Saturday, 28 January 2012

Fans and peeled grapes

One of my pet hates is waiters who pour your wine for you in restaurants. Last night J and I were in a little South Indian restaraunt, and she was about to refill our glasses when one of the waiters swept in and literally snatched the bottle from her hands. He moved so fast he could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money. As J said, did he think her girly wrists were too weak to lift it? While the food was delicious, we did find the over-attentiveness of the service a little unnerving. They were by no means empty, but there were still no less than four waiters hanging over us, and we could barely manage to get through a mouthful without one of them dashing over to obsequiously ask if everything was ok. By the time we left I half expected the man who sprang to open the door for us to drop a curtsey as we passed.

Thursday, 26 January 2012

Is that a scowl, a frown or a grimace?

Today has been a pisser of a day. One of those days that leave you wondering just how low you need to set the bar in order not to be disappointed.

To start it all off, I emerged from my bedroom this morning to hear distressed mewing from the next room. Yep. You've guessed it. She did it again. Is this some sort of cry for help? If so, then I am decidedly unimpressed. And I've noticed that the kebab shop up the road looks like it could be dodgy enough to take her off my hands. They might even give me a bag of chips for my troubles.

The rescue effort caused me to be late for work, but I quickly wished it had made me even later. Why is it that things never go catastrophically tits up months in advance of a deadline, when I have plenty of time to fix them? Instead, some higher power has deemed that the last minute is the ideal time to throw a few well-chosen spanners into the works, just to keep me on my toes. I don't need to be kept on my toes. I live in a perpetual state of fretfulness and anxiety. If I spent any more time on my toes, I'd have to buy pointe shoes.

To top it all off I tripped over a kerb on the way home, ripped my tights (and my knee) and landed with both hands in a filthy puddle. A man watched this happen and, instead of expressing concern or helping me up, stood there and laughed at me as I knelt on the pavement bleeding and wiping my mucky hands on my ruined tights.

Oh, and I dropped my last sausage in a glass of diet coke. No, I don't know how I managed it either, but if that's not the ultimate postmonition of the day from hell, I don't know what is.

I'm going to bed.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Just how long is that?

There is a range of time that is defined by being longer than a cat is capable of controlling its bladder, but not so long that it is incapable of controlling its bowels. Somewhere within that range is the precise length of time for which Molly was stuck behind a bookcase prior to my getting home.

The case is in a fairly tight alcove, so the only way she can have possibly got behind it is by falling the six feet or so from the top, to end up wedged in the scarce couple of inches between furniture and wall. Unsurprisingly, she was fairly distressed by the predicament in which she found herself, however I didn't feel it was entirely necessary to viciously attack me as I attempted to extricate her. I did not enjoy that.

For the record, I also did not enjoy unloading all the books from the case, wriggling the case out of the alcove, mopping up the puddle of piss behind the case, wriggling the case back into the alcove or getting struck on the shoulder by the heavy wooden pig which I'd forgotten was perched on top of the case.

Does anybody want a cat? Free to a good home, a bad home or a dodgy kebab shop.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

Special report

The cat-induced marble jar crash of 16/01 was one of the most catastrophic events of the last fortnight, and its effects are still being felt to this day. In the aftermath of the tragedy, minute fragments of broken glass were spread throughout the surrounding environs. The likelihood is that the full extent of the damage will not be known for some time but, already, it is becoming clear that there will be tough times ahead. Just yesterday, small slivers were located within a sealed tube of moisturiser, through the high-tech detection method of inadvertently grinding them into my forehead.

Monday, 16 January 2012

Shattered

Ten minutes ago I had a jar full of marbles on my headboard and a cat on my pillow. Now I have neither. What I do have is vast quantities of broken glass, bare feet and a blantantly unapologetic cat playing with marbles under the bed.

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Food glorious food

I'm a bit obsessive about recipe books, restaraunt reviews and food blogs, and I've just come across a website called The Skint Foodie. I'm still browsing, but suspect I'll find a fair few recipes to try out.

The basic premise is that you can eat well, luxuriantly even, on a budget. I discovered when I was utterly impoverished last year (and yes, I'm talking middle-class girl with a home to live in and no dependents impoverished, not single mum feeding a family of four on a pittance impoverished. I'm aware that I don't know I'm born), that I could feed myself for little more than I spent on feeding the cat, and she was living on own-brand crunchies. There was no joy in it, however, and I used to wake up in a cold sweat at night, desperately doing sums in my head to work out if the packet of pasta I'd just bought was going to mean that my electricity direct debit tipped me over my overdraft limit.

When my personal economy became a little more stable, I still had residual guilt about spending too much on food; especially as I was on a three-month preliminary probational period at the new job, and didn't 100% trust I'd make the grade (I'm still there, so I assume I did). This meant I tried to keep my spend down, and I now eat very well and happily on 20-25 quid a week. This can easily rocket though. Some weeks I want to treat myself to a big slab of really good cheese, or it's time to replace the olive oil, and I want to buy a decent one. This occasional extravagance doesn't bother me. I like good food, and I see it as a 'healthy' spend. What does bother me is when my shopping bill shoots up because I've filled my basket with crap: crisps, ready meals, big bags of sweets that I don't even want.

There is something the author of this site says about food and depression: "I can tell you that getting back into the kitchen, laden with fruit, vegetables, a slab of pork belly, a chunk of good cheese and a bag of espresso beans acts as a wonderfully restorative anti-depressant". I agree entirely. I find my eating habits to be such a good indicator of my state of mental health. As long as I'm cooking and eating proper meals, I know I'm fine. When I start popping ready meals or chips in the oven on a regular basis, I'm on my way down a slippery slope which leads to lying on the sofa stuffing my face with snackfood until I feel sick, because eating feels like the only way to alleviate that empty, anxious gnawing in the pit of my stomach, and I'm too overwhelmed with apathy and self-loathing to feed myself properly.

It's been a good few years since I've been that bad but, as someone who has suffered from depression their entire adult life and longer, I think it is important to find ways of loving yourself (yes, haha, you know that's not what I mean) and, for me, as a foodie, one of the best ways of doing this is to sit down to a proper meal, which I've taken time over. That is time devoted to caring for myself. As is the five minutes at the end of the meal, which is devoted to telling myself "You've had enough now. Stop eating". I'm working on that bit!

Monday, 9 January 2012

Bulbous

I have recently been attempting to sprout hyacinth bulbs in a set of bulb vases. Of the three, one is beginning to put out shoots, one has grown mould on its bottom (oo-er!) and the third has fallen through the narrow neck of the vase and sunk. By the official Meat Loaf rating of success (two out of three aint bad), I am deeming this a failure to coax Spring into being.

Thursday, 5 January 2012

Rain rain go away

It's rained fairly emphatically over the last couple of days, and I can't remember which logical spot in the Wonky Flat™ was selected for umbrella storage when I unpacked my belongings. I could just buy a new one, but I resent doing so when I know I own at least three, which will inevitably be rediscovered as soon as I bring home the new addition. In the meantime I will just have to stubbornly continue getting rained on, and avoid wearing white in case my newly orange Jessica Rabbit hair dissolves into my clothing. On the plus side, in seems not even the most torrential of British weather can wash the playa dust from my boots, so I still have that as a reminder of drier times.

Monday, 2 January 2012

Why oh why?

Why do characters in films and on TV always cut their hands? Whenever there is a solemn oath or blood sacrifice to be made, they happily slice into the flesh of their palm, despite knowing full well that they will shortly need full use of this appendage to wield a bow and arrow, wand or suspiciously high-tech ancient vampire killing device. Why not just make the incision somewhere on the arm or leg, where it won't impede your ability to fight?

Sunday, 1 January 2012

Happy 2012

Traditionally, at this time of year, I indulge in a bit of a whinge about my hatred of the whole New Year thing. This is for two reasons. Firstly, I detest New Year's Eve celebrations. They are always over-hyped, over-rated and over-priced. Last night, though, I found myself......well, drunk mostly.......but drunk at a low-stress party with lots of wonderful people. And I enjoyed it!

The second reason I hate the turning of the year is that the culmination of any significant period of time does seem to inspire assessment of the successes and failures encountered during that time, and to highlight current feelings, be they positive or negative. Being of a pessimistic bent, in both cases I tend to err towards the latter option. However, today I am......well ok, hungover, yes.......but also remarkably content. I have spent the day lying on the sofa watching back to back Narnia movies while tending said hangover, and the evening lying on the sofa watching back to back Harry Potter movies and sharing a bag of prawn crackers with the cat. Simple pleasures, but pleasures nonetheless, particularly since I am doing these things in my own cosy, wonky little flat. I haven't quite finished unpacking and arranging yet, but it's starting to feel like home.

Perhaps the best occurence of this year - even better than the new flat - is that I've finally managed to achieve some closure on some recent and long-standing grievances I'd been nursing. I can't begin to explain how good it feels to recognise that the perpetrators of these ills are so breathtakingly irrelevent to me, or to anything or anyone that matters to me, as to render any time spent thinking of them, time wasted. It's amazing how much this has cleared my thoughts and, like skin, sinuses and skies, thoughts are much better when they're clear!

It's nice to look forward to the year ahead and think......maybe it won't be plain sailing. Maybe things will go wrong. Maybe I will hit obstacles which seem insurmountable. But I'm starting in a good place, with a fighting chance of getting through it. Because right now, everything is ok. Just fine. And just fine is not too shabby really, when you come to think of it, is it?