected commiseration from a fellow queuer who had been in a similar position herself once, with her undies falling out of her bag (10 mins)
• Flight to Bergerac (1 hour 15 minutes)
• Rental car to the home base (approx 40 minutes)
• Time spent driving on the wrong side of the road (approx 2 minutes THANK GOD I didn't run into any oncoming traffic)

REALLY CRAP MANICURE: 30 SWEARY MINUTES AND ABOUT 50 BAZILLION BUMPS ON THE TRACKS.

DO NOT UNDERTAKE A MANICURE ON THE TRAIN.  ESPECIALLY IF YOU LACK COORDINATION.  I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHY I THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA. 

Etc, etc - all the associated waiting time.  I left the house at 7.15 am GMT and rolled into the driveway of the Watermill at 3.30pm Frenchy Time (GMT+1?).  But you know what?  For all that, it was a pretty good day. I always get a sense of achievement from travel, bizarrely.  It's the first time I've hired a rental car by myself; the first time I've driven on the right-hand-side by myself.  I got to see Bath, Bristol and some of the West Country out the windows of bus and train.  Until the others arrived home at the Watermill, I sat out on the wisteria covered outdoor area, reading a book and nibbling cheese, bread and tomato.  I think that qualifies as pretty damn good. 

Digression: I was reading a blog the other day that suggested that it's funny how the discomfort always ends up being the part of the story you focus on after the fact and I guess that's right.  I think travel, discomfort and disaster go hand-in-hand and usually end up being the stories that are recalled.  Maybe because it's the shared part of the experience with readers/listeners?  Most people can relate to a bus that doesn't arrive on time, or a bag gone missing and so on.

Anyway - on to bigger and better reminiscences about the weekend.  Even though Europe appears to be having a wet spring all round, Bordeaux came to the party.  Yesterday we had temperatures in the mid 20s, enough to singe most of us around the edges and allow for swimming and backyard cricket.  Bliss.  We went wine tasting at several amazing spots; savouring the experience, the flavour and the aroma of various Bordeaux blends.  We wandered through St Emilion and stopped at every possible boulangerie or patisserie we saw on the roadside.  We cooked up a storm: duck one night, lapin the next.  We broke the cardinal rule of drinking and frying, but the meals were absolutely delicious, eaten around a table big enough for us all with a blazing open fire and windows open to the moonlight (indulgent in the extreme).  We followed up with dancing into the wee hours, midnight swims, and some serious rumbles over early bedtimes. 

VIEW FROM CHATEAU FONPLEGADE.  HONESTLY, I AM SUCH A LUCKY GIRL.

way harsh, tai

To break the monotony of grey days and the 9-to-whenever slog, let me just say that TV has been on a ROLL recently with excellent choices of viewing for grumpy evenings or Sunday afternoons…



THIS IS THE PICTURE I SENT P WHEN HE WAS LATE HOME THE OTHER DAY ENTITLED "WHY YOU REALLY SHOULD BE HOME RIGHT NOW".  HE REPLIED "I FEEL THE NEED…THE NEED FOR SPEED!" AND THEN HE BROKE THE LAND SPEED RECORD GETTING HOME FROM THE OFFICE.

Other highlights include "10 Things I Hate About You" and "Clueless" (effing timeless) (also, are you sensing a theme here?  Self-admitted Jane Austen freak, how's that for predictable).

In another attempt to alleviate the pain at the office this morning, I bought shoes online.  It was satisfying, let me tell you, but I'm having a bit of an "Daddy I Want An Oompa-Loompa Now" moment and wish they had arrived already (or that I'd ponied up for speedy delivery).  I am such a brat.*

As you were. 

*not said in a proud kind of way - I thought this behaviour was COMPLETELY reasonable and justifiable until I wrote it down.  This blog business is acting like my moral compass...it's even giving me pause for thought about completely fucking excessive levels of profanity I use...

weathering the drought

Once again, I apparently do not care enough to conceive of and write something meaningful.  This is becoming a whingefest of pathetic proportions. 

Today's complaint relates to this drought we're having.  In London, buses and bus shelters are plastered with posters requiring us to conserve water.  The reservoirs are empty in the South, we are told.  This may, at least in part, have been because winter looked like this:

I SAW THE FIRST DAFFODIL BUDS THAT DAY

And yet, AND YET, my commute today looked like this:

TERRIBLE PICTURE: CAPTURES THE MOOD THOUGH.  1 MAY 2012, WOULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED IT?

My commute has been a wet, drizzly bonesoak, occasionally featuring proper downpours, for the last three weeks at the least.  Vanity aside (MY POOR HAIR), the rain was not unpleasant to start - it made the spring colours more vibrant; every shade of green imaginable amplified by droplets, viewed against a grey backdrop. 

However, the grey has lingered and worked itself into my bone structure, my cells are sodden with apathy.  I'm beginning to view the rain as a virus as the previously green leaves start to spot a sickly yellow with mildew and the aluminium window frames sweat damply with condensation. 

Not-long, not-long, squeak the soles of the boots re-earthed from the 'will no longer need it now winter's over' pile.  They're right, I know.   

The only hints of glee in the situation are the faces of the British as they discuss the weather over a steaming mug of tea.  Nothing more satisfying than the possibility of a washed out summer and how wrong the Beeb was about the drought (conspiracy theories abound: saving water for the Olympic pool?).  The joys of weather dissection; I am now able to use comparative reasoning (Spring '10 was fantastic but early Spring '11? Left a lot to be desired) and can splice my seasoned opinion into a weather discussion without being an obvious outsider.