Relocation, Relocation

So, as it's nearly halfway through the year (OMG, as the young people say, how the fuck did that happen?) I thought I'd provide an update on how the Things To Do Before I'm 40 resolutions are progressing. To which the short answer is 'as well as they usually do, of course.' To whit:

1/ I gave up booze for January and lost weight (hurrah!) I possibly even went to the gym a couple of times (yay!) I then got so stressed at work that I couldn't really eat - it became a standing joke with my colleagues that I'd still have half of the piece of toast I was supposed to have for breakfast sitting on my desk by 4pm, so that I could have it as an afternoon snack. Which was obviously good for weight loss, but less so for my mental/emotional health (muted huzzahs?)

2/ My flat remained a tip.

3/ Clearly, I didn't feel like interwebnet dating. I made do with reading Lucy Robinson's very funny blog about it on the Marie Claire website. Man, that girl knows how to pick the mentals out of every bag of dating Revels.

4/ I didn't tango, I didn't sing except in the shower. There remains a list a yard long of exhibitions/films/bars/restaurants that I want to go to.

But wait, what's this? Change is, in fact, afoot. Big change. Changes, plural, in fact! Yes, to celebrate my Big Birthday, I've not only bagged a new job, but I'm relocating! To EDINBURGH. Nearly the opposite end of the ruddy country! Take that, voice inside that says 'you'll never get round to doing anything - you might as well give up and eat Ben and Jerry's all day'. After what must be nearly 20 years of living in this nation's glorious/grim, overcrowded, overpriced and frankly a bit scary sometimes capital, I'm heading for the frozen North. Which bears out my friend Mel's assertion from last summer, when we were up there for the Festival and checking out house prices, (because it's always fun to torture yourself with the space that you could have for the price of a one-bedroomed flat in Streatham), that, 'you're the only person I know who'd relocate to somewhere that's colder than where you currently live'.

So, I will have:

• A new job + new colleagues
• A new city to find my way around
• A new group of, as yet unknown, friends
• A new flat (well, actually two, as the one I've set my heart on isn't available till September. So for the first two months, I'll be in a house share)
• A new, George-Clooney-in-Up-in-the-Air style attitude to domestic air travel (there'll still be lots of meetings in London). Prep the wheely bag and the shoes without laces for easy removeability!
• And thus maybe an affair with a cocky businessman? Yeah, add that to the list
• Hopefully a new fitness regime, which involves nothing more arduous than just walking everywhere. Which even I've managed on previous trips to Edinburgh
• New, more reasonable taxi fares (for when I obviously tire of walking, and return to my metropolitan mindset)
• A new attitude to my living space

This last will, fingers crossed, come about because of the efforts of three very kind friends, who dedicated an entire day a couple of weekends back to Sorting Out My Flat, as obviously now I need to rent it out. I nearly killed one of them (I had no idea she had asthma till she croaked, 'Can you open a window?' owing to the amount of dust that was being thrown up as she moved stuff around). One popped round en route to the gym, and ended up staying till 1.00am. Things were sorted, filed, thrown away, put to one side for recycling, painted, cleaned, scrubbed, put up, moved to a better position and otherwise Changing Roomed. There was even a 'big reveal' at the end, with me closing my eyes and being guided into my 'new' bedroom. There was nothing on the bed apart from a duvet, pillow and bedspread. I could get all the way round the bed, without tripping over boxes and assorted crap. I could see the floor, and I had a curtain pole (with a temporary curtain, but heck, Rome wasn't built in a day). There were candles, the mirrors were all gleaming and I had a whole basket full of beauty items, rather than stuff on the mantelpiece which repeatedly got knocked off. It was so beautiful that I really did nearly cry. (Also I was exhausted by having to make decisions about what to keep and what to get rid of. In my next life, I want to come back as a minimalist, John Pawson type, instead of a maximalist, Zandra Rhodes hoarder type).

Two of the three friends are psychologists. They tried to get to the bottom of Why I've Become Like This. One of them decided all my ratty, nesty habits were too ingrained to break. But the other has faith. 'You WILL keep it tidy and not let it get horrible again', she declared. I now get a daily text, phone call or email from her. 'WHAT'S ON YOUR BED?' it says (the bed having been, as previously revealed, also a library, a newsagent and a wardrobe). So far, the answer has been, 'Nothing, and I've even made it!' Perhaps this is the start of a new life?

In Dreams

Yes, it's time for No. 3 in the occasional series 'dreams I've had in which unlikely famous people appear'!

This week's entry: Julie Andrews. No, I've no idea why either - unless it's because I read some unflattering reviews of her O2 show, which was about... 2 weeks ago? My subconscious is clearly on a go slow. Or just fucking with me again. I was in some sort of class which Julie Andrews was taking. She was paranoid about paparazzi taking photos through the windows (of which there were many - windows, not paps; I think she was trying to big herself up), so we had to pull the blinds down.

It's a dream which, I'm sure you'll agree, is striking mainly for its staggering mundanity.

In other celeb news, the other day I passed Michael Portillo in the street (who managed to look smug even whilst walking down the street - quite an achievement) and I shared a lift with noted geezerbloke (and recent headline-grabber) Danny Dyer. Who managed to be a twat, even in the short space of a 3-floor lift ride (also an achievement). He gets in the lift and presses '3'. I get in after him, affecting not to notice him. He faffs about with his hair in front of the mirror at the back of the lift. I still ignore him. We arrive at the third floor - the doors open and DD remains transfixed by his artfully scruffy visage. 'Is this you?' I enquire, gesturing to the vista before us (which contains a dumpbin full of free books and little else to distinguish it). 'Um, I dunno, mate' he replies, gazing blankly out. God, why do some blokes call women 'mate'? It's an absolute pet hate of mine. I'm not your mate, I'm not up for some blokey joshing about birds and football and booze and I'm not a bloke. I maintain that only blokes can call each other 'mate'. And even then, I bet there are loads of them that hate it.

Anyway, I try to ask him who he's going to see (I presume that our receptionist told him which floor to get out at - and by the looks of it, he might conceivably have been in the building before, as he's on his own, rather than with some agent/PR/manager person - so there was a reason for him picking '3'. Rather than, say, it's the furthest he can count to). He grunts at me, says, 'I guess this is me' and shuffles off.

Which is better: always assuming that Danny Dyer was a twat, and having that confirmed, or always thinking Danny Dyer was a twat and then having him suddenly revealed as actually perfectly pleasant? I think I prefer the former. Although now, obviously, I've got the horrors that he's doing a book. Let's hope it's not a relationship guide, eh girls?