Was it Random Acts of Kindess Day yesterday in London? (Anyone who's read Join Me knows that this is officially on a Friday - but then yesterday my whole office was convinced it was Friday. We even went to the pub after work to prove the point). I think it must've been, as I had two surprising, excellent and cheering things happen to me.
Generally, it's a truth universally acknowledged that Everyone in London is Rude and Horrid. Newcomers try valiantly to make small talk with strangers on the Tube, and are met with a look that says, 'Are you going to try to mug me? Are you mad? Those are the only two reasons why you, a stranger, should be trying to talk to me, a seasoned Tube traveller'. You almost have to be like that, just to get over the daily stress of having your personal space fortress constantly breached, often ending up wedged under some man's armpit, trying not to expire through a mixture of toxic BO, frustration and boredom.
Other dealings with Londoners replicate this experience to a greater or lesser degree. However, the coffee shop that's next to my office, which I go into pretty much daily (our canteen coffee dosen't qualify as coffee - it barely qualifies as a hot beverage) flies in the face of all this taciturnity. The Italian man who owns it is twinkly-eyed and flirty. He makes running a coffee and sandwich shop seem like the best gig in the world. He is aided by two young women, neither of whose names I know (Italian man is called Tony). I think of them as the pretty, smiley one, and the dumpy, grumpy one.
Pretty Smiley Lady doesn't even require me to place my order every morning. She knows what I want! I can't tell you how thrilling that is. It's like being in an episode of Cheers ('where everybody knows your name' - ironically, this isn't the case for either party, but you get the idea). She wears throwback 80s pink and purple eyeshadow. She reacted with horror the other day when I said I was going to get my hair cut that afternoon ('Nothing DRASTIC??' she said, eyes widening in fear), then looked relieved when I assured her I was just having a trim. Tony then proceeded to tell me that my hair colour reminded him of someone in a film. 'Ooh', I said, 'um, Rita Hayworth?' 'No', he replied, 'who was in that cartoon?' 'Oh, Jessica Rabbit?' 'Yes!' Always good to be compared to a cartoon en route to my Very Important and Intellectually Challenging Job.
Dumpy Grumpy Lady makes a valiant effort to smile, but it always looks like it's causing her pain. She has the look of someone who was, perhaps, an eminent brain surgeon in her native country, but found on moving here that her qualifications weren't recognised, and so now she has to make lattes for grunting Londoners. Working in a coffee shop is clearly not her life's plan. She makes me a bit sad.
Anyway, yesterday morning, PSL whispered 'Regular white Americano to take out' to DGL as she passed by her, dealing with another customer. DGL whipped up my coffee with her customary gloomy efficiency. I pulled out a crisp tenner, ready to apologise that I didn't have anything smaller. She pushed the coffee towards me, as I proferred the tenner. 'No, don't worry', she said, beaming at me. 'Huh?' I said. 'No, it's fine!' she replied, waving away my money. I went all Hugh Granty and bellowed, 'WOW-THAT'S-REALLY-SWEET-OF-YOU-THANK-YOU-SO-MUCH-WOW-HAVE-A-BRILLIANT-DAY!' and ran out before she could change her mind.
Crikey! Free coffee! For no reason! I felt like texting the BBC local news (they're always encouraging you to get in touch - generally when it snows, so they can fill ten minutes with photos of elaborate snow sculptures. Which, as any fule kno, is not news).
I had a spring in my step for the whole day. Also brilliant: I'd left the previous day's profits from selling cupcakes on my desk in my hurry to leave the office. And all the cash was still there! I was positively Tiggerish. After work, the pub was calling, so off we went to our local. There were big sofas available, there was wine and beer. One of my friends and I ended up staying on for quite a few drinks, putting the world to rights. You'll be glad to hear we've sorted out climate change, world debt/poverty, unemployment and How to Fix Gordon Brown (just make him stop talking to journalists, radio and TV presenters. In fact, anyone apart from his wife). Next week: world peace.
As we were officially there 'just for a quick one', my friend and I hadn't bought a bottle, but were taking the 'd'you want another one?' 'ahhhhhhhhh, yeah, why not?' approach and going glass by glass. I went up for our final round and was served by Paul, the very genial landlord. Paul loves our gang, as we're there pretty much every week, and endlessly gives us free stuff. Discounts on bottles of wine, free chips and onion rings - I kind of think of him as my Work Dad. He hadn't been much in evidence last night, but immediately said he wanted to give me a free bottle of wine to try. I thanked him profusely, but said it'd be lovely for another time, as we were pretty near our limit and this one was definitely our last. So he served up two glasses of red and waved away payment.
See? Random Acts of Kindness Day! Properly fantastic. People being nice to you for no apparent reason; friends who'll listen to you moan about your job/impending midlife crisis and will be sympathetic and offer advice; a nice local with sofas. These are the things to remember to give thanks for, when February's getting you down and life seems a bit gloomy.
Friday, 26 February 2010
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Middle Class Dilemmas No. 1
I was shopping for baking ingredients last night at my local Tesco Metro (is that tautological? Is Tesco Metro, by its very existence, 'local'? I digress). I needed eggs. I'm militant about buying at least free range eggs, as I used to live up the road from a battery hen farm. I went into one of the 'sheds' once, and it's every bit as grim as you'd think. I think everyone in Britain should be taken to one on a school trip when they're about ten, and then no-one would ever buy battery eggs again and the whole business would collapse.
Usually, the Metropolitan Tesco which I frequent offers a number of different options - free range (large and medium), barn-roasted, or some such, and then, of course, Evil Eggs. I bowl in; grab my six-pack of Happy-Go-Lucky Eggs; wait half an hour whilst the one member of staff on the checkout checks me out (the fact that Streatham Tesco never has more than one checkout staffer, no matter what the time or day, always infuriates me) and then I leave, calm down, and get on with my life.
But last night, disaster struck. There were no six-packs of Happy Eggs. My choices were practically Sophian:
Either - buy a box of ten Happy Eggs - and suffer the middle class angst of knowing that at least half of them would end up in the bin. (FOOD WASTE! How dare you, you childless, freaky singlehousehold person, contribute more to landfill? You're already sucking up God knows how much extra of Mother Earth's resources than proper, family people do in terms of electricity, gas and probably oxygen!)
Or - buy a box of six Death Eggs. Which I'll use all of, but, you know, I might be haunted by visions of battery hens shaking their beaks at me, more in disappointment than in sorrow.
There was nothing for it - with both a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, I opted for the six-pack of Batteried-to-Death Eggs. To whichever unfortunate fowl it was that laid them, I can only apologise.
Usually, the Metropolitan Tesco which I frequent offers a number of different options - free range (large and medium), barn-roasted, or some such, and then, of course, Evil Eggs. I bowl in; grab my six-pack of Happy-Go-Lucky Eggs; wait half an hour whilst the one member of staff on the checkout checks me out (the fact that Streatham Tesco never has more than one checkout staffer, no matter what the time or day, always infuriates me) and then I leave, calm down, and get on with my life.
But last night, disaster struck. There were no six-packs of Happy Eggs. My choices were practically Sophian:
Either - buy a box of ten Happy Eggs - and suffer the middle class angst of knowing that at least half of them would end up in the bin. (FOOD WASTE! How dare you, you childless, freaky singlehousehold person, contribute more to landfill? You're already sucking up God knows how much extra of Mother Earth's resources than proper, family people do in terms of electricity, gas and probably oxygen!)
Or - buy a box of six Death Eggs. Which I'll use all of, but, you know, I might be haunted by visions of battery hens shaking their beaks at me, more in disappointment than in sorrow.
There was nothing for it - with both a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, I opted for the six-pack of Batteried-to-Death Eggs. To whichever unfortunate fowl it was that laid them, I can only apologise.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Safety first
So, there is all manner of hoo-ha at the moment about terrorist threats, international security and the like. There must be loads of new schemes, plans, checklists, etc to deal with all this, presumably? Not according to the Evening Standard, who went with a big front page splash not long ago, which declared: HEATHROW STAFF TAUGHT TO LOOK AT BODY LANGUAGE: ACTING NERVOUSLY OR GRIPPING A BAG ARE TELL-TALE SIGNS. Yes, a 'specialist counter-terrorist team' (headed up by Jack Bauer? One can only hope), is pioneering a new technique using 'behavioural science' to detect a threat by analysing travellers' facial expressions and conduct.
Seriously, what on earth were they looking for up to this point? A rucksack with wires sticking out of it making an ominous ticking noise, with 'Bomb' written on it in Tippex? The Standard tried to reassure its readers by describing this new policy as 'a ground-breaking move', thus proving its total idiocy. Apparently, if it's successful at Heathrow, it might even be 'extended to other UK airports'. So it takes a bunch of advisors and policy makers to roll out common sense?
Even a 'police source' was quoted as saying, 'It's not rocket science... It's a bit like undercover officers who target pickpockets. After a while they can spot them immediately as they behave slightly differently from average commuters'. Gosh, really? D'you think if you were in possession of explosives you were going to try to detonate you might look a bit jittery too?
Well, knowledge is power, so we can all try to gain valuable levels of expertise in this area, and help out the authorities. Here's what to look for - according to the Standard's experts, you want to give anyone demonstrating the following a wide berth:
1/ Wearing heavy clothing whatever the season. Long coats or skirts may be used to conceal explosive belts and devices
2/ The appearance of being drugged
3/ Bags or backpacks. The bomber holds his or her bag tightly and may refuse to be separated from it
4/ A hand in a pocket tightly gripping something. This could be someone clutching a detonator
5/ Nervous behaviour, avoiding eye contact
What a relief! Apparently, the greatest threats to national security are either old ladies off their nuts on Valium, clutching their house keys in their pockets and their bags under their arms, terrified of being mugged by hoodies... or female Goths.
Seriously, what on earth were they looking for up to this point? A rucksack with wires sticking out of it making an ominous ticking noise, with 'Bomb' written on it in Tippex? The Standard tried to reassure its readers by describing this new policy as 'a ground-breaking move', thus proving its total idiocy. Apparently, if it's successful at Heathrow, it might even be 'extended to other UK airports'. So it takes a bunch of advisors and policy makers to roll out common sense?
Even a 'police source' was quoted as saying, 'It's not rocket science... It's a bit like undercover officers who target pickpockets. After a while they can spot them immediately as they behave slightly differently from average commuters'. Gosh, really? D'you think if you were in possession of explosives you were going to try to detonate you might look a bit jittery too?
Well, knowledge is power, so we can all try to gain valuable levels of expertise in this area, and help out the authorities. Here's what to look for - according to the Standard's experts, you want to give anyone demonstrating the following a wide berth:
1/ Wearing heavy clothing whatever the season. Long coats or skirts may be used to conceal explosive belts and devices
2/ The appearance of being drugged
3/ Bags or backpacks. The bomber holds his or her bag tightly and may refuse to be separated from it
4/ A hand in a pocket tightly gripping something. This could be someone clutching a detonator
5/ Nervous behaviour, avoiding eye contact
What a relief! Apparently, the greatest threats to national security are either old ladies off their nuts on Valium, clutching their house keys in their pockets and their bags under their arms, terrified of being mugged by hoodies... or female Goths.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Money for nothing
As a person who watches too much telly, most of it entirely unedifying, I've often wondered if I should make the move into, y'know, creating it. Then I could be one of those women who race around with statement handbags and hair that costs £100 every time they go to the 'salon', and I'd probably have a wacky posho name like Cressida and I'd be able to refer to TV presenters as 'The Talent' without either having to put ironic air quotes round that phrase every time I uttered it, or cracking up with inappropriate laughter. I mean, seriously, 'The Talent' really puts the 'moron' into 'oxymoronic' for most of them.
Having been at meetings with a few independent TV companies, I've come to the conclusion that there are two methods for creating TV shows: take a reality format, in which you've featured ordinary people, and do the 'celebrity' version of it. (Viewing figures will have established people like your show; everyone likes celebs, no matter who the hell they are/aren't - you're onto a winner). Or, come up with a workable pun, and then imagine a format idea that might fit it.
The best one I had pitched to me was: 'OK, so we're in a recession, right, but people still want to have nice homes. In fact, they want to have nicer homes now, because they can't afford to go out and they can't afford to move. So, for this programme, right, we save money AND we give people better homes. What we do is, we get someone who's really good at making things, like curtains, and cushions, and tarting up old bits of furniture that you'd otherwise throw out, and we get them to live with someone for a week. And they re-do their house, with stuff they've already got!'
'Oh, I see', I said. 'What's the name of this show going to be then?'
'The Artful Lodger', they replied.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Anyhoo, last week I decided I definitely could work in telly because I and my cohorts came up with three CRACKING formats. One of our authors was trying to think of a celeb reality format for one of his characters, a celeb who was down on his luck and trying desperately to revive his career (does celeb reality contain anyone who doesn't fit that bill?) He was aiming for a show of barrel-scraping awfulness, and had come up with Celebrity Pot Black. Whilst thinking this sounded like a show that had actually been on at the end of the 80s, I told his editor that it wasn't really hitting the mark. Not out-there enough to be funny; too boring to be conceivably commissioned. Although that BBC3 show, where 'celebs' had to live with pigs or something? Clearly commissioned by a farmer who'd been given an internship for a week.
'Right', said my editor, 'you'd better come up with something better then.' 'Done!' I shouted, giddier with excitement than Alan Yentob when they declared him top of the Important and Relevant BBC Presenter Tree not long ago. And so behold, what I have done: I've made a better world for everyone (spot the obscure pop reference!) I give you, with an Alan Partridge-esque drum roll:
Celebrity ER - mentored by a selection of junior doctors, celebrities do 18-hour shifts trying to patch up drunks after Friday night punch-ups; shouting 'CLEAR!' when a civilian's flatlining, and, if they survive the voting process, triumphing by rooting out a bullet with a biro and saving the life of a gang member from Brixton, whilst bellowing 'HANG ON, BRO!' and demonstrating rare flashes of hitherto concealed humanity.
Celebrity Prison Break - a revived version of the infamous Stanford University experiment, celebrities are randomly divided into groups of prisoners and warders. Whilst seeing how quickly the warders become mildless brutes intent on demeaning their charges - and how far they'll go to accrue 'points' - the prisoners must also try to escape, using teamwork, their innate paparazzi-dodging cunning and Twitter.
Celebs Under Fire - this is the one that I think will definitely be commissioned. Ross Kemp presents a 10-week series in which a bunch of celebrity wimps, numpties and so-called hard men (ie Vinnie Jones) are shouted at, denied sleep for days, forced to tunnel under barbed wire in the mud whilst being fired at, and otherwise 'trained' by the SAS. The winner receives a 6-month tour of duty in Helmand, possibly with Prince Harry, but definitely filmed for a Sky One documentary (presented by Ross Kemp).
Having been at meetings with a few independent TV companies, I've come to the conclusion that there are two methods for creating TV shows: take a reality format, in which you've featured ordinary people, and do the 'celebrity' version of it. (Viewing figures will have established people like your show; everyone likes celebs, no matter who the hell they are/aren't - you're onto a winner). Or, come up with a workable pun, and then imagine a format idea that might fit it.
The best one I had pitched to me was: 'OK, so we're in a recession, right, but people still want to have nice homes. In fact, they want to have nicer homes now, because they can't afford to go out and they can't afford to move. So, for this programme, right, we save money AND we give people better homes. What we do is, we get someone who's really good at making things, like curtains, and cushions, and tarting up old bits of furniture that you'd otherwise throw out, and we get them to live with someone for a week. And they re-do their house, with stuff they've already got!'
'Oh, I see', I said. 'What's the name of this show going to be then?'
'The Artful Lodger', they replied.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Anyhoo, last week I decided I definitely could work in telly because I and my cohorts came up with three CRACKING formats. One of our authors was trying to think of a celeb reality format for one of his characters, a celeb who was down on his luck and trying desperately to revive his career (does celeb reality contain anyone who doesn't fit that bill?) He was aiming for a show of barrel-scraping awfulness, and had come up with Celebrity Pot Black. Whilst thinking this sounded like a show that had actually been on at the end of the 80s, I told his editor that it wasn't really hitting the mark. Not out-there enough to be funny; too boring to be conceivably commissioned. Although that BBC3 show, where 'celebs' had to live with pigs or something? Clearly commissioned by a farmer who'd been given an internship for a week.
'Right', said my editor, 'you'd better come up with something better then.' 'Done!' I shouted, giddier with excitement than Alan Yentob when they declared him top of the Important and Relevant BBC Presenter Tree not long ago. And so behold, what I have done: I've made a better world for everyone (spot the obscure pop reference!) I give you, with an Alan Partridge-esque drum roll:
Celebrity ER - mentored by a selection of junior doctors, celebrities do 18-hour shifts trying to patch up drunks after Friday night punch-ups; shouting 'CLEAR!' when a civilian's flatlining, and, if they survive the voting process, triumphing by rooting out a bullet with a biro and saving the life of a gang member from Brixton, whilst bellowing 'HANG ON, BRO!' and demonstrating rare flashes of hitherto concealed humanity.
Celebrity Prison Break - a revived version of the infamous Stanford University experiment, celebrities are randomly divided into groups of prisoners and warders. Whilst seeing how quickly the warders become mildless brutes intent on demeaning their charges - and how far they'll go to accrue 'points' - the prisoners must also try to escape, using teamwork, their innate paparazzi-dodging cunning and Twitter.
Celebs Under Fire - this is the one that I think will definitely be commissioned. Ross Kemp presents a 10-week series in which a bunch of celebrity wimps, numpties and so-called hard men (ie Vinnie Jones) are shouted at, denied sleep for days, forced to tunnel under barbed wire in the mud whilst being fired at, and otherwise 'trained' by the SAS. The winner receives a 6-month tour of duty in Helmand, possibly with Prince Harry, but definitely filmed for a Sky One documentary (presented by Ross Kemp).
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Lost in Translation
RED LETTER DAY! I've just noticed I've got my first ever comment! Hang up the bunting, bust open the Prosecco and let's have a celebration! Who is it, and what have they said? Have I made them contemplate life's little oddities with my erudite observations, made them chuckle so much their tea exploded out of their nose or otherwise tickled their fancy? Do they think I'm clearly a total catch and want to go out with me? Or, you know, just flirt a bit via a Comments box? (All entirely welcome, by the way).
Gaaah, the suspense is, I'm sure, if not actually killing you, then giving you a bit of a twinge - sort of like a mild heartburn, perhaps.
Well, to tell the truth, the suspense is causing me exactly these kind of problems too, because the comment I got was this: 很好啊
DOES ANYONE KNOW A TRANSLATOR? THIS IS DRIVING ME MAD.
Gaaah, the suspense is, I'm sure, if not actually killing you, then giving you a bit of a twinge - sort of like a mild heartburn, perhaps.
Well, to tell the truth, the suspense is causing me exactly these kind of problems too, because the comment I got was this: 很好啊
DOES ANYONE KNOW A TRANSLATOR? THIS IS DRIVING ME MAD.
Resolutionary Fervour
So, a belated Happy New Year to all my readers! Ah, I've always wanted to say that - doesn't matter that I'm not sure my readership's even into double figures. It's not like I want to adopt all Stephen Fry's poor, abandoned Twitterati and clutch them to my web-bosom. Imagine the pressure of having to be amusing at 10-second intervals! Ghastly, as Mr Fry would say. Anyway, I trust you are hale, hearty and have decided which option to go for during 2010. You know: ‘twenty-ten’, or ‘two thousand and ten’? I’m voting for twenty-ten. Just to clear that up.
Apologies for the tardy start to my blogging year - not to put too fine a point on it (say I'm the only bee in your bonnet), work has been cocking mental since before Christmas, so I haven't had time for stringing together thoughts on the interweb. Because of course I'm still clinging on to my Luddite tendencies, despite the fact that it's a new decade and everything, and haven't managed to sort out broadband at home. I used to be able to get access by sitting on the floor with my laptop right by my sitting room wall, and effectively stealing the next door flat's wireless access, but they seem to have switched it off, or built thicker walls or something. Excuse any linguistic oddities on the tech front, by the way. Even talking about broadband makes me feel a bit like my parents doing text messages. Although my Dad texts in the language of a 14-year old - it's all 'See u later' and 'luv Dad', whilst my replies to him involve semi-colons, quote marks and proper spelling, stopping just short of finishing off with 'yours sincerely' or 'fondest regards'. I really want to get him onto email just to see if he'd garnish every message with an excitement of exclamation marks ('See you at the cricket at 10am!!!'), emoticons and LOLs.
Anyway, contrary to the diminishing number of blogs I've managed to produce since I launched this thing, I've got lots of thoughts on various topics, many of which date back to before Christmas (can you even imagine such a time now?). So forgive me if January's musings are in fact not strictly chronologically truthful. You can pretend I've messed about with the space/time continuum if you want something to fill the David Tennant-shaped void in your life. Or entertain yourself by wondering which bits really did happen 'the other day' and which took place 'about three months ago, actually', by the time they eventually make it into print.
So, first things first, as it's already the middle of ruddy January, it's time to see what exciting resolutions I've made for the year - nay, the decade, and how they're progressing. In no particular order, they are:
1/ Undergo incredible, chrysalis-to-butterfly type transformation by the time my birthday rolls around in October. Yes, it's a birthday with a nought on the end of it, and it's not 30. Magazine articles are full of people like Jennifer Aniston declaring that they look 'fabulous at forty' and the TV is cluttered with series depicting Botoxed-and-gymmed-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives cougars getting it on with buff boys 15 years their junior. I'm in no way aiming to rival Sam Taylor-Wood, whose life seems to get more alarming by the day ('you're having a baby? With a boy who's 19? I just can't even begin to compute that'). But I am intending to have a Big Party (you're all invited, by the way) and therefore, everyone must Gasp at How Amazing I Look when I make my entrance. Them's the rules.
So far, this involves: giving up booze for January, and possibly for Lent as well, which I managed last year. (Going well, no desire for wine yet; although haven't been tested by a visit to a cocktail bar, which is my usual downfall). Pretending that I'm 'easing my way back into exercising' by walking up and down the Tube escalators instead of reading a magazine whilst the escalator does all of the work. I'm ashamed to say this remains a challenge. Trying to avoid cake/unnecessary sugar. Bit tricky, given that one of my sidelines involves making cakes, but successful thus far, as long as pannetone doesn't count as cake (surely it's just decadent bread?)
2/ Finish off my flat. It's now three years since I moved in, and the flat still contains an alarming number of boxes with stuff in. I've no idea what stuff. I was very chuffed indeed when I managed to get to the bottom of one of them last weekend and redistribute the stuff around the flat. I discovered a pair of shoes I thought I'd given to Oxfam before the last move, and decided I quite liked them and should resurrect them. The positive side of this is that it's like having new clothes. The negative side is that I permanently feel that the barely contained chaos is going to implode and I'm going to turn into one of those people who can't leave their house because the piles of magazines and newspapers have blocked all the doors. But 30 years earlier than it happens to most people.
I'm currently reading a book on 'banishing clutter' which suggests the solution is to get rid of loads of stuff, and then find exactly the right place for everything else - which is of course useful or beautiful, rather than rubbish which 'might come in handy some day'. This is easier said than done when there's so little storage space that everything has to multi-task. I, for example, have turned my bed into a place for sleeping, a wardrobe and a library. This surely must change before I hit middle age and I'm only an actual cat away from being a mad cat lady.
3/ Make some vague attempt at internet dating. I too want terrible stories of disastrous dates! Of men who said they were 5'10" and turned out to be 5'4"! Who spent two hours telling you how their ex was a bitch and actually all women were the same in the end! Who say they really enjoyed their evening and would definitely like to do it again, then mysteriously vanish! I am clearly missing out on a vital part of being a woman in the 21st Century, not to mention easy conversational fodder for dinner parties.
I shall attend to this once back on the booze - I think ideally one's profile should be written when drunk and over-confident; dates are best undertaken when mildly inebriated and of course the aftermath is improved by what might be termed ' having a white whine' with one's female friends.
4/ Do something new. My 30s have passed with no new skills accrued (other than a basic working knowledge of mortgages. I've also found I have a knack for finding rubbish builders and then employing them at great expense). Thus far, my new things are joining a choir in Putney (I haven't actually been yet, and won't be able to go for another fortnight, but the intention's there) and learning to tango. One of my friends has found a class somewhere and we're going to go. No idea when this will happen; I have appalling co-ordination and all the grace of a newborn gazelle after a bottle of wine, but it sounds quite exotic.
I saw a friend of mine last year - who I haven't seen for a very long time, as she lives in Australia - who looked amazing. I asked her what she'd been doing, and she told me she'd learned to tango, and now does it wherever she goes. Not in a 'Red Shoes' kind of a way, just when she's in a new city (she travels a lot for business), she finds the nearest tango spot and away she goes. So this might also help with point 1 of this year's grand plan. It may also help me nimbly side-step my way around the clutter in my flat, whilst making 'dramatic arms'. Result.
The Resolutions for 2010 all looks quite achievable, I think. Sure, it's not a patch on David 'Dave' Cameron's list ('Be Prime Minister! Sort out terrible burden of national debt! Without cutting spending on the important bits!') or Jonathan Ross's ('Save £6 million a year/Find a job that'll pay me £6 million a year - whilst we're still in a recession!'), but the books all tell you that the key to success is to aim for something realistic. So, losing a bit of weight and stop being a total slattern it is, then. New decade, my arse.
Apologies for the tardy start to my blogging year - not to put too fine a point on it (say I'm the only bee in your bonnet), work has been cocking mental since before Christmas, so I haven't had time for stringing together thoughts on the interweb. Because of course I'm still clinging on to my Luddite tendencies, despite the fact that it's a new decade and everything, and haven't managed to sort out broadband at home. I used to be able to get access by sitting on the floor with my laptop right by my sitting room wall, and effectively stealing the next door flat's wireless access, but they seem to have switched it off, or built thicker walls or something. Excuse any linguistic oddities on the tech front, by the way. Even talking about broadband makes me feel a bit like my parents doing text messages. Although my Dad texts in the language of a 14-year old - it's all 'See u later' and 'luv Dad', whilst my replies to him involve semi-colons, quote marks and proper spelling, stopping just short of finishing off with 'yours sincerely' or 'fondest regards'. I really want to get him onto email just to see if he'd garnish every message with an excitement of exclamation marks ('See you at the cricket at 10am!!!'), emoticons and LOLs.
Anyway, contrary to the diminishing number of blogs I've managed to produce since I launched this thing, I've got lots of thoughts on various topics, many of which date back to before Christmas (can you even imagine such a time now?). So forgive me if January's musings are in fact not strictly chronologically truthful. You can pretend I've messed about with the space/time continuum if you want something to fill the David Tennant-shaped void in your life. Or entertain yourself by wondering which bits really did happen 'the other day' and which took place 'about three months ago, actually', by the time they eventually make it into print.
So, first things first, as it's already the middle of ruddy January, it's time to see what exciting resolutions I've made for the year - nay, the decade, and how they're progressing. In no particular order, they are:
1/ Undergo incredible, chrysalis-to-butterfly type transformation by the time my birthday rolls around in October. Yes, it's a birthday with a nought on the end of it, and it's not 30. Magazine articles are full of people like Jennifer Aniston declaring that they look 'fabulous at forty' and the TV is cluttered with series depicting Botoxed-and-gymmed-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives cougars getting it on with buff boys 15 years their junior. I'm in no way aiming to rival Sam Taylor-Wood, whose life seems to get more alarming by the day ('you're having a baby? With a boy who's 19? I just can't even begin to compute that'). But I am intending to have a Big Party (you're all invited, by the way) and therefore, everyone must Gasp at How Amazing I Look when I make my entrance. Them's the rules.
So far, this involves: giving up booze for January, and possibly for Lent as well, which I managed last year. (Going well, no desire for wine yet; although haven't been tested by a visit to a cocktail bar, which is my usual downfall). Pretending that I'm 'easing my way back into exercising' by walking up and down the Tube escalators instead of reading a magazine whilst the escalator does all of the work. I'm ashamed to say this remains a challenge. Trying to avoid cake/unnecessary sugar. Bit tricky, given that one of my sidelines involves making cakes, but successful thus far, as long as pannetone doesn't count as cake (surely it's just decadent bread?)
2/ Finish off my flat. It's now three years since I moved in, and the flat still contains an alarming number of boxes with stuff in. I've no idea what stuff. I was very chuffed indeed when I managed to get to the bottom of one of them last weekend and redistribute the stuff around the flat. I discovered a pair of shoes I thought I'd given to Oxfam before the last move, and decided I quite liked them and should resurrect them. The positive side of this is that it's like having new clothes. The negative side is that I permanently feel that the barely contained chaos is going to implode and I'm going to turn into one of those people who can't leave their house because the piles of magazines and newspapers have blocked all the doors. But 30 years earlier than it happens to most people.
I'm currently reading a book on 'banishing clutter' which suggests the solution is to get rid of loads of stuff, and then find exactly the right place for everything else - which is of course useful or beautiful, rather than rubbish which 'might come in handy some day'. This is easier said than done when there's so little storage space that everything has to multi-task. I, for example, have turned my bed into a place for sleeping, a wardrobe and a library. This surely must change before I hit middle age and I'm only an actual cat away from being a mad cat lady.
3/ Make some vague attempt at internet dating. I too want terrible stories of disastrous dates! Of men who said they were 5'10" and turned out to be 5'4"! Who spent two hours telling you how their ex was a bitch and actually all women were the same in the end! Who say they really enjoyed their evening and would definitely like to do it again, then mysteriously vanish! I am clearly missing out on a vital part of being a woman in the 21st Century, not to mention easy conversational fodder for dinner parties.
I shall attend to this once back on the booze - I think ideally one's profile should be written when drunk and over-confident; dates are best undertaken when mildly inebriated and of course the aftermath is improved by what might be termed ' having a white whine' with one's female friends.
4/ Do something new. My 30s have passed with no new skills accrued (other than a basic working knowledge of mortgages. I've also found I have a knack for finding rubbish builders and then employing them at great expense). Thus far, my new things are joining a choir in Putney (I haven't actually been yet, and won't be able to go for another fortnight, but the intention's there) and learning to tango. One of my friends has found a class somewhere and we're going to go. No idea when this will happen; I have appalling co-ordination and all the grace of a newborn gazelle after a bottle of wine, but it sounds quite exotic.
I saw a friend of mine last year - who I haven't seen for a very long time, as she lives in Australia - who looked amazing. I asked her what she'd been doing, and she told me she'd learned to tango, and now does it wherever she goes. Not in a 'Red Shoes' kind of a way, just when she's in a new city (she travels a lot for business), she finds the nearest tango spot and away she goes. So this might also help with point 1 of this year's grand plan. It may also help me nimbly side-step my way around the clutter in my flat, whilst making 'dramatic arms'. Result.
The Resolutions for 2010 all looks quite achievable, I think. Sure, it's not a patch on David 'Dave' Cameron's list ('Be Prime Minister! Sort out terrible burden of national debt! Without cutting spending on the important bits!') or Jonathan Ross's ('Save £6 million a year/Find a job that'll pay me £6 million a year - whilst we're still in a recession!'), but the books all tell you that the key to success is to aim for something realistic. So, losing a bit of weight and stop being a total slattern it is, then. New decade, my arse.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid...
Festive Season Sanity Challenges:
1/ Trying to get Mariah Carey's 'All I Want for Christmas is Yooooooooo-oo-oo (Baby)' off the permanent loop in my brain from 1st December onwards.
2/ Trying not to explode with rage when a schoolchum that I haven't seen more often than about 6 times in the last 20 years insists on still sending me her annual Christmas card. This doesn't even feature 'To Alex' at the top, and contains nothing other than whatever pre-printed greeting came on the card, and a list of her family's names.
I now know that she's had a son since she sent me this maddening waste of time and money last year, but only because there's a new name on the listing. What. Is. The. Point? Much as I think the dreadful annual catch up round robins, detailing every trivial fact of family life over the last year, are the work of solipsistic maniacs, at least they're making the effort. To have no message at all, not even 'hope to see you next year', or 'hope you're well' just makes a mockery of the idea that you're 'keeping in touch via Christmas cards'. I almost feel like crossing out their names, adding mine in and sending it back to her. Through my office post room, so it doesn't even have a proper stamp on it.
3/ Going shopping down Oxford Street on the Saturday in December when they've pedestrianised the whole thing. I was nearly reduced to rocking in a corner in John Lewis, whispering, 'The horror, the horror' like a Christmas Kurtz after one particularly traumatic queueing incident. The only bright spot was seeing a whole bunch of Chinese people dressed in Santa outfits (no idea why) and knowing I've got a long weekend off so I didn't have to blitz the whole thing in one day. How on earth the 95% of men who do all their shopping on Christmas Eve manage without having a breakdown is anyone's guess. Why they'd do it more than once is surely a subject for our nation's top boffins.
4/ Coping with the idea that you must see all your friends before Christmas. What's wrong with a get together in January? January is a hopelessly dull month. No-one has any money, (this year we're being paid on the 18th December. The 18th! How long is January going to feel, when we don't get paid till the 26th!)
I'm a firm believer in keeping most of my friends entirely separate, an idea fostered when I first moved to London and only knew three people, so had to eke out social occasions in a very miserly fashion. I combine this with a strict regime of telly watching at home on my own (at the moment, nothing gets in the way of me watching Spooks and True Blood on a Wednesday. I don't have any sort of recording device - heck, I hardly even have a TV - so 'appointment to view' it must remain). This idea that my diary must suddenly be rammed with social gatherings for the entirety of December causes me to develop near-agoraphobia and engenders a strong desire to spend as much of the weekend as possible under the duvet, with the electric blanket on, surrounded by books, magazines and newspapers with only the occasional foray outside for a cup of coffee and some bacon for a bacon sarnie.
I love my friends, I'd just rather see most of them in January, when I'm no longer straining under the weight of sausage rolls, mince pies and far too much chocolate and slurring my way through my fourth glass of mulled wine. And there's nothing on the telly. So don't be offended if I refuse an invite - I'll actually be much better company after Christmas. And really, no Christmas cards. I gave up sending them years ago, under a cloak of 'eco-friendliness' (aka 'chronic idleness'), so I'll be more than happy with an email. Or a text. Or just the idea that if we're friends, then we know that we both wish for a very happy Christmas for each other.
1/ Trying to get Mariah Carey's 'All I Want for Christmas is Yooooooooo-oo-oo (Baby)' off the permanent loop in my brain from 1st December onwards.
2/ Trying not to explode with rage when a schoolchum that I haven't seen more often than about 6 times in the last 20 years insists on still sending me her annual Christmas card. This doesn't even feature 'To Alex' at the top, and contains nothing other than whatever pre-printed greeting came on the card, and a list of her family's names.
I now know that she's had a son since she sent me this maddening waste of time and money last year, but only because there's a new name on the listing. What. Is. The. Point? Much as I think the dreadful annual catch up round robins, detailing every trivial fact of family life over the last year, are the work of solipsistic maniacs, at least they're making the effort. To have no message at all, not even 'hope to see you next year', or 'hope you're well' just makes a mockery of the idea that you're 'keeping in touch via Christmas cards'. I almost feel like crossing out their names, adding mine in and sending it back to her. Through my office post room, so it doesn't even have a proper stamp on it.
3/ Going shopping down Oxford Street on the Saturday in December when they've pedestrianised the whole thing. I was nearly reduced to rocking in a corner in John Lewis, whispering, 'The horror, the horror' like a Christmas Kurtz after one particularly traumatic queueing incident. The only bright spot was seeing a whole bunch of Chinese people dressed in Santa outfits (no idea why) and knowing I've got a long weekend off so I didn't have to blitz the whole thing in one day. How on earth the 95% of men who do all their shopping on Christmas Eve manage without having a breakdown is anyone's guess. Why they'd do it more than once is surely a subject for our nation's top boffins.
4/ Coping with the idea that you must see all your friends before Christmas. What's wrong with a get together in January? January is a hopelessly dull month. No-one has any money, (this year we're being paid on the 18th December. The 18th! How long is January going to feel, when we don't get paid till the 26th!)
I'm a firm believer in keeping most of my friends entirely separate, an idea fostered when I first moved to London and only knew three people, so had to eke out social occasions in a very miserly fashion. I combine this with a strict regime of telly watching at home on my own (at the moment, nothing gets in the way of me watching Spooks and True Blood on a Wednesday. I don't have any sort of recording device - heck, I hardly even have a TV - so 'appointment to view' it must remain). This idea that my diary must suddenly be rammed with social gatherings for the entirety of December causes me to develop near-agoraphobia and engenders a strong desire to spend as much of the weekend as possible under the duvet, with the electric blanket on, surrounded by books, magazines and newspapers with only the occasional foray outside for a cup of coffee and some bacon for a bacon sarnie.
I love my friends, I'd just rather see most of them in January, when I'm no longer straining under the weight of sausage rolls, mince pies and far too much chocolate and slurring my way through my fourth glass of mulled wine. And there's nothing on the telly. So don't be offended if I refuse an invite - I'll actually be much better company after Christmas. And really, no Christmas cards. I gave up sending them years ago, under a cloak of 'eco-friendliness' (aka 'chronic idleness'), so I'll be more than happy with an email. Or a text. Or just the idea that if we're friends, then we know that we both wish for a very happy Christmas for each other.
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