This Weekend (12) ...

I WAS SOBER!
Hoorah!

But I was also a bit poorly.
Boo.

Just hayfever, I think, which I am suffering from in a "Biblical Plague" kind of a way this year, so I'm dosed up on, I think, four different types of tablet which give the world a pleasing blurry fugginess.

Anyway, the weekend panned out like this ...

1) Before my usual appointment at the pub quiz this week, I had to go to a meeting regarding the Artist's Open House event that we're hosting in October. Nothing amazes me like the ability of artists to stray from the point. At 8pm, having been there for an hour and a half, and having debated whether the event should be called "Open House" or "Open Studio" for around an hour, one of my committee co-members rocked back on his chair and asked if we should break for a cup of tea. I wept quietly in the corner. But I also managed to bagsy a walking tour, and a techy "press the red button now" type tour for my patch, so it was worth the effort.

2) Pub quiz. Diminished team, but we didn't embarrass ourselves. A question for you all, however (no prizes for getting it right this week): Only three Mr Men have teeth. Name any one of them ...

3) On Friday morning, I felt like poo. Poooooo! And with 100 jobs to do this week, I felt that I'd be cheating to not keep going anyway. But I sat down on the sofa to think about what to do first, and woke up an hour and a half later, feeling much better.

4) Which meant that on Friday afternoon I could order my new bedroom carpet, buy a power drill, buy a new wall unit for my dining room, go to Sainsburys and return a mistakenly purchased bra to Marks and Spencer. Rock and roll!

5) On Saturday my parents came to visit. Before they arrived, I had time to have some cakes baked and iced, so I could give the illusion of being a domestic goddess. But they came, they brought plants, we planted them, Dad broke stuff (it's a habit he can't shake when he's at my house), we ate, walked on the Common and I waved them goodbye. A nice compact, bijou kind of a visit. Perfect!

6) Today was the seventh birthday of my neighbour's son. I bought him a little Lego game which he was disproportionately pleased with. As a six year old, seven was all he could think about, but I was struck by what a very little boy he still is. When I was seven I thought I was quite the grown up. I wonder if that's a Girl vs Boy thing or a Big Sister vs Only Child thing, or a Me vs Him thing. I can also remember that, for my seventh birthday party, I wore some slouchy pink dungarees and thought I looked ace. So probably I wasn't half the grown up I thought I was. Probably I was a very little girl still. Odd how you remember things though, no?

7) Whilst I was baking some (more) cakes to take to a friend's house this afternoon, my phone pinged a message from an unknown number. "Tooting, is this your no. still?" "Yes it is! Who's this?" It was someone I had a very lovely date with about five years ago, and never heard from again. I've no idea why he's chosen now to look me up, but we've had a pleasant afternoon exchanging messages, so I chose not to ask him, and enjoy the chat.

8) There was some football on the telly. 'Nuff said.

9) I spent a very lovely afternoon loafing in my friend's back garden, enjoying the sun and the company and lots of food and some food and a bit more food and chatting the unspecified chat of friends. I told them about the flock of parakeets that are currently living around here, and they looked at me as if I were mad. Ten minutes later, a flash of green shot across the garden. "See," I said. They nodded.

10) I have thirty followers! Whoop de doo! I'm going to have a little party RIGHT NOW!

This Weekend (8) ...

It. Has. Been. Glorious!
I have basically fallen from food to sun to food in sun to food and sun, so this post might get a bit samey.

1) Thursday was a write off. The Boss turned 60 last week, so we went for lunch to celebrate, and that was really the end of the day. It was good to all let our hair down together, in the knowledge that the only people expecting us to go back to the office were also letting their hair down. Everyone around the table had a story about drunkenness turned bad. One involved naked sleepwalking in a hotel. Another involved sitting on a lumpy sofa at a new girlfriend's house, only to discover that he was actually sitting on the (now deceased) family cat.

2) Friday morning dawned bright and sunny, and my mood with it. I had a tentative plan for coffee with a girlfriend which didn't materialise, but being as I'd made an effort to wear clothes that were not just clean, but also fitted (a rare treat) I took myself to a favourite cafe for brunch, with a good book and no mobile phone, and only felt slightly guilty that I wasn't doing something more productive.

3) On Friday night I had some girlfriends around for a curry and a gossip. Living here has given me the chance to meet some fabulous ladies and make some great friends. As the fabulous Amelia observes, we're turning into a right little local gang! (By the way, you can sign up for her next experimental art e-course here) All was going well until a friend of hers popped around as we finished dinner to collect something from her, stayed for a quick drink, and left at 4am, by which time the wheels had well and truely fallen off. Of deary me!!

4) So if goes without saying that Saturday started slowly. Plans to go to the local school boot fair and plant sale went to pot, whilst I wallowed, hungover, in my pit and felt sorry for myself. A cocktail of nurofen, Twinings detox tea, and two more hours sleep was enough to prize me out of bed and into the shower, which in turn was enough to get me into the kitchen and making a jug of coffee, and after about a litre of that, I was able to face the day.

5) By that point, I'd pretty much decided that the best way to spend the day was to sit in the garden with a book and a bottle of diet coke, so that's exactly what I did. I didn't make the jewellery that I was meant to make, or clean my car, or put away my winter clothes, or paint the dining room furniture, or write to my friend or anything. I just sat. And read. And sunned. And enjoyed it.

6) Lovely Sophie and Lovely Steve (a lovely couple) invited me and three lovely friends around for dinner on Saturday. It was, as you might glean, lovely. We sat in their garden, eating barbecue and the salads that Jules and Lewis had brought, then the Eton mess that I took, and drank the pink prosecco that Matthew took (well ... I drank more coke ...) and nattered the night away.

7) With an existing arrangement to see my oldest friend in the world for lunch today, on impulse I sent a message to another old friend from our gang to see if he'd like to join us. Ten minutes later he called to say that he was on his way. I was still in my pyjamas, eating my breakfast, and got ready at break-neck speeds!

8) Sitting in the garden with Andy, reading the papers, and waiting for Angela to join us, we chatted about mutual friends, plans for forthcoming social engagements, and sometimes, nothing at all.

9) And later, with Angela, we sat around talking about her newly announced pregnancy, the terrible terrible names some people give their babies, new houses, knitting patterns and the market for maternity bridesmaid dresses. And sometimes we talked about nothing at all.

10) So now, here we are again, at Sunday evening. Slow, easy films on the telly, a warm breeze chasing through the house from the open lounge window to the open kitchen door,and a cup of tea by my side. And now ... to bed. G'night.

Super Nova

Today, I received a text message from my friend Bally. It read simply, "Ahh, memories," and came with this photo.

Ain't she a beauty?

This is a photo of the back view of a Vauxhall Nova Saloon. Oh yes!

When I passed my driving test, my Mum had a black Nova, just like this one. A21 PKR. Occasionally called "Parker," but really just called "the car". It was too simple a car to warrant anything as fancy as a name. It had two doors, and drop-down seats to get in the back seats, where the windows didn't open. It had a medium wave radio, so you couldn't listen to the charts, but you could listen to French cricket commentary. It had a one litre engine. Well, almost. 993 cc's raw horse power. C'mon!

After a while, we traded it in for a maroon one, JUST like the lovely little number in the photo. The NEW Nova (as it is still referred) had a 1.2l engine though. I know. Wild. And we bought a cassette player for it in Argos. We knew how to live the crazy life, my mother and I!

Like most late-teenagers, I was one of a group of friends, genetically incapable of going anywhere in anything less than a small tribe. If we went anywhere, we went mob-handed. Invariably it would require us to take two cars, and both cars would be packed full.

Two of our favourite venues were on the other side of hills. This was never a problem when we were going. Down hill, three six foot tall lads in the back, with a tail wind, that car would really shift! Coming home though, was troublesome.

The Hook and Hatchet pub, in a village pleasingly called Hucking, was remote. Really remote. The Hook and Hatchet is in a place where, when it's dark, it's REALLY dark. The Hook and Hatchet is in a place where you don't want to break down. Leaving the Hook and Hatchet with a car full meant that there just wasn't enough time to build up a head of steam to get up the hill, so instead, I would stop at the bottom of the hill to let out all my passengers, drive up the hill slowly in first gear, high revs, faint smell of burning, then stop at the top to let them all back in again.

Henry's Table was more trouble. It's on the other side of Detling Hill, which is about two miles of twisting dual carriageway steepness. It's scary, man! On one occasion, coming home from the weekly Henry's Table pub quiz, I had to drive two passengers up the hill, leave them in the Happy Eater car park at the top of the hill, go back down to get the other two and collect the loiterers on the way past to head home.

Aw, that little car! I wonder where it is now. (Scrap heap? Bottom of the Medway? Stock Car Heaven?) It was, if we're honest, not a good car. But thinking about it has brought back lots of happy memories.

Thanks Bally! Now I wonder if I can snap a brown mini to send you?

This weekend (5) ...

1) On Thursday, friends were in town for the day to celebrate a birthday, and invited me to join them for cocktails in a fancy-pants bar. After a fairly intensive afternoon at work, I gratefully sank a dry martini (olive, not a twist) whilst they regaled me with stories of champagne, dim-sum, trying on overpriced and overfrilled evening dresses, and afternoon tea.

2) Friday morning dawned fine and dry and as spring like as the week before it. After a quiet morning pottering and shuffling around the house, I went into Tooting for a late breakfast in my favourite cafe, to watch the world go by. The good weather seems still to startle some, who walk around the corner blinking into the sun; and be rather too well embraced by others, in shorts and flip-flops already.

3) I had a list of jobs to do, errands to run, tasks to undertake this weekend. Paint the dining furniture, buy a wall unit, tidy the garden, clean the car. And with all these things in mind, I went to the cinema on Friday afternoon to see Alice in Wonderland. What a terrific surprise to discover that it's in 3D! Was I the only person not to know this already? Must have been living under a rock, I think.

4) With catching up to do from Friday's negligence, I set the alarm for Saturday morning for a not-too-early-not-too-late time. But I woke ahead of the alarm (most uncharacteristically), and got to snuggle down under the duvet to enjoy the luxury of dozing for a while.

5) Some very most favouritest friends came to London to go to an afternoon party, but arrived early to meet me for lunch. We went to Wagamama and the children were given a sheet of games to play. Next to a dot-to-dot picture of a bowl of ice-cream was the question, "do you know what this is a picture of?" I read the question to the six year old, who looked at me blankly. "What's the answer?" I asked. "Yes!" she answered. Well ... I suppose she's right ...!

6) We've had a date in the diary for weeks to go for dinner to celebrate a friend's birthday, but at the last minute we've to change our booking from 7:30pm to 9pm (disagreeable for those with small children, and immensely preferable for those without). The birthday girl arrived early at my house for a glass of wine and a natter whilst we got ready to go out, and we set the world to rights.

7) Over dinner we give our friend her gift. A pair of purple Hunter welly boots. She made all the right excited noises as she took them out of the box and stood them on the table, much to the amusement of the people sitting around us.

8) The lovely Gillian and I set out for the Midcentury Modern fair at Dulwich College. As we went out to the car, I asked her, "roof up or down?" We both looked at the sky and then at one another. "Top down! I've brought my headscarf with me!" So for the first time this year, we went topless!

9) After the fair we headed to East Dulwich to the Chandelier tea room. We were to meet friends of Gillian's there, so were looking for a large table, which was clearly most inconvenient for the staff. After being shown to one table, we were asked to move to a table that clearly wasn't big enough, then waited for ages for menus, and even longer for our tea to arrive. (If there's one thing that makes my arse twitch, it's bad service!) But the tea arrived with a slab of banana cake with a creamy frosting, so perhaps I'll forgive them.

10) A text message from an old friend. A boy I've known since I was eleven. "Is it bad having a bottle of wine solo on a Sunday night?" I reply, "Not ideal. But it's only 8pm, what will you do with the rest of the night?" "I'm only half way through. Watching Desperate Housewives. I think I might be gay." "That depends on the wine. Red, white or rose?" "White. It's not looking good is it? It would be better if it was red, wouldn't it?" "At least it's not rose dear. You're fine."

Have a good week, folks!

This weekend (3) ...

Hiya! Remember me? I used to write a blog until I waltzed off, without so much as a by your leave, and abandoned it.

So, I've not been 'round much recently for a few reasons.

• I've been flat out. Flat. Out. Work stuff, social stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff.
• I broke a finger nail*.
• I've been working on a couple of extremely intellectual and high brow posts (which are taking some time ...)
• I'm feeling a bit meh. Lots to think about and not enough to say. I haven't really known quite what to write without being a moper, which is dull. So I've taken my mother's advice. ("Young lady! If you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all, thank you VERY much! Now DO put on some lipstick dear, or you'll never find a husband**.")
• I've been away. I left Tooting (*gasp*) and went on a mini-break in the Cotswolds. So would you like to hear about it? Here's my ten point Weekend Report ...

1) On Thursday night I left work quick smart, hoofed home, made up the mixture for the BEST chocolate cake known to man, popped along to the pub to win the quiz, ran back home to put the cakes in the oven, packed, painted my nails, and fell into bed. Phew!

2) The people I went away with are all Figaro owners. That's how we all met, but not why we're all friends. We're friends because ... well, just because we are really. But for reasons that are too many (and too expensive) to go into, my Fig spent the weekend on the

Naughty Step, and I hired a shiny, new, non-vintage motor instead. Figaros are automatic, and my hire car was a manual, so I've spent the last couple of weeks worrying about whether I can still remember where to put my feet, but the BRAND NEW (!) Golf that I was given proved very forgiving, and I've had a blissful weekend jetting around the countryside. Vroom vroom!

3) Towards the end of my journey, a text message arrives. "I'm here. It's a bugger to find." And it was. Side roads off main roads. Lanes off side roads. Drives off lanes. Private gates. But it was worth finding when I did.

4) Lots of hellos. Lots of welcomes. Lots of exploring our beautiful home for the weekend. Lots of warm laughter and cups of tea. Lots of unpacking bags of goodies and ooohing and ahhhhing at the contents.

5) We play a game. Apples to Apples. I can recommend it most heartily. Players take it in turns to turn a green card, and then lay a red card from their hand which most adequately matches it. Of course, sometimes it's easier than others to find an apt match. Our efforts to meet the description "dirty" showed that hairballs were deemed the dirtiest, but chorus girls come a close second.

6) Saturday morning. I wake up to the smell of bacon frying. Nom nom nom.

7) Everyone gets their boots and coats on to head to a nearby Cotswold village, but I decide to stay behind and mooch. Intentions to go for a walk are thwarted by bad weather, so I explore our house instead. Amongst other things I find windows with views I can't get enough of ...

... and windows that are tantalisingly out of range ...

8) We head out for a night on the town, in our own particular style; dinner at a lovely restaurant. We enjoy amuse bouche of celeriac soup, assiette of beef, pork tenderloin, and a heavenly cheeseboard. It's all cool and sophisticated. As we leave the restaurant in down-town Cheltenham, a hen party, resplendent in pink feather boas and white heels are fighting in the street, and for all our cool sophistication, we can't help pointing and laughing.

9) On Sunday morning the group divides; those who want to lounge and those who want fresh air. We walk along drives and lanes to the village church, where we shuffle around the church yard and soak up atmosphere. I was particularly touched by this small plaque towards the top of the hill which reads, "Goodbye. We'll miss you. Enjoy the view." So I did.

10) Officially the coolest thing I saw all weekend. Behind the church is a smallholding, and as we walked close to the fence, we saw the inhabitants of the closest field. They didn't take much convincing to come and investigate whether we'd brought food (we hadn't), and to have a good snuffle around whilst they were there. Really. Tell me. If you've ever seen a cooler hairy pig thing, tell me. Because I think this dude wins prizes.

* That's not a real excuse. I'm trying to find reasons to justify my absence. Humour me.
** In a film of my life, my mother will be played by Maureen Lipman.

Breakfast

Breakfast this morning in the cafe in Tooting, on the end of a road that used to be home.

Sitting in the scrunchy armchairs in the window, I can watch the world go by.

People pour on an off buses. People in uniforms going to work, people with bags, going shopping, mothers with buggies. An old lady, in a matching skirt and jacket, and black patent court shoes, bought when "Sunday Best" still meant something, walks with a stick, looking lost and frail, but when her bus comes in, she barges a teenager out of the way so she can get on first.

Couples walk briskly to the station; men in suits and ladies in dresses, heels and carrying hats, heading to weddings and champagne. People drag trolley suitcases behind them, destined for weekends away, and others walk away from the station, chattering happily with their weekend hosts.

101 men carry furtively carry roses. 101 bargain hunters carry brown paper Primark bags. 101 people with orange Sainsbury's carrier bags bursting with groceries and goodies. 101 nations represented before me, and 101 stories waiting to be told.

A man walks up the road in his pyjamas looking lost and confused, until a nurse catches up with him and gently turns him around. A girl, about my age, I'd guess, wears mittens on a cord which runs up the sleeves of her coat, and she twirls one absent mindedly whilst she waits to cross the road. Two women meet on the street, and greet one another with a hug - they mirror one another's gestures subconsciously, and have similar frames. They can only be sisters. A little girl stands next to her mother, who is reading the menu in the window above my head. I wink at her, and she tries to mimic, scrunching her whole face up in the effort to close only one eye.

A steady flow of people go to and from the hospital. Anxious looking first-time-visitors peer up roads, wondering which leads to the hospital entrance. Nurses and orderlies in uniforms dash up the roads with the confidence that comes only with doing the same journey daily. The walking wounded walk away from the hospital, sporting bandages and stitches new from a wild Friday night out.

My friend Steve walks past with a bag from the supermarket in one hand, and his phone in the other, which he is tap-tap-tapping away on. My old neighbours cross the road with the purpose of people running late, and I now with certainty that they will be heading for a day in an Irish bar to watch the rugby. Another old neighbour walks past in her own personal uniform - fishnet stockings, mini-skirt, plunging neckline, and too much makeup. We never knew what she did for a living, but everyone presumed ...

Cars and lorries shuffle up and down the high road. Horns toot. Mopeds squeeze through narrowing gaps. Three police cars, one after the other, weave between the traffic, sirens blaring, heading to the rescue of someone in need.

I can see into the shops facing me. Drivers and passengers shuffle in and out of the cab office, and the strange, customer-less patisserie gets a huge delivery of cream cakes that no-one will eat. The man in the aptly named "Taki Menswear" redresses the mannequins in his windows with cheap-and-not-so-cheerful shirts and jumpers.

Old and young, tall and short, busy and idle. They're all here. And I'm one of them.

I have a warm affection for Tooting. I love it's slightly grubby edges and it's tight packed mix of residents. I love it's buzz and bustle and the churn of people always around the station. And I love that I'm part of that, and that people were watching me right back.

This Weekend ...

1) ... started early. Even earlier than usual, considering that I don't work on Fridays anyway. I had to work from home on Thursday morning to wait for my boiler repair man to come. Having been given a time slot for his arrival of 9am to 1pm, inevitably he arrived at 4pm. Thank heavens I brought loads of work home to do! Anyway, the good, if slightly embarrassing, news is that, before I'd finished making him a cup of tea, he'd fixed it, and we're now piping hot again. Phew!

2) ... I had my hair cut. My friend Amelia (of 101 Birdtales fame) was there at the same time, and our hairdresser, Crazy Martin, turned the chairs so we were facing one another, instead of the mirrors, so that we could chat. We set the world to rights, and had a lovely hand massage (well ... four of them between us) whilst we gossiped and plotted our next artistic venture. And consequently the first I glimpsed of my new Do was when I was all done! I am now asymmetric, dontcha know.

3) ... I went to see Avatar. I will acknowledge that it's very clever, but personally, I didn't enjoy it. I can't help but feel that, were it not for the 3D element, the thing would have been panned for it's simpering, moralistic clap-trap. But that's just my opinion. I did get some pleasure, however, from looking around at all the people in their 3D glasses.

4) ... I went for dinner at a friends house. She and her new husband had three of us over, plus the lovely baby Amie, with whom I got to have a cuddle and play. It was a lovely evening of fine dining ("yes" agreed Mark. "It was ... fine.") although when I made a joke about women with facial hair (which would have been hilarious in other company) it fell flat and I felt like a proper turkey.

5) ... I had house guests. I shall call them Kelly and Nathan, for those are their names. We spent the weekend bowling from one opportunity to eat to the next, since that is all of our most favourite hobby. When they arrived we had tea and cake, then went out for lunch and to stretch our legs, then back for more tea and cake before we went out for dinner. This morning, after breakfast, we walked to the pub for lunch.

6) ... we spent some time entertaining ourselves by thinking of song titles which would be made better by the insertion of the word "fart" into the title. Favourites included, "Absence Makes the Fart Grow Stronger," "Everybody's Got A Hungry Fart," and "Unbreak My Fart." I know it's juvenile, but we enjoyed it. Today we also speculated about the fact that, at any age, someone farting in the toilet cubicle next to you is funny.

7) ... I've burped a lot. I don't know why. It's most out of character, but at times it's sounded like there's a toad in the room.

8) ... I've finished reading New Moon by Stephanie Meyer. I'm well aware, thank you very much that it's a book about vampires, written for teenagers, but I rather enjoyed it. I think that I might be a little in love with Edward Cullen (NB - the fictional character and not that young whipper-snapper who plays him in the films). I like that he is, at once, far too old for me (109), and far too young (17).

9) ... I seriously over-catered. I do that. I have no ability to think "well, I'd eat this much, so three people would eat three times as much." Then we ate out a lot anyway, so it's all still here. I've just snacked on some toast and pate and cheese and olives and tomatoes for my tea. Grazing food is my favourite.

10) ... I have learned that I am destined to marry a thief. A couple of weekends ago I taught my Goddaughter to count her olive / cherry stones out to see who she'll marry - tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, or thief. It prompted debate about whether it's better to have a poor man or a beggar man, and exactly what a tinker does. Today my olive pits told me I'd marry a thief. Bugger it!

Some things happened

Three Things Made Me Scratch My Head

1) A man dressed as a cigarette was standing on Oxford Street handing out leaflets. I assumed that they were about giving up smoking, so I said, "No thanks. I don't smoke." And he said, "Oh, no, these are about cheap phone deals."

So why are you ...? Oh, never mind!

2) A man on the train (who bore more than a passing resemblance to Bob Carolgees) was talking on a mobile phone. An average, unremarkable, typical silver box. But more remarkably, when he was listening to it, he held it to his ear and when he was talking, he moved it around and held it upright, in front of his mouth.

Has he never seen anyone using a phone before? Or does he think they are all walkie talkies?

3) The earring dropped out of my hands and I saw it hit the carpet and bounce. It wasn't moving fast. It was low to the ground. It can only have gone so far. So where is it? Where. Is. It? I've looked where it landed. I've looked four feet in every direction from it. I've run my hand over the carpet. It's gone. But do you know what? Later, when I walk over there to take off my (lesser, second choice) earrings in my bare feet, I bet you a fiver that I stand on the sodding thing.

Three Things Made Me Smile

1) Brad has left Angelina. He's probably on his way over here right now. I'll put my best spotty jarmies on to be ready for his almost certain arrival. Now, where did I put my bed socks?

2) I had a thank you card from a friend for her Christmas gift. It starts, "Thank you so much for my lovely earrings. They are stunningly slim and gorgeous, much like myself ..." As I read it, I can hear her saying it, and I'm reminded how fab it is to have a pal you know well enough to be able to finish their sentences for them.

3) I saw an ad for the Winter Olympics. (I don't know if that should have a capital W or not, but, I've tried it both ways, and with looks better). I LOVE the Winter Olympics. It's twenty different types of skidding. I am the least sporty person on the planet, and I loathe the cold, snow, and ice. Winter sports ought to be repellent to me, but I can't wait to watch a bit of high end, well trained, semi-professional skiddage.

Three Things Made Me Feel A Little Bit Guilty

1) I found a bar of dairy milk in the fridge and I'm eating it. It's my fridge, my chocolate, my house, so there's nothing really to feel guilty about. But it does feel a small bit indulgent.

2) I got the jar of herbs off the shelf and as I did so, I noticed that the "best before" date on the thyme was September 2007. That means that I moved an out-0f-date jar of herbs from my old flat to my new house. It also explains why nothing has tasted very thymey for a while ...

3) I'm typing* this whilst watching Glee. I feel a bit dirty, but also a bit compelled to turn on the subtitles so that I can sing along.

* I typed "tryping" before correcting, but on reflection, maybe I was right the first time...

A Cold and Mountainous Tale

I have alluded to this tale before in my end of 2009 musings. I'll not link to it. It was a lengthy and tiresome piece. There was little need to read it once, but twice would certainly be beyond the call. You'll just have to take my word for it. There was a reference in it to the Cold Mountain Fairy. I shall now tell you about her and her wicked ways.

Some time ago ... almost exactly six years ago I believe ... there was a Girls Weekend in Reading, at the home of a lovely University pal. Four of us went to stay with her for some good chilled out lounging and gossip and It Was Good.

On the Saturday night we decided that we'd go to the cinema. The options were discussed, and, on the recommendation of someone who has subsequently been culled (not least of all because of her choice of films) we went to see Cold Mountain.

Have you seen it? If you haven't DON'T DO IT! You will NEVER get those hours of your life back. It's long. Looooooooooong. And it's dull. And it's desperately obvious and awful and terrible. (Thinks to self: they might not realise how I feel about this film. Perhaps I ought to spell it out ...). I.T'.S. S.H.I.T!

It was weak from the off, and just twenty minutes in I realised that it wasn't something I would enjoy. My friend (who you'll be hearing more about) was heavily pregnant at the time, was sitting next to me and I was trying to work out how hard I'd have to prod her to be able to use early labour as an excuse to leave the cinema.

I needn't have been so subtle, however. Five minutes later, another of our party stood up (we were sitting in the front row), stretched languorously, announced in a non-too-quiet voice, "I can't take any more of this shit" and left. Slowly. And noisily. We found her later in a nearby bar where, owing to the length of the flaming film, she was plastered. I envied her more than I can tell you.

Now, a short while later, I was in a charity shop looking at the books (as it my wont) and I saw the book of this torturous film on the shelf. In a moment of charitable thought, it crossed my mind that the book might be wonderful. I mean, something must have compelled people to think it would make a good film, so maybe the story, when read rather than watched, would be less likely to make me want to poke red hot pins in my eyes.

I bought it. I started reading it. I was not better than the film. I gave in, about five chapters in, and threw it across the room declaring as I did so, "I can't take any more of this shit". But, being a kindly sort, I loaned it to my friend. The pregnant one mentioned above, who by this time was no longer pregnant.

She returned it to me.

I returned it to her.

She hid it in my wellington boots.

I found it some time later.

I bought a second copy, sent her one, the Reading hostess one, and sat back chuckling.

They came to visit me and hid two copies in my house.

I took one copy to the first friend's house and put it in her bedding.

When I got home, it was in my luggage.

I shredded one copy and filled a jiffy bag, addressing it to her (now toddling) daughter, who obligingly spread the shreds around the ground floor of the house before it was discovered.

I took the other copy next time I visited and put it in the loft hatch.

It almost brained her (note to self: less of the death defying stuff. The film didn't kill us, so it would be a shame if the book did).

It went back into my wellies.

Oh ... you get the idea!

It's become something of a matter of pride. If they leave your house and Cold Mountain is still in it, you've not tried hard enough. If they leave your house and you haven't see Cold Mountain, they've got you, but you'll only find out a couple of weeks down the line.

Anyway, I am telling you all this story now because I've got visitors this weekend. The Cold Mountain Fairy, the daughter who was only a bump when this all started, and her younger brother are coming to stay. And I have one (or two ...) copies of a certain novel (oh ... and a special edition DVD) which are looking for a home.

Any suggestions, folks ...???

London Belongs To Me

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I live and work in London.

For those that are unaware, that's where you might go to seek your fortune and where, upon arrival, you might find the streets to be paved with gold. It is, apparently, where Burt the Chimneysweep came from in Mary Poppins. Where I come from, everyone talks like that ("Cor blimey, Tooting Squared! Let's be gettin' you up them apples and pears for a right bloomin' knees up!")

The thing is that, much as it's home, which compels me to feel a warm and fuzzy fondness for it, London can be wearing. And wearing it has been for a few weeks.

A capital city has to be a business centre and a stock exchange. It has to be a media centre, and a PR vehicle. It's got to appeal to residents, countrymen and tourists. It has to be a political, stage and transport hub.

It shouldn't be any wonder then that sometimes it's a little bit busy. And that's what vexes me. I've been plagued recently by dawdlers in front of me and by people who swoop into my path only to stop stock still, then glare at me when I walk up their ankles. And I've been caught in the queue behind a ditherer more times than I care to mention.

And I've been a bit overwhelmed by noise and hassle and bustle and fluster. Yesterday I thought I'd lose my mind when workmen started digging up the pavement outside our office, and when I went out at lunchtime for a little respite, and was shouted at in the sandwich queue, I really nearly had a proper tantrum right there and then.

I'm tired of squeezing my way onto a train every morning (with people who are inexplicably smelly for such an early hour of the day), and then being looked at sideways when I say that I'd rather wait two minutes for the next bus and have a seat, than get to work two minutes earlier having stood with my face pushed against the window all the way.

Basically, it's all been a biiiiit tedious recently, and all feels a lot like hard work.

Last night, I met up with some girl friends for a drink and ended up heading for the bus stop quite late. At midnight I was standing on the south end of London Bridge frowning at the three minute wait for the number 133 (I ask you! How is a girl meant to WAIT for THAT LONG?!) and generally thinking griping thoughts, when I looked up.

To my left the floodlit dome of St Paul's Cathedral dominated the view. Straight across the bridge the Gherkin (should that be capitalised?) and the building formerly known as the Nat West Tower were picked out in blue and red lights and, when I strolled away from the bus stop a bit, to my right was Tower Bridge, looming over HMS Belfast. And in that moment it all looked still and grand and peaceful and ... well ... stunning.

And I realised that London is quite lovely really.

Does Any Person Here Present ...

... know of any excuse that I can use for not having told you all about the wedding of the year, now almost three weeks ago?

No. Me neither. But since the bride and groom will be back from their honeymoon in a day or two, I think I should procrastinate no more and tell you about it.

So, the wedding was that of my lovely friend Angela who is my oldest friend in the whole wide world ever ever. We were friends when I was three and she was two. Isn't that amazing? And in Mark, she was marrying someone absolutely right for her in every way. They compliment one another perfectly, and appreciate it, which is just fabulous.

I get a wee bit emotional when I see my friends settle down with the right people which, by and large, they have (there are one or two exceptions, of course, which I think decorum requires me to not name ...) so forgive a little sentimentality.

The wedding was in a village near where we all grew up, at the church in which we saw another great couple married a couple of years ago, and the reception was (now you're going to like this) at a brewery in the next town. A brewery. Delicious!

And it was all just brilliant. The vicar was just batty enough to fit the bill, the carols were sung with gusto (but then, my friend Simon sounds a lot like Harry Secombe's more talented brother, so we tend to all stand behind him and mouth along), and there was enough booze that my friend Adrian gave us a wee monologue about how much he loved us all. The speeches struck an emotional note (reducing more than just the bride to tears ... **ahem**) and we even managed a bit of a dance (to, amongst other things, Chesney Hawkes (who knew that he was still going?!) which is something of a perennial favourite). It was just fab.

And the bride, of course, looked radiant, in quite possibly the most lovely wedding dress that I have ever seen. The story of how she came to be wearing it on the Big Day is quite a long one, which gives testament to the fact that sometimes, these things are just meant to be. That was her dress, and the planets were aligned to make sure she flaming well got down the aisle wearing it.

You might notice the small but beautifully formed doo-dah in her hair? Well that was courtesy of moi! I was given a brief to make something a bit like one of those, with some of them, and a bit like that, and absolutely NONE of them, and I created away. I think the customer got what she wanted. It certainly looked the part, even if I do say so ...!

But the thing about which I was most very really truly very excited was my gift to the happy couple. They have lived together for a few years, and really have everything they need to run a successful household. Their wedding list was therefore, rather magnanimously, I thought, with Oxfam Unwrapped. But this is my oldest pal, and I wanted to give her something more material and less worthy (don't look at me like that! I bunged a note in a collection box on their behalf too). Imagine my glee then, when I was pointed, by a friend of taste, at this lady, who made these (eyes right) lovely things for me!

Aren't they ace? A mini Mangela! Aren't they just the BEST thing you ever did see? I would urge you all to rush out and buy every bride and groom you know a pair of these gorgeous little buddies.

So there you have it! The social event of the year, and it was wonderful. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses please and toast ... the happy couple.

xxx

So many thoughts ...

... so little time.

100 thought flit through my mind all at once. I can't separate them into individual threads of consciousness.

Tomorrow is my first day at my new job.

My mobile phone is somewhere else in the house and is beeping.

I've had a lovely weekend away with a friend who I've known, we worked out, for 14 years. I last saw him in May.

The dining room is finally painted.

It's a new phone and I'm not used to it's peeps and whistles yet.

A friend of mine is a new Auntie.

What should I wear tomorrow? Trousers or a skirt? Flats or heels?

Another friend is going to India for the week tomorrow.

The house smells of fresh paint. It's comforting and stifling both at once.

Perhaps the beeping means I've got a new text message.

I'm a small bit jealous of her adventure. But I'm a big bit thrilled for her too.

We went together to the village Christmas market, where his mother was running the raffle.

I think maybe just black will be best. Trousers and a top. Low heels. It'll be safest.

Her new nephew is called Felix Ernest. What a mouthful!

I should move all the furniture back into the new room, from around the house, and get a bit of order back.

I only bought raffle tickets because I felt a bit guilty. She was raising funds for the church.

I ought to go and find the phone. It's bleeping like mad, and it might be important.

But maybe a nice necklace. Something chunky or coloured to cheer it up a bit.

She's excited for her sister and her new baby boy, of course, but sad that her parents might now not come to them for Christmas, but go to bounce their new Grandson on their knee instead.

I ended up winning first prize! Three boxes (THREE!) of Thornton's chocolates. That'll be nice for Christmas treats.

What will the weather be like in December in India?

Or maybe my red shoes. Would that be too much?

Och! That phone!

I understand her upset. I want to fix it and tell her that it's a one off. One of those things. But it does always seem to be one of those things, and I know it would just be platitudes. I can only tell her that I don't know what to say, and it seems so weak.

How will I sleep?

So Long

Well, thanks, folks, for your sage advice on how I should spend my week.

Suggestions of getting away from it all, making the most of The Capital, spending quality Tooting time, and creating something beautiful were all taken on board. Baglady's suggestion that I take time to eat a lot of cake has been taken very seriously indeed.

In fact, I realised that, if I went away, coming home to a still-not-decorated dining room would vex me, and so the decision has been made to stay here and decorate my socks off, and then get a day or two out to do something more ... indulgent. And, Baglady, I'll be taking your advice, and eating cake, cake, cake!!

Thank you also for the one personal message sent, volunteering to keep an eye on me at my leaving drinks on Friday. In fact I was the epitome of sober control and grace.

Clearly that was a lie. I drank white white until it was all but coming out of my ears, and then I drank a little more. I danced in a bar that doesn't have a dance floor. I told a partner, "I bloody love you." I talked a lot (A. LOT.) of shit. Then I drank a bit more wine. And then ... I cried!

I cried! Oh, the shame, the shame! I shed actual tears.

The strange thing is that it wasn't when the most obvious people left.

I've been at that company for nearly six years, and despite that time there were people that I was entirely ambivalent about saying goodbye to. People who I don't much care for, and won't much miss. People who have skimmed past my life without really disturbing the surface of the water. They were not the people who got the teary farewell.

There are also people who have become good friends. As one former team-mate observed, we'll probably have lunch together and actually get to natter far more now than we ever have before. I already have a plan to meet up with four of the girls for dinner in a couple of weeks, and have spoken to a couple of people on the phone. I didn't need to shed any tears about no longer working with these people. They are friends. Good ones. That won't change because I'm working in a different building.

It was the others. There are people who I have really enjoyed working with, and who I've enjoyed the company of. People who, if I found myself sitting next to them at the Christmas party, I'd be happy. People who I've shared a joke with from time to time. People who I'd be quite happy to pop for a drink with after work. But realistically, these people aren't my friends, they are just good colleagues. We have never sent one another Christmas cards, or called one another at the weekend, and we never will. These are people who have been a influence on my life, but who I'm realistic enough to realise I have now said goodbye to.

This is what hit me as I tucked into my ... I don't know ... twentieth or so glass of dry white. I suddenly realised that I was actually saying "goodbye" and not "so long" to some people, and I'm afraid I broke.

I think of the number of times that I've been irritated by the fact that there is ALWAYS a crying girl in a bar at the end of the evening. I'm mortified that, on Friday night, that girl was me.

Survival of the fittest

It's been a slightly emotional week for a lot of reasons. Boy stuff. Friends stuff. Stuff, stuff, stuff. All far too boring and tedious to talk about here, but all a bit distracting in it's way.

The upshot is that I've had a bit of a Facebook cull, and it was, I can report, extremely cathartic.

Facebook is a strange thing to me. It's put me in touch with some people who I'm truly sorry that I've lost touch with. Just last week, an old friend looked me up. I'd thought about her a lot over the years, and tried to look her up myself, with no joy. It was great to piece together some of her life from snippets of news and a handful of photos. And other friends - people I've kept in touch with, but rarely get to see or talk to - are now more accessible. Maybe I only have a one sentence update from them every few days, or a couple of photos from time to time, but they are now part of my everyday life again, in a way that everyday life otherwise really wouldn't allow.

But there are other people too. People who are not really friends at all, but who have identified me a a friend only in this strange and hypothetical world. I am extremely lucky to still count amongst some of my closest friends, people I went to school with fifteen years ago, and more. We meet up from time to time and share stories and gossip and news, and they are always very easy people to drop back into a patter with. But other people I went to school with have also become Facebook friends, and this is strange to me. These are people who I would never send a Christmas card to, who would probably not stop and talk to on the street, and who I hardly spoke to at school. So why do they want to label me as a friend now? Just a numbers game really, isn't it? Those people were, I'm afraid for the chop.

I have learned some valuable lessons this year about the difference between people I know, and friends. Real friends, I mean, who root for you, and who you will root for. It only really counts if it cuts both ways. I've realised that, if, when the chips are down, the person you are calling on to put their money where their mouth is actually shrugs and walks away, then you can't count them amongst your circle anymore. If, when you ask them to be your friend, they aren't, well then ... there you have it. And it's hard to come back from that point. Once you know that they are only a fairweather friend, it's hard, in my experience, to make the effort again to do the everyday stuff without feeling slightly bitter. Those people have also been dropped. I've been very cut-throat about this, haven't I?

But then, it needs to be about more than support in times of trouble, doesn't it? I mean, let's be honest, we'd all hope that actually, we'll never need to call up the support network, but actually be able to just enjoy our friends. A very good pal (and reader of this 'ere blog. Hello!!) told me this week that a girl in her immediate circle of friends had cooed at her, "you're my best friend", and she'd replied, "no, I'm not," for she had noticed that if said friend needed a favour, she would be the first on the list, but that if she wanted to go out on the town, she'd call everyone else first. I know that they say "a friend in need is a friend indeed", but you want these people to be around for a sneaky G&T and a laugh in between times, no?

I've always shied a away from the phrase "best friend". It makes me squirm a little. Firstly, there is a need for that kind of accolade to be mutual, and things don't always work like that, so there's always a risk that a nose will be put out of joint. But also, it rather smacks of putting all your eggs in one basket to me.

I don't want one best friend, and a host of runners up. I want a network of fabulous friends who I love, and who I want to be available to always, and who I can socialise with, play out with, and enjoy entirely. I want to know that I can trust, and am trusted by these lovely people, and that this is the basis of our true and valuable friendship. It's about the quality and not the quantity, to me.

Doesn't sound like too much to ask, does it? So do this one small thing for me now. Go onto Facebook, or look down your Christmas card list, and identify one person who you know doesn't deserve you ... and delete them! I promise you, it's a beautifully liberating experience! Go on ... you know you want to!!

A Weekend Of Two Halves

This was been a weekend of some length. Weekends are so much longer if they start on Friday, don't you think?

Actually, all of my weekends start on Friday. I only work Monday to Thursday, you see, and I have Fridays off to flex my creative muscles, and make jewellery. My Fridays usually end up being pretty chilled out and not wildly productive (that's our little secret). But this week, I had lots to do to get ready for the second, Open House weekend, as well as the prospect of a lovely house guest to look forward to.

So. I got up bright and early and got all my domestic drudgery out of the way, AND got to the caff for breakfast, AND dropped around to see Gorgeous Gillian (my Open House hostess with the mostess) all before the talented Mr London Street (and the most sophisticated crass man I know) arrived.

So, my Friday started with feelings of productivity.

There ensued a day of hard core jewellery making, cake baking, tea drinking, and conversation of the meandering kind that you can only enjoy with a good friend. (There was also an incident relating to the European Cheese On Toast Mountain, but the less said about that, the better).

My day continued with feelings of achievement (and mild indigestion).

And then a wonderful thing happened. In a moment of inspiration, MLS got on the dog and bone to his Mrs, the fagnificent Baglady, plotted and planned, and within a couple of hours, we were walking up to meet her off the train with an evening of high jinks planned.

The evening started with feelings of anticipation.

Aren't impromptu visits lovely? So much more, somehow, for their slightly cobbled together nature. Fun, I can report, was had. We managed to secure ourselves the last table at a fabulous local bistro and we ate and drank and ate and drank and ate a bit more, until it was coming out of our ears. Nom nom nom.

The evening ended with feelings of warm, satisfied fullness and well being (and a little bit of booziness).

Of course, evenings like this, which are a good idea at the time, sometimes seem rather indulgent the next morning, and so it was that our Saturday morning started slowly and carefully and with a bacon sandwiches and tea.

Saturday therefore awoke with a sense of wonder at the magical qualities of bacon and Earl Grey.

Saturday and Sunday was spent on Open House, which was, as last weekend, terrific fun. It's a pretty rare thing in London, in my humble opinion, to find myself a part of a thriving and vibrant community. I had no idea that there were so many very creative people doing such very diverse things within a mere hop of my front door.

And so it was that Sunday evening saw me feeling positive and inspired, optimistic and bright, upbeat and happy.

Until I checked my Blackberry when bad, but unspecified work related stuff happened (see comments below).

I went to bed last night feeling down trodden and worthless, agitated and unappreciated, foolish and naive.

After all the positivity of the weekend, I feel sad that one ill considered email sent by one man has killed my spirit. I feel sad that I've taken it to heart. I feel sad that I mind.

So, with this flatness in mind, I am collecting career suggestions. Answers on a postcard please, folks!

Friends Like These

What a long time since my last post! And what a lot seems to have happened.

I’ve had one of those weekends which flies by and lasts forever. A weekend that was close and familiar, but a million miles away from the everyday. A weekend in which I did loads, but also very little. In short, it was bliss.

I’ve been away, you see, with eight lovely friends to a lovely place. The story of how I know these lovely people is rather convoluted. Sit down and take a load off.  I’ll talk you through it.

I currently own a Nissan Figaro, which, for the uninitiated, looks like this …

… and am a member of an on-line owners forum which is packed full of enthusiasts, top tips and, from time to time, an arrangement to meet somewhere for a run out in convoy, top down, shades on, and ready to pose.

Through these meetings I have met some truly extraordinary people. I’ve met a lady who drives her Fig whilst listening to death metal music so loud that it scares her skinhead bouncer boyfriend and a man who lives almost exclusively on Strongbow. I’ve met the only man in England who thinks a John Motson sheepskin coat looks good (other than, presumably, John Motson), and a couple who once did the deed on the giant willy at Cerne Abbas. Really, really extraordinary people.

But setting aside these loveable misfits, I’ve made some pals. It seems strange to think that it’s less than a year since we met, and yet now I can’t imagine not knowing people who’ve come to be wonderful friends. Funny, isn’t it, how sometimes you just click?

When I was younger, my friends were the people I saw everyday. I wasn’t very discerning. I don’t think that most teenagers are. It was a question of convenience, although of course I didn’t see it that way at the time. I spent time with them therefore they were my friends therefore I spent time with them. It’s hardly surprising then, that very few of my 1995 friends are still friends now.

These days I’m much better at recognising the people who I want to spend time with and who I hope would like to spend time with me. The fact that I won’t see them every day, every week, or even every month is irrelevant. The good friends – the really good ones who I’ll still see in ten, twenty, thirty years, are worth setting time aside for, and travelling to see. If the effort of a train ride or booking a table for dinner is too much, then let’s be honest, these aren’t people you’d call on in an emergency. If, each year, you write on the Christmas card “we must meet up next year” then really, you’re not going to.

I’m not diminishing the old friendships. The friendships of old that stand the test of time are truly brilliant things. It’s important that there are some people in your life who know your history. But it’s as important (more important probably) that there are people who’ll know your future.

And so, nine of us, with, initially, nothing more in common than the car we own, went to Dorset for four days of eating, drinking, walking, sitting, talking, playing and dozing, and it was heaven to spend time in such very valuable company.

And do you know something? I didn’t even drive. I went by train. The car’s not the reason, you see. It’s just the vessel. The rest is down to us.