Last week started with a bang.
As I was leaving my flat on Monday morning, the lights in my hall blew their fuse. This knocked out the lights in my bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. Now, over the last few weeks I've done more drilling, hammering and screwing than a Robot Wars groupie, so I took this latest development in my stride. That was until I discovered that my fusebox was actually installed personally by Michael Faraday. Oh no, there were no little switches that needed to be flicked up, instead there were circuit boards, magnets and copper wires. I was just about to phone the museum to see if one of the curators would be able to help when I remembered my Grandad gets back from holiday on Monday. So next week people, I'll be learning a valuable (well, at least until I get my flat rewired) new skill.
Slightly miffed that I'd been unable to get my lights back on, I consoled myself with the fact that I would be questioning the Chief Executive of my company in a few hours time. Running late for absolutely everything in my life, I decided to get to the meeting 15 minutes early. I opened up my calendar to check which room we were in only to discover that the meeting had started 15 minutes previously. Shit!
I briefly considered not going but remembered I'd told everyone in my team about it and they'd be expecting me to report back. I almost convinced myself I could "just make up his answers" as he was unlikely to say anything controversial anyway. Finally though, I decided to bite the bullet and turn up late.
I walked into a room where about 20 people were sitting round a board table. I apologised for my lateness as I tried to scan the room for a spare seat. Not seeing any I pulled up the one next to the CEO at the head of the table. He looked somewhat startled and immediately started to move his chair away. Keen to make up for lost time, I proceeded to bombard him with questions about his vision for the company - pointing out that none of it had made its way down to the marketing department. He tried desperately to involve the other people in the room, but they had nothing to say so he was pretty much left with me. He spoke about the company's talent management plans, saying that truly talented people were very difficult to manage but if managed correctly they proved to be a great return. He then turned to me and asked "are you difficult to manage?", to which I of course replied, "extremely."
All in all, the meeting didn't go too badly considering I was late, barged into the room, almost sat on his lap and then told him exactly what I thought of his company.
On Tuesday, my team had a 'blue sky' planning session. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking this might actually be a 'blue sky' planning session. My manager met each and every one of my suggestions with a "no" or a "well, that wouldn't be possible for at least another 12 months". Needless to say, I became frustrated and went 'nice girl postal'. We challenged each other back and forth for a full 15 minutes before my manager just told me the discussion was over. I've realised that here, the term 'blue sky' actually means 'things that we might not have time for in the next year' but in no way means 'thinking ahead and being innovative'. I'm so going to struggle with this.
I battled my way through the remainder of the week. Metaphorically for the most part, but actually during Thursday's hockey game. A Phil Mitchell look-a-like on the opposing team took his stick off my right shin. Stunned from the sheer pain of it, I then stumbled backwards, fell over and grazed my left knee. Annoyingly, I wasn't wearing any shinguards and couldn't really complain. (I have since ordered shinpads and a gumshield - a good idea, I'm sure).
I rushed back from hockey, got changed and buzzed Leanne in as she was coming round to see the new flat for the first time. About 5 minutes later, I realised that she had no way of knowing which flat was mine (no name, no number) so I opened the door and stuck my head out. Right enough, she was heading up to the next floor so I leaned out further to call to her and - click!
That would be the sound of my door locking shut behind me. I was now out in the hallway sans keys, money, mobile phone and anything that might be of any use to me at all. I borrowed Leanne's phone to call my mum as she is the only other person with a key to the flat. Her line was engaged so I called my gran to ask her to let my mum know when she got off the phone. Leanne and I popped across to Tinellis for some dinner. My gran called back to say that my mum was at work and my dad was going to call her to let her know.
Five minutes later my dad called. This is an accurate re-typing of our conversation:
Me: Hello?
Dad: What's happening?
Me: You were calling mum, you tell me what's happening.
Dad: I've phoned mum at her work. What's happening?
Me: What do you mean 'what's happening'?
Dad: I believe you're locked out.
Me: (Through gritted teeth) You know I'm locked out. You know I need mum to bring my keys over - you tell me what's happening.
Dad: You're locked out? How did that happen?
Me: It was an accident. I leaned out of my door too far and it locked behind me.
Dad: I take it there was drink involved?
Me: (Thinking only on your part you crazy psycho fool and now raising my voice) No. I was just back from hockey, I hadn't had a chance to have a "hmpnhing (mumbled curse) drink". (I now signal the waiter to top up my wine.)
Dad: So you're fit to drive then?
Me: (exploding, people in restaurant looking) Yes I'm fit to drive and I have my car keys but I just thought it would be funny to get mum to drive over and ... Do you honestly think I'd be asking mum to drive over if I had my "hmphnhing" car keys in my hand? They're in the "hmphnhing" flat with everything else.
At this point, understandably, the call ended. Leanne and I had a delicious meal and a good laugh despite all the surrounding tension. My mum (star that she is) got over at about 11pm with the keys and let us into the flat.
Unfortunately, I couldn't really show Leanne the flat as the fusebox was still awaiting my Grandad's expertise and we were pretty much in the dark.
Roll on the weekend.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Too much sun
I hate moving, but I do love the new flat, which hopefully means it'll be a considerable amount of time before I move on. I think the bathroom is my favourite room. It's bright, cool, airy and very tidy (thanks in large part to my half-price cabinet from John Lewis). Sam was back from the States a few weeks ago and stopped by for a visit. He gave it the thumbs up and, since Sam has just about the best taste of anyone I know, I was very, very pleased.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
You may remember me ...
... I used to write a blog.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Teeth, hips and sips of tea
So it is true that the only thing harder to find these days than decent help is an NHS dentist.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Work-Life balance
Admittedly, the first week back from holiday is always an uphill struggle. I, however, am 'touching the void' (i.e. my flexi-time has just plummeted through a crevass and my broken-spirit is in no state to pull it back.) Last week's working hours look like this - M 4:45, T 6:24, W 6:38, T 7:01, and F 5:13. It makes me feel slightly better that my inability to drag myself into work before 10am was due more to my busy social calendar than my lazy lard ass.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The good life
As told by Jen & Gary .
What do you think?
To be fair, I have issues too but I tend to keep them to myself and I am working on them. I swear, I haven't killed someone for their liver since last autumn and that's pretty good going.
Anyway, the blog in question is entitled 'Jen & Gary' but I'm not convinced Gary does any posting. My hunch is that Gary probably doesn't even know about it.
The tagline reads: 'We are a young, vibrant couple who enjoy life', but from reading the post headed 'Are we spoiled?' I think it should really say 'I desperately want a baby. Like, NOW!'
"Having the extra time and energy to spoil the man I love makes the best marriage I can think of! [Ahh, shucks] We can devote all of our time to each other, instead of splitting our attention among three kids and their after school activities [which she so desperately wants to do].
I love making breakfast in bed for my husband and he likes to make breakfast in bed for me too!. [Aaahhh! int that cute?]
I rub his back several nights a week. [How romantic Jen. I hope it isn't on account of indigestion because when that trapped wind starts to move ...]
I make his favorite meals. I am truly interested in his hobbies ....for the most part (which we can indulge in because we don’t have kids to spend our hard earned cash on!) [Oh how she wishes she had kids so she doesn't have to spend her weekends fly-fishing or attending Star Trek conventions.]
And I am just as spoiled as he is [Really she is]. I get regular foot massages. Last night I asked for a squeeze of fresh lime juice in my water, and he happily obliged [Oh how lucky she is. Surely most men would not have honoured such an arduous request and instead rubbed the lime into her face James Cagney style.]
We love doing special things for each other that I don’t usually see parents doing, simply because their schedules get filled up with other things. But if we want to go to bed a little early for some “couple time,” [Oh my God! They actually call it 'couple-time'] we do it. [Moreover, I'd be worried if she did see 'parents' having 'couple-time']
If we want to take a long bath together on a Sunday afternoon, we can. We can be spontaneous without calling a babysitter. Marriage isn’t about each partner giving 50%. I’d say it’s close to 100%. [100% leaves no room for anything else sweetie.]
And it sure is easier to do when you don’t have kids. Yep, I guess you would considered us SPOILED! [I can think of far more appropriate words than 'spoiled' honey.]
What do you think?
To be fair, I have issues too but I tend to keep them to myself and I am working on them. I swear, I haven't killed someone for their liver since last autumn and that's pretty good going.
Anyway, the blog in question is entitled 'Jen & Gary' but I'm not convinced Gary does any posting. My hunch is that Gary probably doesn't even know about it.
The tagline reads: 'We are a young, vibrant couple who enjoy life', but from reading the post headed 'Are we spoiled?' I think it should really say 'I desperately want a baby. Like, NOW!'
"Having the extra time and energy to spoil the man I love makes the best marriage I can think of! [Ahh, shucks] We can devote all of our time to each other, instead of splitting our attention among three kids and their after school activities [which she so desperately wants to do].
I love making breakfast in bed for my husband and he likes to make breakfast in bed for me too!. [Aaahhh! int that cute?]
I rub his back several nights a week. [How romantic Jen. I hope it isn't on account of indigestion because when that trapped wind starts to move ...]
I make his favorite meals. I am truly interested in his hobbies ....for the most part (which we can indulge in because we don’t have kids to spend our hard earned cash on!) [Oh how she wishes she had kids so she doesn't have to spend her weekends fly-fishing or attending Star Trek conventions.]
And I am just as spoiled as he is [Really she is]. I get regular foot massages. Last night I asked for a squeeze of fresh lime juice in my water, and he happily obliged [Oh how lucky she is. Surely most men would not have honoured such an arduous request and instead rubbed the lime into her face James Cagney style.]
We love doing special things for each other that I don’t usually see parents doing, simply because their schedules get filled up with other things. But if we want to go to bed a little early for some “couple time,” [Oh my God! They actually call it 'couple-time'] we do it. [Moreover, I'd be worried if she did see 'parents' having 'couple-time']
If we want to take a long bath together on a Sunday afternoon, we can. We can be spontaneous without calling a babysitter. Marriage isn’t about each partner giving 50%. I’d say it’s close to 100%. [100% leaves no room for anything else sweetie.]
And it sure is easier to do when you don’t have kids. Yep, I guess you would considered us SPOILED! [I can think of far more appropriate words than 'spoiled' honey.]
Saturday, May 20, 2006
(Herpes) Simplex in the city
Upsettingly, the coldsore continued to plague me all last week. On Monday it grew bigger. On Tuesday it grew scabbier. On Wednesday it turned greener and on Thursday I laughed and it got stuck to my top lip and was yanked off. Then it started to bleed. My discomfort was made worse due to the fact that I was in a meeting when this happened. Still it was better than the scab falling into somebody else's tea or - even worse - my own, which had been my primary concern all week.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
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