Dreams overheard

Little boy: I don't have to do what I'm told. I do what I want.
Dad: Nah, that's never gonna happen. Good dream though, kid. Good dream.

Out of the mouths of babes

Little boy on train: You have purple hair.
Me : I know. Do you like it?
Little boy: No.
Little girl: I do.
Me: Aw, thank you.
Little girl: You look like a my little pony.

Things that make me smile no.92

There's a crow who frequents the roof overlooked by my office window. He struts around like a tiny swaggering bravo in feathered bloomers, bending to peer under the rim of every duct and pipe in search of insect snacks. He never seems to find any.

Norovirus update - day 2 (you may think you don't care, but you're wrong)

Last night I set up a nest of duvets in the bath but, by the early hours of the morning, was too weak and exhausted to climb into the bath, so spent another night curled up on the floor. At one point I did manage to drift off to sleep, only for the cat to viciously attack my right foot. Said foot is now covered in little stinging puncture wounds. I hope she catches norovirus. Actually no, I don't, I'd only have to clean up after her.

A couple of hours ago I managed to keep down (for almost 15 minutes!) several sips of gatorade and a nibble of ryvita and, with the resulting energy, ran a cable into the bathroom so I could use my laptop in my nest, and bled the radiator so I don't freeze to death in here. It would have been very butch if I hadn't had to crawl.

Norovirus update (because I know you're all fascinated)

Today I have consumed half a glass of gatorade and two whole sips of miso soup (mistake). I have at no point spent more than 30 consecutive minutes out of the bathroom, and have strained something that feels fairly important in the rib region, through my body's attempts to orally expel its entire digestive system. There are no signs of this letting up.

Happy 2013

A little late, I know. Most of you will be aware that I'm neglecting you now, not because of another fit of the depression that hit me earlier this year, but because I am working on a novel. This basically means that any time or inclination I have to write is being channelled in that direction. Today, however, I have been struck down by the dreaded norovirus, and am therefore at home on my own; pain-ridden and (let's face it) pretty damn disgusting. I don't have either the brain power or the time between bouts of vomiting to get into the book writing, but seem to be managing to blog in the short spells available to me. You'll have to forgive me any lapses in spelling or style. I'm not really with it, but I thought I should at least do my yearly round-up of achievements from my bucket list before it gets so late in the year as to be pointless.

So here goes!

26. Smash a plate on purpose
I'd envisioned this as a Greek taverna event, or even just a cheeky lob for the fun of it. In actuality it was done in a fit of temper, and I didn't even realise until I scanned the list a few minutes ago that I had inadvertently ticked something off. Let's gloss over the details. It wasn't my finest moment.

46. Give a dinner party
My flatmate and I planned a Christmas dinner a few weeks before the event, for a couple of handfuls of friends. Unfortunately, she missed her flight home, was delayed by several hours and I ended up cleaning the flat and cooking Xmas dinner with all the trimmings for nine people, entirely solo. Were I less inept, this might not have been a problem, but I somehow managed to mildly electrocute myself and start a small tea-towel-based fire during the process. The food was a triumph though, and I got to delegate the washing up to D under the category of penance, so every cloud......

53. Have afternoon tea at the Ritz
Not the Ritz, in fact, but at Brown's Hotel, which is generally considered to be better. My mother took me out as my birthday treat, and it was perfectly relaxed and lovely.

Three down. That's not too bad. I am running out of 'easy' ones, but hopefully it'll still be a few years before I have to start putting in a concerted effort.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and expel the sip of gatorade I just managed to drink. Ta ta for now.

What a drag

Last night I went to a friend's stag party so, naturally, I dragged up and affixed a fairly realistic handlebar moustache to my face with liberal quantities of eyelash glue. Now, I walk around the streets of London in all kinds of fancy dress outfits, so I'm used to getting odd looks, but no previous ensemble has ever attracted as much attention as this simple tweeded, pinstriped, facial-haired combo. So many people stared at me; some of them with genuine looks of alarm or distaste. A nutjob preacher outside Oxford Circus tube station screamed out that I was going to Hell. Most unnerving though, were the ones who tried to pretend not to look, while their eyes surreptitiously flicked over me. You could see the thought processes as they looked from the men's clothes to the long hair, to the moustache, to the figure and tried to work out whether I was male or female, or en-route from one to the other. It actually made me quite uncomfortable, and gave me a strong feeling of sympathy for trans people, who must attract this blatant assessment of their appearance on a regular basis.

Then this afternoon as I was coming home, still in the chap outfit but sans soup strainer, a smiling old man put out his hand to stop me as I passed.
"I saw you yesterday. Where's your moustache?" he asked.
"Oh, I took it off" I replied, "It was itchy".
"I'm Samir. I see you a lot. You're very different, aren't you?"
"I guess so", I answered, starting to feel slightly uneasy.
"I like it. And you walk with such confidence. Me and my wife, you make us smile when we see you. I lift my hat to you. Bless you."

And with that he shook my hand and was gone. I know my mad-magnet causes me a fair bit of hassle, but I think the times when it pulls in the lovely crazy people more than make up for the bad ones. I don't mind if street preachers think I'm going to burn for all eternity, so long as Samir and his missus are getting a kick out of the strange girl with all the outfits.

You've been swell, but I'm not getting married

Most nights I go to bed with a song in my head - 'Not Getting Married' from Stephen Sondheim's Company, in case you're interested. It's not a song I'm particularly familiar with. I only know a handful of the words, and I don't even like it very much. And yet, almost every night, it plays over and over in my mind.

Last night I finally realised why. The last thing I do before I switch off the light is check my emails and Facebook  just to make sure the internet has nothing fascinating to share with me before I turn in. Then I turn off my laptop. I can't believe it took me until last night to realise that the two little bing-bong notes it plays as it turns off are the first two notes of that song. And now a question for the tech-heads - Can I stop it playing a sound when it goes to sleep? Or even switch those notes for better ones? Sondheim is not restful.

Confusion

The last couple of months have been full of some fairly dramatic highs and lows. First a holiday, which was great but left me with some rather burning questions about my life and my attitude to myself. Then, on the last day of that holiday, I shattered my coccyx into a million pieces, leaving me housebound for the best part of a month, which is way too much time to spend dwelling on such questions. Just days after my return to work, and with only a couple more days until my birthday, I lost my grandfather, then felt horribly guilty for being able to enjoy what was a really wonderful birthday despite my bereavement. Top all that off with another intense trip to Burning Man, and the eternal disappointment of coming back down to earth afterwards and, honestly, I just don't know where I stand right now. I think the overwhelming impression I'm left with from the last couple of months is that there are a lot of people out there doing some really amazing things with their lives, regardless of what anybody else has to say about that. Also that life is just too fucking short to be spent doing things that don't make you happy.

I need to make some changes, but I don't know which or how. There are little things: I want to learn some kind of hands-on skill that'll make me useful to my camp at Burning Man, like carpentry or metalwork. I want to learn a new language. Being impressionable and, yes, ever so slightly mad, I want to take lessons in everything from circus skills to taxidermy. Unfortunately, the problem with learning new things is that you usually have to pay someone to teach you, and I can't. And then there's the big stuff. The eternal balancing acts between security and risk, the humdrum and the exciting. Do I continue to plod along in the same safe, ordinary manner forever, or do I put myself out there and take a risk which, knowing my built-in bad luck, would probably end in disaster, but which maybe, just maybe, in my most unlikely and most cherished hopes, could be my greatest triumph?

I'm rambling, I know. I did say I was confused. Turmoil is the order of the day. I'll shut up now.

Introducing......Mad Corgi Lady

Mad Corgi Lady is my downstairs next-door-neighbour. She is generally to be found in her garden, chatting loudly to her two corgis, Winnie and Teddy. Unlike my upstairs next-door-neighbour, Mad Shouty Man, who is also loud and often wakes me up at 3am by screaming at the apologetic and surprisingly patient man who may be either his son or his carer, she is quite likeable. She dispenses much wisdom unto her canine companions and I, by dint of being within hearing range (i.e. less than a mile away), feel I am also benefiting greatly.

Here are a few things I have learned to date:

• If you have a rash, you need to go to the doctor and get a ointment. Unless you're a dog. Dogs never get rashes but, when they do, they go to vets.
• The plural of egg is heggs. One egg, many heggs. The aitch is proper only she can't remember why.
• When you've been boiling vegetables you should put the used water onto the garden, as it's very good for the plants. Not potato water though. It's too starchy. Next time she'll boil the parsnips separately from the potatoes so she can put parsnip water on the roses. Roses like parsnip water.

I'm a little saddened that my education is likely to be called to a halt over the Winter, when I assume she will be spending less time in the garden. I must glean as much knowledge as I can while Summer lasts.