Delayed Weather Report

I know this is all so very last week, but – hey! did you hear about all the snow? It proper, really, heavily snowed in London last Monday. And this great city, without any hesitation, ground to a slippery, slithering halt.

For most people, it meant a bonus day off work. For most people, it was a day to make snowmen, throw snowballs and be uncharacteristically neigbourly and friendly.

I was not one of the most people.

Instead, I was one of the dozen or so numpties in the entire city who managed to make it to work. Lucky me – I live near the new fangled DLR train system; the only system of transport in all of London Town that manages to keep working when too hot, too cold, too wet or too dry weather closes all other options. Granted, it was a 30 minute slip ‘n slide to get to the station, but I thought I should at least try. You can imagine the crushing disappointment when within 5 minutes of arriving there, a bright red DLR train turned up to whisk me over to work. Mat, meanwhile, was all nicely tucked back into the flat for his bonus Snowy Monday Of No Work.

Betwixt and between

Ah…that was nice.  A little break. It’s funny how my blog was getting a stranglehold on me. I wasn’t posting very much, was feeling VERY guilty for not posting (why, why, why?? Guilty? WHY?????) which kind of crippled the whole process.  A reaction not only very silly and very self indulgent, but unfortunately very typical. Not happy, me, unless I’ve got something to feel guilty about. Oh the woe!

But I’m back. Able to think clearly and put the whole silly thing into perspective. It’s only some ramblings is all. Innit?

The photography project is going very well. What’s actually flicked me back over here is my attempt to start up a new blog. One linked to my other website. One that will attempt to present a professional face to the world and (hopefully) potential clients. Problem is, I haven’t quite worked out what that professional face should look like. How much makeup should it wear and what’s its preferred hairstyle? Is it only allowed to talk professionally about professional-type things, or is it OK to waffle off on silly tangents? At the moment, right now, I just don’t know. What I am certain of, is that professional faces generally shouldn’t swear too much, talk about drinking binges or moan and whinge about not getting enough work.

And, really, that’s what this space is all about.

Struggling to keep up with 1 blog was proving too much for me. My genius remedy is that I’ll be much better at this if I’ve got 2 blogs to worry about. I’m just giddy with the anticipation of monster-sized bags of guilt hovering blackly around the edges of my future.

The other blog has a bit of a cheat hard-wired into its beingness, though. It’s for my photography, right? So, there’ll be lots of photos. Clever, huh?

Down for a while (but probably not out)

I’m having a break. The blistering speed of posting once a month, a fortnight, or sometimes – heartstoppingly – every week, is getting to me. It’s sapping my mojo, man.

I can’t seem to find the time, or the energy, or the requisite brainpower to keep this thing ticking over. And so, it’s going on ice. Just like Mr Disney. Cryogenic blog freezing while waiting for THE miracle cure for writer’s laziness.

In the meantime, I’m going to relax.

Oh yes.

————-

p.s. That was a lie – I’m not really relaxing. More like shifting direction. I’ve got another website. A photo-based one that may expand with a blog of its own in the fullness of time. If you’re interested, I’ll be over here .

(Yes, that actually is my name).

Proof that exercise doesn’t make you any smarter

I’ve been reading back over my posts of recent months, and have noticed a trend of talking about all the drinking and partying I have been doing. Which, I feel, is giving out all the wrong sort of impressions. Firstly, I don’t actually go out all that much anymore, it’s just that I don’t blog very often. Secondly, maybe I sort of exaggerate the levels and amounts of intoxication. Just for comic effect. Maybe.

Ahem.

Anyway, to redress the balance, I’m going to tell you all about the good stuff I also do these days. Like riding my pushbike. All the way into work. Up to three times a week. Trust me, it is a big deal.

Historically, I’m not much of an exercise person. But when we moved in my flat back in August, and I looked out the bedroom window and realised that I could actually see Canary Wharf (and not in the distant distance either), I figured that getting to the office under my own stream couldn’t be too difficult a proposition. And the bonuses! Firm thighs! Money savings! This was the opportunity to reinvent myself as a Person Who Exercises On a Regular Basis.

The first couple of weeks, I have to admit, were pretty difficult. Not impossibly so, but on a scale of 1-10 for I-might-keel-over-and-die-ness, about an 8. But then, it just got easier. One day, I even arrived to work without a bright red face and dots dancing in front of my eyes. I knew then that I was going to be alright.

So now I kind of understand what all those smug exercise-types have been saying all these years. On those days that I cycle in (and also back home – that’s twice in one day), I feel better. My head is clearer. I can eat a big bagel slathered with peanut butter and know that I EARNED the right to scoff it down. If I’m honest, though, I’m yet to develop thighs of steel or calves of rock, but really, it’s only about 30 minutes in each direction. I’m hardly in training to represent England at the Olympics.

There is an inherent danger involved in all this activity. And I’m not just talking about dodging trucks on the main roads. What I’m referring to, of course, is the risk of arriving at work without some essential piece of grooming equipment. As I just get up and go, to shower and get ready once I’ve arrived at work, it is imperative that I have everything with me to make me presentable for the day.

One morning, I completely forgot to pack any makeup. Not the end of the world, granted, but I’m certainly not ecstatic about passing the entire day at work with a completely blank face. Luckily, I was able to scrounge some eyeliner and mascara from a more organised colleague. Female, naturally, although I did ask the guys too; after all this is the era of “Manscara”. Another morning, I glibly cycled away from my building feeling very free and light. Too light, in fact. I didn’t get too far down the street before I realised that I had left my entire backpack at home. If the alarm bell hadn’t started ting-a-linging in my brain, I would have turned up to work without anything to change into. Without even a work pass or wallet. An oversight not only extremely embarrassing, but really quite smelly.

And one morning, a couple of weeks ago, the inevitable did happen. I somehow forgot to bring a work top. I had a skirt, and tights, and shoes, and makeup and even a nice pair of earrings. But the jumper I thought I had put into my bag? Somehow it managed to jump back out before I left the house. I had to slink into the nearest Zara wearing my work clothes topped with a sweaty tracksuit top, and nonchalently buy a shirt to wear for the day. The shop assistants didn’t even blink when I came out of the change room and asked to just purchase the top I was wearing. A friend later pointed out that girls coming in to buy a new top first thing in the morning is probably not an uncommon occurance. And not for the innocent reason I was doing so.

I didn’t feel like I had to justify myself at the time, but now I wish I had said something like, “Oh silly me, I completely forgot to put a jumper in my bag when I packed this morning before cycling in this morning FROM MY OWN HOME.”

On Hand Throwing and Moustaches

I’m here to regale you with a legend. A story, if you will. A tale of how a city came by its name.

In the beginning, there was a guy. There was also a dragon, and some slaying. There may, in fact, have even been a second guy. I think he was a manly man. Or something. Anyway, a hand fell off. Or, maybe it was chopped off. And then…it was thrown into the river. Do you follow? No? Let me clarify.

Hand=Hant. Werpen=Thrown. In Flemish. Or Dutch. Whichever is the correct term to use. And that, my friends, is a concise – if somewhat garbled – history lesson on how (Hantwerpen) Antwerp came by it’s name.

You’re most welcome.

On the weekend, I visited Antwerp. And it’s an absolutely gorgeous place. Kind of like Amsterdam without the whacky-backy and minus some canals. But the feel. And the buildings. And the funky Antwerpians on their old-fashioned bicycles. It was definintely Europe and I really do love Europe a whole lot.

I was visiting my friend who lives there, so I not only had a day or so of tourist wanderings and photo opportunities, I also had the fun and debauchery of a birthday party Belgian-style. As a representative of all things English/Australian/Irish, I am pleased to report that I made you all proud. The bruise that is actually BIGGER than my leg is a clear indication that I was not an embarrassment to myself. I certainly did not fall over. I know this because I don’t remember falling over. And if I don’t remember it, then it probably didn’t happen. Although, by that logic, most of the party wouldn’t have happened, because I don’t remember a great deal of that.

I should not be allowed anywhere near a well-stocked bar.

Also, the Flemish language has officially become one of my favourites. It sounds so pretty. Full of long, drawn out vowels, sibilant whispers and a sort of burbly sound in the back of the throat. I couldn’t understand a word, but boy did I enjoy listening to it. Mostly, though, everyone spoke English when I was around, which was very nice of them. I did learn one word (which of course I’ve got completely wrong) but as I remember it the word is “schlor”. Which means moustache. This cropped up quite a lot on Saturday and Sunday, as most partygoers and post-party goers (c’mon, you KNOW that drinking is the best cure for a hangover) sported a fetching pencil-drawn moustache. No-one escaped. Women as well as men. But we all wore our schlors with good grace. Who wouldn’t enjoy a bespoke hand-drawn moustache?

Mechanics of the Universe

The universe. So huge. So awe-inspiring. So kick-ass.

A couple of days ago, I posted these risky words, words that I have come to richly regret:

‘The Rover has had a moment or two of pique, requiring a new battery and TWO new tyres. Aside from that, however, it’s been running fine.’

Guess what happened. Just one guess allowed. I’m waiting…giving you a few moments to weigh up your options…work out the statistical probabilities. OK, time’s up. What did you guess? That the Rover stopped working just fine? Well done! Good guess.

Score: Universe – 1; Cathy – 0.

You see, what happened was that a couple of weeks ago – while filling up at the petrol station – the Rover decided to have a bit of a hissy fit. I turned the key to start the engine, and the engine replied with an unfamiliar ‘waa-waa-waa’ sound. I don’t speak Car very well, but I quickly worked out that the sound, coupled with a lack of engine turning-overness, was most definitely a problem. Ignoring the petrol station man who was gesturing at me to stop talking on my mobile phone, I called for help from the AA. No, that’s not the AA you might be thinking of (how would they help get my car moving? Give it a group hug?) but the other AA acronym folk – the Automobile Association, who are in the business of unbreaking your breakdown. Which, when put that why, kind of also describes the other AA.

Truly, these guys are great. They turned up promptly. They pushed my car to a corner of the petrol station that wasn’t quite so in the way.

(Incidentally, the same station attendant who tried to tell me off for calling for help on my mobile phone also helpfully suggested that I push my car away from the front of the pump whilst waiting for the help to arrive. That’s right. He thought I should (or could) push a car. My initial response was to laugh because – surely – he had to be kidding. He wasn’t kidding.  I turned the laugh into the best withering stare I could muster. The situation being what it was, the best I could muster was approaching – if not reaching – a personal best for derision and general fuck-offness. He wilted, mumbled something in the way of an apology, and shuffled away back to his post. Idiot.)

Anyway, Mr AA and his sidekick played with the Rover’s mechanical parts for a little while, the Rover seemed to enjoy the attention and I was once again mistress of my mobile metal box. The Rover love tickles did not come free – I had to buy a new battery – but as the transaction was done with a smile and lots of banter, it made the financial pain less acute. They then explained to me that the battery was only one part of the problem, that something called an ‘alternator’ would need to be looked at by a mechanic.

I nodded my understanding. And went into procrastination standby for two weeks.

I have a sort of fear of mechanics. Not a fear exactly – that’s a bit strong really – more like an acute ambivalence. I didn’t want to have to run around grotty car yards, be subjected to leers and possibly wolf whistles, while a fat geezer covered in fifty types of grease ripped me off in patronising man-gibberish. I tried to pass the task over to Mat – “this is definitely a man-task…I do all the cleaning….who washes your clothes?…etc, etc’“. Mat, however, also isn’t too keen on the whole idea of dealing with mechanics and annoyingly spends a great deal more time at work than I do. We therefore spent the intervening fortnight talking about how we should take the car to a mechanic, without actually managing to take any steps towards actually doing it.

The Rover was not happy about this dithering. Not happy in the slightest.

One evening last week, I got in my car and turned to key. The Rover replied with the – now familiar - ‘waa-waa-waa’ sound. I called on Mr AA once again (now wasn’t that membership fee the best 40 quid I’ve spent in a while?) The guy who turned up this time was possibly even more charming, and looking back on it I think he was flirting with me a little bit. He even offered to drive me home, but being a good girl, I refused the lift in lieu of accepting his first offer to restart my engine.  I did my internet research and carefully, methodically chose a suitable mechanic – the first ones to answer their phone. And you know what? They also turned out to be lovely. The owner of the garage was charming and helpful. The mechanical man was sweet and kind of bumbling. They did the work in a day and kept me informed of the progress, without a hint of patronising man-gibberish . I don’t know if they overcharged, but frankly I don’t care. With smiles and handshakes and harmless chit-chat, all the potential negativity around mechanical failure was transformed into an aura of positivity.

The car starts when we want to drive somewhere, so I’m happy. The Rover spent an entire day having it’s parts tickled by experienced hands, so its happy.

Are you listening universe? All that happiness? That’s your cue.

Fuck. I just lost a month.

How did that happen? Have I been drinking too much wine?

Yes. I may have been drinking a smidgen too much wine. That, however, is no excuse. I have always drunk too much wine, and yet still managed to prolifically update this blog. Every. Single. Week.

This long silence has much to owe to inherent laziness, it is true. However, blame can also be laid at the door of a blossoming, if somewhat torturous, relationship with Photoshop and ‘Lightroom’ – a new-fangled photo sorting catalogue that in the long run will make me work much more productively, but in the short term requires every last synaptic impulse that my brain can produce. Still, excuses are still only excuses. Rest assured that I will give myself a thorough spanking.

Shall we have a quick round up of late September/early October 2008? Oh, alright then.

The Rover has had a moment or two of pique, requiring a new battery and TWO new tyres. Aside from that, however, it’s been running fine. No doubt, that will change in the near future.

I’ve started cycling to work, and have only narrowly missed being hit by a truck on one occasion, and a relatively piffling little car on a different occasion. I have since bought myself a helmet and some lights. The best bit, though, is that I can be pissed off at cyclists when in my car, and furious with cars when riding on my bike. That’s two sets of road rage contained within the same human vessel. Anger genius.

D-I-Y in the F-L-A-T  has lost some momentum as all my money is being sunk into camera lenses, computer software, external hard drives, tripods, camera bags and other endless bits of photographic paraphenalia. Other expenses – of course – have been a battery and new tyres for the Rover. Still, the toilet seat is working admirably.

And finally, I’ve still got a job. Which is a bit of a big deal at the moment, don’t you think? Especially as I work for an investment bank. One that hasn’t gone tits up – obviously -but, still, it makes one feel SLIGHTLY insecure. My financial approach to this ‘credit crunch-recession-actually maybe it’s a depression’ is to pile the purchases up on my credit card. The thinking is that maybe the bank will disappear into the financial quagmire formerly known as the Stock Market, and in all the ensuing chaos, my account will be lost and I won’t ever have to pay the money back. Yes, I know. Financial genius. Feel free to adopt my approach. I won’t charge you a penny.

Drunk in the Bath

So it’s Monday, and it’s my day off. I have been looking forward to today for the past 2 weeks. Today is my first day of being alone, and settled, and ready to do some work. No children housemates. No boxes to sort out. No Ikea to visit, no flatpack furniture to assemble. I have moved into my flat. I have the internet. I have a seat on the toilet, most of my clothes hanging in the wardrobe and exactly two chairs to choose between when I sit at the table. I am finally organised. Kind of. In an ‘-ish’ sort of way.

I also have a post big-weekend type of hangover, the pit of my stomach is all clenched and knotty, and my attitude towards myself and the world at large is mostly a resounding ‘meh!‘. My plans for being productive and all freelancey are slipping through my procrastinatative fingers as, instead of working on my website, or organising photos or joining networks or approaching magazines, I have spent the afternoon reading lots of blogs. Which is fun – granted – but isn’t going to bring in any money. For me. Although it might for those clever folks who have done that thing with ads and links and stuff that I can’t really get my head around. So, good for them. Not so good for me.

We spent the weekend in a lovely place called Bath. It’s pretty famous really, so you’ve probably heard of it. One of Mat’s old school chums went and got himself married, and as the girlfriend of the man who did the reading at the church (that would be Mat), I got invited along. As we are mostly 30-somethings these days, one could reasonably expect our drinking behaviour to be more mature and measured. We probably should have learned restraint by now. We know all too well the price of endless wine-guzzling. Which is why I swapped to G&Ts not long after dinner.

So, yes, we got drunk. Steaming, wobbling, not-quite-vomiting-though, drunk. Which is what weddings are all about, after all. Measured restraint is for occasions like – I don’t know – christenings perhaps? And also those other occasions where it’s not appropriate to drink till you fall. I haven’t been to many occasions like that. It’s a bit of a vague concept for me.

By 2am the reception was winding up, and by 3am we somehow managed to find our way back to the house where we were staying – no mean feat considering we had only arrived late on Friday evening and had – very bad planning, it’s not like we’re inexperienced in these things you know – left our trusty compass at home. Luckily, Bath is not very big and Mat remembered the all important street name. Mat remembering anything was a minor miracle at that point, as once he exited the cab showed himself to be so completely sozzled that he was unable to even walk himself through the front door. I was out of my dress, in my pajamas and about to hop into bed when I realised that my boyfriend was still reeling confusedly in the doorway. I guided him in – as much as I was capable of guiding, and really, I should be proud of us both for not falling over at this point – and then had to physically undress him and try to force-feed him water. He had regressed to a state where he was unable to even untie his shoes. Or take off his trousers. Although he did manage to traipse lots of wet mud into the house, which is one way of saying thank you to friends who let you stay for the weekend.

Sunday, as you can imagine, was one big hangover.

I coped, just about, with the waves of nausea and I hope I managed to not alienate all of Mat’s friends with my monosyllabic brilliance. It came to be time to leave, and as we were just about reconciled with the idea of a three hour drive back to London (which I kindly nominated Mat to undertake), The Rover let us down. (Stop sniggering anti-Roverites). Oh scuppered plans! The Rover was in no state to take us anywhere. He was suffering from a flat tyre on the rear-left wheel. I’m trying to be exact here, so that you can picture it precisely. It’s important to know which tyre we are talking about, otherwise the whole story could veer into the absurd.

A flat tyre is annoying, yes, but should not be crisis-inducing. Unless you are us, in which case a crisis is usually hiding around the nearest corner, excitedly waiting to make its debut.

There is a item on the wheel called a ‘locking nut’. As the name suggests, the ‘locking nut’ is locked, and can only be unscrewed with the aid of a ’special’ key. This ensures that tyre thieves are unable to thieve your tyres. Which is fab – I’m all for making life difficult for car-tyre thieves – but is not so fab if you, the owner, are unable to locate this ’special’ key. Suddenly, the simple process of changing a flat tyre spirals into an actually very much more complicated process indeed. We couldn’t get the wheel off without the ’special’ tool, and the ’special’ tool was nowhere to be found.

We went back to the house. We got on the internet. We made some phonecalls. We engaged in the bravado of assuring each other that there had to be a simple solution – “this sort of thing must happen ALL the time…Ha! Ha! …Etc!…” The news, however, was bleak. We were informed that without said ’special’ tool we were – in a word – screwed. There was talk of chiseling nuts, towing to garages and probably spending hideous amount of money, as well as Mat missing the second Monday of his brand new job as it was a Sunday afternoon and nothing is open in Bath because it is not like London. And so we rang the AA roadside breakdown assistance – of which incidentally, we are not members – but our hosts for the weekend, Jamie and Kay ARE members, and the AA are happy to help out friends of customers. A silver lining!

Now. You know how your computer doesn’t work until you call the IT man over to take a look, and then suddenly it’s just fine? Or you dig around in your handbag for ages, and it’s until you complain that you can’t find your keys (again) that they suddenly fall into your hand? Well…guess what? Our man from the AA arrived, and we set to the task of trying to find the ’special’ key once more. Do you see where this is going? Yes! We found it! How thoroughly embarrassing!

Still, at least our tyre could be changed by a professional. Not that I don’t trust the boys, but it’s just, well comforting, to have things done correctly by the people who make a living doing such things. And, as it turned out, our drama was far from over.

The ‘locking nut’ was finally unlocked. The tyre was removed. The spare was wrestled out of the boot. But, what’s this? Why is the man pausing? Something doesn’t look quite…right. The spare tyre didn’t fit. It wasn’t the correct wheel for our car. The used car salesman who had sold us The Rover had slipped an inappropriate spare into the boot. Who says used car salesmen are dodgy? On the footpath we now had a flat tyre that DID fit the car and an old, not-really-roadworthy but inflated tyre that DIDN’T fit the car. It was quite a conundrum. And fucking annoying.

Anyway, long story short (too late?) – the man inflated the flat tyre, did a check for leaks, and proclaimed it driveable. We hopped onto the Motorway, stopped for a tyre check part of the way back (the tyre was holding) and made it home in time to go straight to bed. And today, the tyre is still fine. So, possibly, the flat tyre was simply some kids having a laugh by letting our tyre down. Can’t you see how funny that prank can be? Yes, I’m chuckling here as I think over it. Comic genius.

Still, at least we now know all about the ’special’ nut and the corresponding ’special’ key, as well as having the comforting knowledge of a useless spare in the boot. I should have sourced a new wheel today, but basically, I just couldn’t be bothered.

Hold on to your (toilet) seat, life is getting interesting.

Internet connection has resumed. Life can return to normal. Thank fug for that.

As I briefly mentioned, Mat and I have moved into my flat. The ‘my’ in this context means that this is a flat that I actually own (apart from the small matter of a mortgage, but let’s not get too pedantic). I bought it a couple of years ago when I had a lump of money sitting in my bank account (how did that happen?), and since that time I have been renting it out. So, when we moved in here a couple of weeks ago, it was the first time I’ve ever actually lived in a space that I’m not renting from someone else. It’s a grownup feeling, let me tell you. Even if it is a long, long way from being my dream home – and I say that both literally and metaphorically. I have a recycling plant on my doorstep now, rather than glimpses of the Pacific Ocean. Still, let’s be positive here. The glorious Thames is only a 10 minute bike-ride away. A water feature is a water feature, right?

This little flat is my hope for getting back to Australia. Next year, if I can sell it, it should give me enough money to get back to Oz comfortably, rather than having to slink in pleading and penniless. Of course, with all the mumblings and rumblings about a recession and crashing house market, well…my plan may come slightly unstuck. In the meanwhile, I need to do whatever I can to get this place updated. It’s pretty crappy right now, and so this year I will put on a new cap and reinvent myself as Lil’ Miss DIY. Be prepared for boring stories of revamping the kitchen, and the relative merits of bath vs shower in a London-sized bathroom.

In fact, it has begun. Yesterday, I bought a new toilet seat. I even worked out how to attach it to the toilet. All by myself. It took me a very long time to unravel the logic of how to achieve this, but I did prevail. If anyone out there needs a toilet seat attaching to the throne of their abode, I am the woman for the job. I am now an experienced toilet seat fitter. Although, I probably should mention that the seat doesn’t quite fit the bowl properly. Apparently, they come in different sizes. Did you know that? I didn’t know that. I doubt the shop’s return policy includes toilet seats though, so the slightly small seat is going to stay.

There you go. DIY story number one. Be sure to stay tuned.

Oh, my travelling me, it’s a big change from riding around on the backs of camels, and haggling furiously over 50p scarves. I think I miss India.

Disconnected in the modern world.

Hello! Yes, I’m still here.

This longer than usual silence (and I know, I know, I can be rather sporadic at the best of times) is due to a recent change of abode. I moved into my new flat. Exciting times, no? It would be much more exciting however, if I hadn’t been sitting surrounded by unpacked boxes in an oasis of internetlessness, bobbing alone and scared in a sea of password-secure wireless networks. When did everyone get so goddamn smart and IT literate? I should be surfing on the waves of number 15’s stupidity.

I moved a week ago, and so surely, it should all be up and running by now. Shouldn’t it? May I remind you though, that I live in England - hub of imperial power, seat of the global economy and, most recently, winner of pounds of Olympic gold. With such a glowing CV, one would think that getting connected to the modern world of phone and internetics should be a swift, efficient and painless process. 

Well, let me tell it how it is. Firstly, wade through the quaqmire of British Telecom monopoly and new provider mayhem to work out exactly what you can or can’t sign up to. Then, spend umpteen hours on the phone, flitting through menu options and trying not to scream and throw your phone against the wall as you try to get through to an actual human being who may be able to give you a faint glimmer of understanding. Then, hand over bank account details and promises to pay lots of money in advance to be given the privilege of sitting at home for “5-10 working days, luv” without any internet at all and no written contract. Just the mumbled promises of a bored and overworked call centre employee. 

Currently, I’m at about day 5. I am holding it together for now. Just.