Ok, I'm totally tempting fate here, but having told everyone at Dev & Jeff's Easter lunch I figure I've already rowed all the way out on 'asking for it lake'. So here goes:
I've bought a flat - again, but will say no more about it until I have the keys in my hands. Although, rather sadly, I have already done two practice runs from the new flat to my place of work to establish timings. It takes 26 minutes (at 'this is as close as I get to running' pace), 33 minutes (at 'don't dare think you're worthy enough to speak to me' pace) and 41 minutes (at 'Flexi time means I don't need to be in until 10:30. Oh look, aren't the daffodils lovely? pace). I'm like one of those irritating couples who plan the drive to hospital when they're expecting a child. God, I hate myself.
Speaking of God, Dev cooked a pig in his honour last Sunday. It was undoubtedly the holiest ham ever to travel the well worn road that is my geographer's tongue. The pig of God (as it was christened on The Roquefort Files) had been cooked in Coke, and was so delicious that while I may never be fooled into buying the usual pig in a poke, there'd be no hesitation in buying a pig in Coke - even if said pig in coke was actually in a poke at the time.
Anyway, Dev's dinner was a triumph and the disciples dining that day were on top form, which made for plenty of hilarity.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
My dead beat life
Yesterday I did something really cool and interesting. I spent two hours exploring Warriston cemetery.
Now I realise that this might not be everyone's cup of chai, but I have always loved cemeteries. Yes, I am still in possession of a morbid fascination with death. Yes, even more so if it's an exciting/intriguing death. And yes, especially so if the death involves someone of position/breeding/fame/notoriety. A combination of all four and someone better fetch the smelling salts.
It's been my intention to visit Warriston cemetery for a good few years now, and for a number of reasons. The cemetery dates from 1843 so it's old, but not so old that the writing on the headstones is illegible. It's like 20 minutes' walk from my flat. It's not too vast and the layout makes for an interesting amble. But best of all, it plays host to the remains of James Young Simpson (Mr Anaesthesia himself), the John Menzies, a recipient of the Victoria Cross and at least one Count. Pretty cool huh?
I arrived at the cemetery gates around 11am, pushed them open and walked in. The sun was shining brightly and thus lessened the fright factor of my being the only person in there. I spent the next two hours walking around the upper part of the cemetery. The lower part of the cemetery has been particularly neglected/vandalised with severely overgrown grass in some areas and almost total erosion in others. There's a cool gothic style railway bridge at one end of the cemetery through which I've been told the Leith Railway used to run.
There are many reasons why I find cemeteries so damn fascinating; from the differing styles of headstones, through the make-up of families and the ages at which people died. One of the main differences between pre and post war headstones is in how people are measured or remembered. For instance, If I died tomorrow and my headstone were being prepared it would probably read something like this:
Pretty darn boring isn't it? But seriously, that's the way most modern headstones are written. What use is that to the historians of tomorrow I ask you? Future scenario:
My esteemed colleagues, from my research into the history of Edinburgh in the early part of the millennium I have discovered that people lived on average to approximately 82 years of age. A significant number were the sole occupants of the grave. Of those graves interring two or more people, a significant number were of the same sex or heterosexual couplings not sharing the same surname. And that ... er ... is all.
Now, you may recall my entry on the lack of burial space (see 'No room to bury-all). Well, if this is all we have to say about ourselves we should have no complaint at being ground into murky dust and funneled into a cheap and nasty urn. We certainly don't deserve to fester beneath a slab of marble if we (or our relatives) can't think of something a little more interesting and worthwhile to say. I accept the point that some people just don't have anything to say and all that can be hoped for them is that they are truly mortified by their boring headstone and decide to do it differently in the next life.
Now that's more like it. Lot more poetic, wee bit more to say for myself. Except it wouldn't say that at all. Oh no. For I am but a humble woman.
That was one of the other things I noticed as I wandered round the cemetery. Women were defined only by their husbands or fathers and, on occasion, by their husbands and their fathers. I know it shouldn't surprise me and it really doesn't (in fact, that hat is so old it was last seen atop someone riding a penny farthing), but it still jumped out and smacked me on the head. The men were risen to lofty heights, not on account of any academic or social achievements particularly, but by their jobs. Which begs the question, why don't people mention their jobs these days?
And the answer to that is because jobs today are really shit and even more boring than they are shit. And what do they really say about us anyway? My job says nothing about me (other than possibly that I'm a corporate whore just doing it for the money). As I wandered round Warriston I spotted at least five writers to the Signet. I want to be a writer to the Signet (well maybe, if I really knew what it was and the pension scheme was attractive enough. Oh yeah, and they offered subsidised lunches). There was also buried a 'Poet and Essayist'. I've written loads of poems and more than my fair share of essays - can I have that written on my headstone? One guy was even the auditor for the East Indian Imperial Railway or something!
Which leads me to the following point. Colonialism had its faults, I won't argue with you there. And the vast majority of it was undoubtedly wanky nonsense, but hell, at least they had cool job titles and something a little more interesting to say on their headstones.
If nothing else, colonialism has made history more interesting, which in turn brightens up many a cemetery.
(Tune in next week for the silver linings of the Holocaust.)
Now I realise that this might not be everyone's cup of chai, but I have always loved cemeteries. Yes, I am still in possession of a morbid fascination with death. Yes, even more so if it's an exciting/intriguing death. And yes, especially so if the death involves someone of position/breeding/fame/notoriety. A combination of all four and someone better fetch the smelling salts.
It's been my intention to visit Warriston cemetery for a good few years now, and for a number of reasons. The cemetery dates from 1843 so it's old, but not so old that the writing on the headstones is illegible. It's like 20 minutes' walk from my flat. It's not too vast and the layout makes for an interesting amble. But best of all, it plays host to the remains of James Young Simpson (Mr Anaesthesia himself), the John Menzies, a recipient of the Victoria Cross and at least one Count. Pretty cool huh?
I arrived at the cemetery gates around 11am, pushed them open and walked in. The sun was shining brightly and thus lessened the fright factor of my being the only person in there. I spent the next two hours walking around the upper part of the cemetery. The lower part of the cemetery has been particularly neglected/vandalised with severely overgrown grass in some areas and almost total erosion in others. There's a cool gothic style railway bridge at one end of the cemetery through which I've been told the Leith Railway used to run.
There are many reasons why I find cemeteries so damn fascinating; from the differing styles of headstones, through the make-up of families and the ages at which people died. One of the main differences between pre and post war headstones is in how people are measured or remembered. For instance, If I died tomorrow and my headstone were being prepared it would probably read something like this:
In loving memory of Lisa
Born 20/10/1979
Died 10/04/2006
(insert some religious passage (or preferably) amusing epitaph)
Pretty darn boring isn't it? But seriously, that's the way most modern headstones are written. What use is that to the historians of tomorrow I ask you? Future scenario:
My esteemed colleagues, from my research into the history of Edinburgh in the early part of the millennium I have discovered that people lived on average to approximately 82 years of age. A significant number were the sole occupants of the grave. Of those graves interring two or more people, a significant number were of the same sex or heterosexual couplings not sharing the same surname. And that ... er ... is all.
Now, you may recall my entry on the lack of burial space (see 'No room to bury-all). Well, if this is all we have to say about ourselves we should have no complaint at being ground into murky dust and funneled into a cheap and nasty urn. We certainly don't deserve to fester beneath a slab of marble if we (or our relatives) can't think of something a little more interesting and worthwhile to say. I accept the point that some people just don't have anything to say and all that can be hoped for them is that they are truly mortified by their boring headstone and decide to do it differently in the next life.
The way that families chose to allude to the death of their loved one was also interesting. One headstone said: 'who departed this life to be with Christ', which is somewhat misleading as it makes it sound like she had a choice in the matter. Or maybe she did and it's really some Victorian euphemism for the fact that she committed suicide, which would count as an exciting/intriguing death. Bonus. Another grave had the truly bizarre phrasing: 'who fell asleep in Christ.' Hell, if the whole J.C. and Mary Magdalene thing caused a stooshie, then this could blow the roof right off. I'm calling Dan Brown right now. Forget 'What if God was one of us?', start singing 'What if God was really gay. Couldn't help it, was just his way. Just a man who couldn't say. Trying to find a true love, not just a doctor with a glove, someone who'd prefer to go above, or maybe do it with a dove.' I swear, if I wasn't already there I'd be going striaght to Hell.
Anyway, taking all that into account, if I had died in, hmm ... let's say, 1927. This is what my headstone would probably declare:
MA (Hons), Marketing Communications Consultant.
Born on the twentieth day of October in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and two.
Died on the tenth day of April in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty seven as a result of coughing blood into a handkerchief following contraction of the galloping consumption.
May wing-ed angelorum speed you to the arms of Christ and forever hold you safe in sleep.
Now that's more like it. Lot more poetic, wee bit more to say for myself. Except it wouldn't say that at all. Oh no. For I am but a humble woman.
That was one of the other things I noticed as I wandered round the cemetery. Women were defined only by their husbands or fathers and, on occasion, by their husbands and their fathers. I know it shouldn't surprise me and it really doesn't (in fact, that hat is so old it was last seen atop someone riding a penny farthing), but it still jumped out and smacked me on the head. The men were risen to lofty heights, not on account of any academic or social achievements particularly, but by their jobs. Which begs the question, why don't people mention their jobs these days?
And the answer to that is because jobs today are really shit and even more boring than they are shit. And what do they really say about us anyway? My job says nothing about me (other than possibly that I'm a corporate whore just doing it for the money). As I wandered round Warriston I spotted at least five writers to the Signet. I want to be a writer to the Signet (well maybe, if I really knew what it was and the pension scheme was attractive enough. Oh yeah, and they offered subsidised lunches). There was also buried a 'Poet and Essayist'. I've written loads of poems and more than my fair share of essays - can I have that written on my headstone? One guy was even the auditor for the East Indian Imperial Railway or something!
Which leads me to the following point. Colonialism had its faults, I won't argue with you there. And the vast majority of it was undoubtedly wanky nonsense, but hell, at least they had cool job titles and something a little more interesting to say on their headstones.
If nothing else, colonialism has made history more interesting, which in turn brightens up many a cemetery.
(Tune in next week for the silver linings of the Holocaust.)
Sunday, April 09, 2006
The art of ... choosing a toothbrush.
I'm pretty sure you're supposed to buy a new toothbrush every three months - at least that's what the manufacturers and their lap dogs the British Dental Association tell us. Although, I think I can stretch a few more months out of my toothbrushes as, despite the fact that I brush my teeth about four times a day, they remain pretty much in pristine condition. Some people's toothbrushes seem hell bent on giving us their own special interpretation of the parting of the Red Sea; the bristles lying almost flat out in anticipation of Charlton Heston's crossing. But not mine.
Anyway, buying a new toothbrush had been on my list of 'Things I need more urgently than a Mulberry handbag' for a few months now. It was number 632, I think. Having been somewhat sidetracked in my endeavors thus far, i.e. kept forgetting, didn't visit supermarket for three weeks as had enough tins of baked beans to survive, etc, etc, I eventually got round to it this weekend. Whilst ambling round Sainsburys I remembered and made a sudden 90 degree turn into the dental hygiene aisle. The other shoppers were not impressed and looked like they were fighting the temptation to commit a bit of trolley rage.
Arriving in front of the toothbrushes, the first thing I noticed was that there were millions of them. I'm not kidding. They took up almost half of the entire aisle. Trying to remain calm (muchness scares me), I began to scan my options. I could go by brand; Sainsburys, Oral B, Reach, Colgate, Aquafresh, Sensodyne, and probably Nestle too if I read the small print and followed the audit trail; or by price: 99p to £6.99. £6.99? £6.99? For a toothbrush? £6.99 for a toothbrush?; or by features 'n' functions; plaque control, whitening, gum stimulation, tongue scrubbing, tooth-picking, pulsating; or by colour, firmness or good old lucky dip.
When did it all get so massive? I felt like shouting out 'I just want a toothbrush. Why are you making this decision so hard and time consuming for me?' I think it was the first time I'd ever wished I lived in a Communist country. But saying these words out loud would render me a total fraud because I don't just want a toothbrush. The souless marketeers have me right where they need me. When faced with all this choice, of course I don't just want a toothbrush. I want a life-enhancing, oral hygiene product. And I want it to be firm. And I want it in pink, but not that pink, no no, I want it in that pink. Yes, that's right. Thank you.
In the end it came down to a choice between two almost identical brushes. Each had thickened rubber gum massaging bristles (in pink) on the outside. Three different types (and with different purposes) of bristle in the inside as well as a 'whitening circle' of bristles at the head of the brush. Each also offered a built-in tongue cleaner. The only difference was in the price. The Oral B option was £6.99 and the Reach one was £4.50. This is the kind of decision I like.
'Lisa, you can have this item for £6.99 or you can have the same item for £2.49 less.'
Duh, even I in my brainwashed consumerist state can work this one out.
I felt rather pleased with myself, and life in general, as I walked home with my Reach toothbrush nestling inside my shopping bag. Then I experienced mild anger as I reminded myself that I'd just spent £4.50 on a fucking toothbrush. Four pounds fucking fifty? On a toothbrush? Then I brushed my teeth, for like 12 minutes, and my new toothbrush was really, really good.
And after all, I always squeeze an extra couple of months out of my toothbrushes anyway, so I'm the real winner right?
Right? ... Hello? ... You guys? ... Right?
Anyway, buying a new toothbrush had been on my list of 'Things I need more urgently than a Mulberry handbag' for a few months now. It was number 632, I think. Having been somewhat sidetracked in my endeavors thus far, i.e. kept forgetting, didn't visit supermarket for three weeks as had enough tins of baked beans to survive, etc, etc, I eventually got round to it this weekend. Whilst ambling round Sainsburys I remembered and made a sudden 90 degree turn into the dental hygiene aisle. The other shoppers were not impressed and looked like they were fighting the temptation to commit a bit of trolley rage.
Arriving in front of the toothbrushes, the first thing I noticed was that there were millions of them. I'm not kidding. They took up almost half of the entire aisle. Trying to remain calm (muchness scares me), I began to scan my options. I could go by brand; Sainsburys, Oral B, Reach, Colgate, Aquafresh, Sensodyne, and probably Nestle too if I read the small print and followed the audit trail; or by price: 99p to £6.99. £6.99? £6.99? For a toothbrush? £6.99 for a toothbrush?; or by features 'n' functions; plaque control, whitening, gum stimulation, tongue scrubbing, tooth-picking, pulsating; or by colour, firmness or good old lucky dip.
When did it all get so massive? I felt like shouting out 'I just want a toothbrush. Why are you making this decision so hard and time consuming for me?' I think it was the first time I'd ever wished I lived in a Communist country. But saying these words out loud would render me a total fraud because I don't just want a toothbrush. The souless marketeers have me right where they need me. When faced with all this choice, of course I don't just want a toothbrush. I want a life-enhancing, oral hygiene product. And I want it to be firm. And I want it in pink, but not that pink, no no, I want it in that pink. Yes, that's right. Thank you.
In the end it came down to a choice between two almost identical brushes. Each had thickened rubber gum massaging bristles (in pink) on the outside. Three different types (and with different purposes) of bristle in the inside as well as a 'whitening circle' of bristles at the head of the brush. Each also offered a built-in tongue cleaner. The only difference was in the price. The Oral B option was £6.99 and the Reach one was £4.50. This is the kind of decision I like.
'Lisa, you can have this item for £6.99 or you can have the same item for £2.49 less.'
Duh, even I in my brainwashed consumerist state can work this one out.
I felt rather pleased with myself, and life in general, as I walked home with my Reach toothbrush nestling inside my shopping bag. Then I experienced mild anger as I reminded myself that I'd just spent £4.50 on a fucking toothbrush. Four pounds fucking fifty? On a toothbrush? Then I brushed my teeth, for like 12 minutes, and my new toothbrush was really, really good.
And after all, I always squeeze an extra couple of months out of my toothbrushes anyway, so I'm the real winner right?
Right? ... Hello? ... You guys? ... Right?
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Blog names for sale
Nothing saddens me more than a lazy blog name. Jim's Blog, The Browns' Blog, Rachel's Weblog are all real tragedies I have witnessed for myself. I can't feel sorry for these people. They've been inspired enough to set up a blog, they even write in it - regularly. And yet, given the option of a little creativity around the title - they balk. That's why I am offering the following 5 blog names for those most in need. I give you special price too - £25 each (and a voucher for a free meal at Le Monde). Ok, on offer is:
Jane Honda
An irresistable purchase for anyone blogging about cars or engines of any sort. You will also be automatically qualified to write about the movies, your difficult relationship with your father, three-in-the-bed shenanigans, bulimia, Vietnam, aerobics, Ted Turner and lots, lots more about YOU.
Betty Scored
You'll have a fight on your hands trying to land this one; a bidding war may be the only way. This is a must-have for any girl about town whose blog will focus on her drunken one-night stands. If I was a drunken slut as opposed to a drunken journalist (see The vodka monster returneth) then I'd keep this for myself.
Mad about Jew
Slightly controversial and most probably monitored by the Simon Wiesenthal Centre but offering a diversity of blogging options such that in a less-imaginative world it would probably be called 'stuff'. Perhaps you're a fan of gold, diamonds or Barbra Streisand. Maybe you have a lot to say about Steven Spielberg films, bagels or circumcision. Heck, maybe your son is a docta and you want to blog about that!
Menagerie a trois
You're into beastiality but your wife disapproves. Vent your frustrations here!
Decle-bore
An alternative name for this site perhaps or a wise purchase for anyone else who worships at the altar of over-priced skincare.
If you're interested in any of the above listed blog names, please send a cheque payable to me. If you have blog names for sale, feel free to advertise them here.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The vodka monster returneth
Why am I such a weirdo when I'm drunk? Why, why, why, why, why?
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Love? It's in the bag.
I am in the heady throes of a wonderfully satisfying love affair. And I have it bad. I can't function unless I've had some in the morning. I want it straight after lunch. It's the first thing I think of when I get home in the evenings. I've even woken up in the middle of the night because I just need it so badly.
Of course pessimistic killjoys and therapists (one and the same?) would say it doesn't count because it's not actually with a person. You see, I'm in love with tea. I've heard that it happens to us all but I never really believed it would happen to me. Having been a confirmed coffee drinker since the age of seven, I thought I was safe. Alas, love was up to its usual tricks and smacked me broadside when I least expected it. Love has been known to smack me unexpectedly and inconveniently with occasionally undesirable consequences, but it's precisely because tea is so darn convenient that this whole lovely affair is so darn perfect.
I'm so head over heels that I can't refrain from blatantly parading my relationship in front of my friends. "Cup of tea?", "fancy a cuppa?", "another tea?", "tea", "tea", "tea","tea", "tea", "tea" is all I seem to say these days. (It's been pointed out to me that this may be because I write everything else in this blog so have nothing new to say. I'm not convinced.)
This is where it gets a bit embarrassing, but I actually start craving an armchair and a nice cup of tea when I am out drinking alcohol in bars. Last night I was in Le Monde (which is, incidentally, full of lovely decor and shallow beautiful people, rendering it utterly soul-less) and my favourite part of the night was when the waitress brought me some tea; in a lovely china teapot. As soon as I'd had it, I just wanted more - and, and this is the great part, unlike other things in life, you don't have to "give it a few hours" before it's ready to go again. Oh the tea never stops.
I used to think people who said tea was what they craved when they were really thirsty were off their heads, but now I get it. I wake up with actual tea thirsts. A few people have told me that the moment they found themselves craving tea in a pub/bar was their 'Oh my God, I'm my mother' moment. For me, that happened a few years ago when I caught myself tucking into the sweets I'd just bought along with my petrol before I'd even shut the car door or put on my seatbelt, and then proceeding to drive with only my right hand on the wheel while the left one made the continual journey from bag to mouth and back again.
I really hope my relationship with tea does not reflect that of my mother's. My mum and tea used to love each other deeply, but sadly (and weirdly) she ditched it for the (in-vogue) hot water thing. An affair which, much to my perennial dismay, seems likely to go the distance.
Of course pessimistic killjoys and therapists (one and the same?) would say it doesn't count because it's not actually with a person. You see, I'm in love with tea. I've heard that it happens to us all but I never really believed it would happen to me. Having been a confirmed coffee drinker since the age of seven, I thought I was safe. Alas, love was up to its usual tricks and smacked me broadside when I least expected it. Love has been known to smack me unexpectedly and inconveniently with occasionally undesirable consequences, but it's precisely because tea is so darn convenient that this whole lovely affair is so darn perfect.
I'm so head over heels that I can't refrain from blatantly parading my relationship in front of my friends. "Cup of tea?", "fancy a cuppa?", "another tea?", "tea", "tea", "tea","tea", "tea", "tea" is all I seem to say these days. (It's been pointed out to me that this may be because I write everything else in this blog so have nothing new to say. I'm not convinced.)
This is where it gets a bit embarrassing, but I actually start craving an armchair and a nice cup of tea when I am out drinking alcohol in bars. Last night I was in Le Monde (which is, incidentally, full of lovely decor and shallow beautiful people, rendering it utterly soul-less) and my favourite part of the night was when the waitress brought me some tea; in a lovely china teapot. As soon as I'd had it, I just wanted more - and, and this is the great part, unlike other things in life, you don't have to "give it a few hours" before it's ready to go again. Oh the tea never stops.
I used to think people who said tea was what they craved when they were really thirsty were off their heads, but now I get it. I wake up with actual tea thirsts. A few people have told me that the moment they found themselves craving tea in a pub/bar was their 'Oh my God, I'm my mother' moment. For me, that happened a few years ago when I caught myself tucking into the sweets I'd just bought along with my petrol before I'd even shut the car door or put on my seatbelt, and then proceeding to drive with only my right hand on the wheel while the left one made the continual journey from bag to mouth and back again.
I really hope my relationship with tea does not reflect that of my mother's. My mum and tea used to love each other deeply, but sadly (and weirdly) she ditched it for the (in-vogue) hot water thing. An affair which, much to my perennial dismay, seems likely to go the distance.
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