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.

In loving memory

This week I received the call informing me that my Grandad had passed away, after a long illness. I'm told that, contrary to the last, he died on the stroke of midnight, leading to confusion over which date should go on the certificate.

He was......well, I suppose he was a pretty ordinary man really. The history books won't be writing about him. He was, however, everything you could possibly want from a grandfather, and I adored him.

He kept bees on his allotment, and let me turn the handle on the big spinning drum thing he used to get the honey out of the combs. He held back the world's most vicious cat so that I could put food in her bowl without losing an arm. He fixed up a bike from a car-boot sale for me and timed races, always encouraging me to go faster, because why shouldn't I do anything the boys did and beat them at it? He taught me to patch a punctured tyre. He opened the cupboard in the room I slept in at their house, to prove there wasn't a monster living in there.

Once I reached adulthood, he was always the one who told me to take no notice when people were getting at me. He was the reason I stuck out my degree studies when they felt like more than I could handle, because he wanted so badly to put up my graduation photo with the others, and disappointing him was somehow worse than disappointing everybody else. He was the first person in my recollection to ever tell me they were proud of me.

He was a man who worked hard all his life to care for his family, and to give them the opportunities he didn't have, and he meant so much to all of us. I'm going to miss him - probably even more than I realise right now, when it hasn't fully sunk in yet - but I'm glad he's not in pain any more. He deserves a rest.

Rest in peace, Grandad. I love you.

Happy Birthday to me

Being woken on my birthday by a 7am call from my brother = bad.
Being woken on my birthday by a 7am call from my brother, so my 3 year old nieces can sing Happy Birthday to me down the phone = totally worth waking up for!

Washing Machine Repair for Dummies with Back Injuries

Chapter one - things to remember

• Righty tighty, lefty loosey.
• Your back is injured.

Chapter two - shit not to do

• The Internet will suggest pulling out and tipping the machine. Do not attempt this.
• Do not pull the cap off the drainage hose with your teeth.
• Do not underestimate the volume of water the machine contains or the stagnant rankness of it when you subsequently get a mouthful.
• Do not overestimate a) the capacity of a dish or b) the absorbency of a towel.
• Do not ever leave a draining washing machine unattended (see above).
• Do not assume the cat will not attempt to drink filthy filter water even though her water bowl is mere inches away.

Chapter three - things you will find in the filter

• Fluff
• Playa dust
• Diamantes
• Lollipop stick
• Glowstick connectors
• Donkey finger puppet

Chapter four - post-draining

• Return clean filter to position (with difficulty).
• Switch on machine.
• Discover machine still doesn't work.
• Cry.
• Desert feminism and wish you had a boyfriend or butch girlfriend to fix this for you.
• Give up and pour a gin.

*UPDATE*

Chapter five - twenty minutes later

• Return to machine and press 'on' again in the vain hope that it will have miraculously fixed itself.
• Discover miracles really do happen!
• Pour another gin.

Cushioning the blow

I'm hoping to be back at work next week. I'm going crazy sitting around on my own all day, so I'm determined to return to normal life, rather than having my sick note extended. Unfortunately I'm still in rather a lot of pain so, to ease the transition back to sitting on a broken bone for eight hours straight, I have purchased a coccyx cushion. This is basically just a big, square pad with a hole cut out of the back where your tailbone goes. Sadly, it bears an unfortunate resemblance (i.e. is identical) to a pile cushion. I'm feeling a vague urge to embroider 'I do not have haemorrhoids' on it. If only I knew how to embroider.

Things that make me smile no.91

The broken coccyx is a big cloud at the moment, but the silver lining is how my friends have rallied round me while I've been out of action. I've had calls, emails and texts every day to check up on me or to offer assistance, and a surprising number of people have come over to keep me company. It's touching to know I have such a great support network.

I'm still here

I haven't disappeared again, I promise. It's just that I've been signed off work for a while with this whole broken coccyx thing, so I'm stuck at home all day. Nothing happens here, so I have nothing to write about. Although, I did get a fabulous delivery today. The Chameleon sent it to cheer me up.

 Good huh?

Actually, while we're on the topic of deliveries, my grocery shop came today. I ordered six loose yoghurts because they were on offer. One of them was unavailable, so they gave me a six-pack which contained that flavour.....plus the five loose yoghurts I originally ordered. Why not just replace the unavailable flavour with another flavour? Now I have eleven yoghurts. Nobody can eat that much yoghurt!!!!!

Oh, I really need to get back out into the world. I'm clearly going stir crazy if I'm utilising multiple exclamation marks just to bemoan a yoghurt glut.

Really?

Inappropriate Pharmacist: That's a lot of painkillers. What have you done to yourself?
Me: I fractured my coccyx.
Inappropriate Pharmacist: Ouch! Well [winks], if that little lot doesn't sort it out, come back and we'll kiss it better.

To labour the point

Today I travelled into work on the tube, as usual. Less usually, I was perched bolt upright in my seat, trying to protect my fractured coccyx, and occasionally letting out an involuntary whimper or yelp as I was jolted by the movement of the train. After a couple of stops the woman opposite me leaned across the aisle, put her hand on my knee and said the only thing which could have made me more miserable at that moment in time........."Are you OK? Are you in labour?".

A Taxing Problem

If my broken tailbone and codeine intake allow, I may be making a (probably brief and definitely sober) appearance at a Guilty Pleasures themed party this weekend. Initially I struggled to come up with an outfit, standing as I do by the majority of my dodgy tastes, but then I recollected my taxidermy and fur obsession, which I certainly ought to feel moderately ashamed of, even if I don't to any great degree. In deference to my fellow guests, many of whom are veggie hippy types, and my hostess, an ex-museum curator who is far too knowledgeable regarding the little insect stowaways likely to be residing in my deceased friends to fully enjoy them, I decided to make a vegetarian taxidermy get-up involving faux fur and cuddly toys. Ironically though, it has emerged that, while I am hard-hearted enough to fill my house with dead beasties, I can't quite bring myself to take a pair of scissors to a defenceless toy moose. Poor little fella. I wonder what he'd like for his final meal.

Remember me?

Well, I'm back, hopefully. I'm making no promises of staying, but I'm poking my head around the door and waving tentatively at you. It's a start, no?

To update you, I've had a tricky few months of feeling very low, unworthy and insecure. It's a familiar experience, which in one way is rather sad, but at least means I have the advantage these days of recognising the feelings and seeing them for the illogical brain chemical lies that they are. That makes it a lot easier to cope when it feels like you're sinking.

Things were starting to look up a few weeks back, so I headed off to Nowhere with a pretty sunny outlook. It turned out that I was still more vulnerable than I had realised, and I had a few wobbly moments, but that's inevitable when you go into an environment where you take off all the masks and defences you wear in everyday life and allow people to see the real you, for better or worse.

The week was full of fun of all kinds; from the silliness of fighting off invading pirates, to the honour and pleasure of being asked to say a few words at my friend's wedding. I wouldn't have missed a second of it, wobbles and all!

Actually......I take that back. I would like to have missed the second in Barcelona when I decided it would be a good idea to slide down a giant dragon sculpture. Wheeeeeeeeee.........crunch! I am now in bed with what the doctor confirmed yesterday is a fractured coccyx. All I can do is dose myself with codeine and try to minimise the necessity for expeditions away from the bed by gathering books, food and big jugs of squash unto myself in bulk. Of course, I wouldn't have to do this if the cat would just make me a damn sandwich and bring it to me, but thus far she has steadfastly resisted all attempts to convince her to do so. Selfish little beast.

There are minor delays on the Nutmeg line...we apologise for any inconvenience.

I've been chastised a few times over the last couple of weeks for my failure to post. Sorry kids, but I can't summon up any funny for you right now. If you'd like me to tell you all about the joys of going through a dodgy depressive phase, despite knowing that your life is currently so awesome that it rocks the socks off a fox, then I will certainly do so, but I kind of assume you would rather I kept it light.

Normal service will resume shortly.

It's not just the crazies.....

.......even otherwise normal and pleasant people feel the need to insult me.

Girl: Hi, I'm ******
Me: Oh, we've met. At such-and-such a workshop.
Girl: Oh, well, there were lots of hot people there, so I didn't remember you.

Puppy love

I've been neglecting you, haven't I? Truth is, I've been feeling a little low lately, which always leaves me disinclined to write. I had a particularly draining day yesterday, followed by an anxious night with little sleep, so was in a horrendous mood when I left for work this morning. I really didn't know how I was going to force myself through the day, and wanted nothing more than to just go back to bed and nap it away.

When I took my seat on the tube, a hippyish girl got on and sat next to me. With her was a brindle staffordshire bull terrier, with a withered back leg and a leash made of two knotted together Tesco carrier bags. The girl pulled the dog onto her knee out of the way of the other passengers, and we both took out books. After a while, the staffy re-shuffled herself, yawned hugely and lay down, settling her head into the crook of my elbow. Thinking this was rather sweet, I said "Hallo puppy" and applied a tickling thumb to the back of her ear. The next thing I knew she had vaulted the armrest, and I had a lap full of large, adoring dog giving my face a tongue bath more enthusiastic than it was effective or hygenic. Her owner seemed remarkably unperturbed, but then I was laughing my head off, so it must have been pretty clear that I was neither upset nor scared by the incident. In fact, it cheered me up no end. I enjoyed doggy snuggles for another couple of stops, until we all got off the train, and continued my journey feeling more relaxed and at ease than I have in many days.

Thanks puppy. I owe you one!

How to feel ignorant

1) Take a Yank to see a typically British play and discover the absence of frame of reference.
2) Confuse yourself and her, attempting to explain Restoration Comedy and the origins of panto, despite your English Lit graduate credentials.
3) Buy her another glass of wine to stop her asking questions, and leave it to google to educate her.

Heaven is a place on Earth

I have a soft spot for independent bookshops. Particularly the kind of second-hand bookshop I found just five minutes from my new office. It's a classic. There is no discernible criteria for organising the books, and you stir up vast clouds of dust when you attempt to extract anything. I felt mildly sorry for the scowling shop owner when I took my purchases to the counter. My manic grin and chirpy comments must have grated on his nerves something rotten, but I thought I might sound like a lunatic if I attempted to explain that even his surly demeanour just added to the excitement of my discovery.

I limited myself to three books, rather than the armfuls I wanted, on the basis that I would have to carry them home, but I will be back. I have to study the set-up for my retirement plan. I'm going to have just such a shop, where I will sit behind the till all day with a g&t. Ostensibly I will be working on my own novel, but really spending the bulk of my time glaring resentfully at customers, while a fat, ugly cat sprawls on a cushion on the counter. Obviously I will need to be stinking rich already, because there is no way such a business is going to support me in my old age.

Advance warning - anyone who so much as mentions the word 'Kindle' in my shop will be conked over the head with a cheap hardback, and the body stashed behind the rack of ordnance survey maps.

When you wish the ground would swallow you up

Today I walked into the little shop around the corner from work, merrily chatting away to my friend, who was close behind me. "Where would they put the tampons....hmm.....I don't think they sell tampons here.....oh well......I have one in my bag, that'll do until I get home". Then I turned round to my friend, only to discover that she had, in fact, opted to wait for me outside, and that the girl behind me was a complete stranger, smiling awkwardly as I wittered away about feminine hygiene products.

Injuries for Guardian readers

I just cut myself while peeling a celeriac. Could I be a)more clumsy? or b)more middle-class?

Squawk!

The other day, as I sleepily ascended the escalator at Victoria tube station, I spied a man coming the opposite way with a toy parrot on his shoulder. "Delightful" I thought. "How cheering, first thing in the morning". The very real parrot then opened its wings for a good long stretch, and squawked loudly before settling back down onto its owner's shoulder. I doesn't get much more cheering than that.

This is where I talk about underwear

A while ago I bought some underwear from a certain department store, renowned for reliable examples of such items. When putting my purchases in my bag, the sales lady somehow managed to add a multipack of knickers, several sizes too small for me. On discovering this when I got home, I chucked them to the back of a drawer, intending to pass them on to a slimmer friend at some point. I never got around to this but, yesterday, finding myself very behind on laundry and entirely sans knickers, I decided that too-small pants were a better option than a) no pants, or b) dirty pants. This turned out to be an error of judgement which would lead to me spending the day squirming in my seat as unforgiving, size ten elastic cut into my size sixteen flesh. I confided my discomfort to a colleague/friend, but sadly never quite found the time to take up her suggestion and smuggle a pair of scissors to the ladies to make some swift tailoring alterations. Even more sadly, I still haven't had time to put any washing on, so will most likely be forced to fish out another pair tomorrow. Sad times.

Things that make me smile no.90

I just did a rapid sidestep to avoid treading in a dog turd on the pavement, then was startled to see it move. Being the kindly soul that I am, I picked it up and gently tipped it onto someone's front lawn. It hopped off happily into a bush like the frog that it was.

Two mad magnets don't make a right.

I got out of work a little early on Friday, which led to me spending a half hour or so waiting at the pub for J to finish up in the office. Now, I know my last few posts have all been about my encounters with crazy people, and I should probably vary my subject matter, but I do just have to mention the elderly American Sikh man in a suit and broken glasses, who spent that entire half hour drunkenly lecturing me. I learned a lot. For instance, did you know that the basic physical law of thermodynamics means there is no such thing as a free lunch? How about that our knowledge of civilisation dates back only as far as the written word but that, as far as we know, neanderthals could have been very culturally advanced, just without a written tradition to prove it to us? Then did you know that the sun is going to die in two billion years, so we should all be devoting our energies to developing space travel? Or that, when we achieve this, the Kalahari tribesmen should be the first settlers on Mars? Incidentally, did you know that the Kalahari tribesmen can discern 50 different tones in language, and have you ever wondered why there are no Kalaharian opera singers? No...me neither.

It's also worth mentioning the three men who interrogated us about our outfits, demanding to know what we were trying to convey with them, the homeless woman who got angry with J because she deemed her cash donation insufficient, the till worker who requested I kiss his cheek so he could have a lipsitck print to match the one on J's cheek, the man who later grabbed J and scrubbed off said lipstick, and the boy who approached me when I got off the bus home to ask which way Tottenham Court Road was. "It's quite far away," I said, "and I'm not sure of the direction". "But isn't this Tottenham?" he replied. "Ah. Yes. That's really not the same thing".

Ssssshhhh!

Random pervy men on the street should be forced to check who I'm on the phone to before they make inappropriate comments. The last thing I need is for my Grandma to hear some guy's loud, profanity-laden remarks on the size of my rack.

All the mod cons

Overheard in the pub.....

Old man: They've got everything. Sky, internet, teletext......all that modern stuff.

I need a madmagnetectomy

An inebriated young man got on the bus and sat next to me, despite there being plenty of empty seats. As the journey continued he gradually eased further into my personal space. Eventually I was forced to speak up.

Me: Do you want to stop leaning on me please?
Him: I've had a shit night. I really need some human contact.
Me: What?
Him: And you kind of look like my mum.
Me: O-kaaaay. I'm going to go sit over there.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason I am single.

On Saturday night two men attempted to chat me up. The first was a tiny, creepy man in the pub. He approached me to tell me that he found me really attractive, mostly because I was clearly the kind of girl who would never look twice at a guy like him (I couldn't fault his accuracy), and he found that sort of thing really hot. The second was even creepier. He approached my friend and I while we were in a side street near Trafalgar Square; me, sqauatting in a corner having a crafty wee before getting on the night bus, my friend holding out her coat to afford me some modicum of modesty. We sent him on his way, that not being a moment at which one is particularly inclined to have an in depth conversation with a stranger, but he followed us back to the main road, seemingly with the sole purpose of telling us we were beautiful. Perhaps he had more to say but, as we told him (nice and clearly so it sunk in) to go away, we will never know.

Things that make me smile no.89

Today I am wearing tights in the brightest of possible bright pinks. As I walked to the station this morning, a man pushing a buggy drew level with me; the angelic-looking little girl in the buggy calling out a repetitive refrain along the lines of “See Daddy? Daddy look! Look Daddy!”. “Sorry” the man said “she likes your tights”. I thought this was pretty sweet, so I thanked her and blew her a kiss. As they pulled ahead of me up the length of the high street, she kept leaning out of the side of the buggy to grin back at me, blowing kisses at me all the way. I caught up with them on the platform, in time to end up on the same train and, as soon as she spotted me across the carriage, she bellowed out over the deafening commuter silence “Look Daddy, there’s my friend!”.

I like making friends.

St Valentine he aint!

A mad old man sitting on a bench in the cold with a can of some dubiously branded beer just yelled at me "You know why you not haulin any flowers? Cos you ugly through and through!". And they say romance is dead!

Bucket update

An anonymous reader has requested an updated copy of the list, so here you go. Completed items are marked with asterisks.

I also remembered while doing this that I went to Amsterdam Pride last year, so I can tick off item 13 as well. Hurrah!

101 Things to do before I die

1. Learn to blow smoke rings
2. Throw a drink over someone
3. See the Aurora Borealis
4. Have dinner at the Fat Duck
5. See a glacier
6. Have my photo taken nude and like the result
7. Finish my book and have it published
8. Give 50 pounds to a busker
9. Go scuba diving
10. *Try an oyster*
11. Become fluent in another language
12. Swim with sharks
13. *Go to a Pride parade*
14. Take a ride in a hot air balloon
15. *Write a script*
16. Learn to drive
17. Skydive
18. Genuinely forgive everyone who has hurt me
19. Learn to juggle
20. *Go to Torture Garden*
21. Volunteer at Burning Man
22. Accept that I will always need to be on medication
23. Read every book listed in ‘1001 books you must read before you die’
24. Learn sign language
25. Own a bath big enough for two
26. Smash a plate on purpose
27. Send a message in a bottle
28. Have a library room in my house
29. Own a snake
30. Stay in the ice hotel
31. *Try caviar*
32. *Ask someone on a date*
33. *Stop having to order enough takeaway that they won’t realize I’m eating alone*
34. *Learn to knit*
35. Fly first class
36. *Start a blog*
37. Go a year without forgetting a single friend/relative’s birthday
38. Live in another country for a year
39. Learn to salsa
40. *Get a degree*
41. Get a masters degree
42. Get a doctorate
43. Adopt a child
44. Make jam
45. Visit the pyramids
46. Give a dinner party
47. Go white water rafting
48. Learn to cry on cue
49. Have a food fight
50. Be debt free
51. See a manatee
52. Go into space (and take my dad with me)
53. Have afternoon tea at the Ritz
54. Work in a job that I love
55. Hold a koala
56. Learn how to take a compliment
57. Go skiing
58. Spend 24 hours solid in a pub
59. Go to the Galapagos islands
60. Mudlark on the banks of the Thames at low tide
61. *Get a massage*
62. *Own a stuffed animal (taxidermy, not a teddy)*
63. Go to Mardi Gras
64. Take singing lessons
65. Go to a shop and try on wedding dresses a la Muriel
66. Learn to spin fire poi
67. Celebrate the Day of the Dead in Mexico
68. Change somebody’s life for the better
69. Hitchhike
70. Think up some really great last words
71. Learn to play poker
72. Go to an airport and get on the next available flight, regardless of destination
73. Stand on the equator
74. Swim with bioluminescent plankton in Puerto Rico
75. Take a holiday on a canal boat with friends
76. Have enough cats to cross the line from ‘cat-lover’ to ‘crazy cat lady’
77. Find the perfect bra
78. Visit the Sistine chapel
79. Do a cartwheel
80. Give somebody flowers for no reason
81. Go to Iceland
82. Learn to ride a motorbike
83. *Be kissed under mistletoe*
84. Become a regular in a pub and have a ‘usual’
85. Learn the proper use of English grammar
86. Deliver a crushing comeback when insulted instead of gaping in disbelief like a stunned trout
87. Write a love letter
88. See penguins in the wild
89. Run (or more likely walk) the London marathon
90. Take a picture every day for a year
91. Go to Glastonbury festival
92. Take horse riding lessons
93. Organise a grown-up sleepover
94. Put on pyjamas, get into a show bed in a shop and see how long it takes to get chucked out
95. Busk
96. Travel on the Orient Express
97. Live independently for a whole year
98. Couchsurf
99. Get my affairs in order
100. Write my will
101. Watch out for that…! Too late.

Fewer things to do

Last year, when the year turned, I did an update on my bucket list. I forgot to do so this January, so here it is. My accomplishments from 2011......

32. Ask someone on a date - A massive achievement. Nothing much came of it, as there was never a second date, but still! Well done me for plucking up the courage to risk rejection.

33. Stop having to order enough takeaway that they won’t realize I’m eating alone - This was one of my most ridiculous foibles, and I'm glad to be rid of it. I mean really, why would any restaraunt or delivery driver care? So long as they get paid for the food, the sociability of the diner is utterly irrelevent.

62. Own a stuffed animal (taxidermy, not a teddy) - I never did show you a picture of Earl, did I?

He was a house-warming present when I moved into the Wonky Flat™, and is one of my all-time favourite possessions ever. It's clear that he's had a bit of a hard life, having lost an ear in some long-past battle (probably over a lady squirrel), so it makes me happy that he gets to spend the remainder of his days being cared for by someone who truly appreciates his charm.

I think that's it for the year! I'm working my way through, slowly but surely.

Sometimes......

Sometimes something lands on your head.

Sometimes it's a raindrop.

Sometimes it's pigeon poo.

And sometimes you just have to turn to your friends and say "There's a moth on my head, isn't there?".

Ticket lottery blues

This week saw the draw for the new Burning Man ticket lottery and, I think it's safe to say, it was not a success. I have heard estimates that say 1/3 of people got the tickets they requested, but I suspect it's lower than that. I know many dozens of people who applied and, at last count, I'm only aware of six who got tickets. Many theme camps and projects are concerned that they will not be able to attend the event. Alongside that is the fact that this new process was supposed to discourage scalpers, but there are already numerous overpriced tickets on various resale websites.

Now, I'm not a ticketing or event management expert, and offered no advice to BMorg on the system prior to its inception, so I don't have the kind of anger and frustration endemic to those who attempted to tell them that this would happen. I can understand why they feel that way though, and I myself have expressed my bitter disappointment at not being among the chosen few. None of this surprises me. What has surprised me is the response of others to that disappointment and anger. We have been told we are whingers, we are self-entitled, we need to grow up. And all this by people I consider to be reasonable adults and, sometimes, by people I consider to be friends.

What I'm wondering is, when exactly did it become such a bad thing to express negative emotions? If we're disappointed, why should we not say so? If we're hurt or distressed, why is it socially unacceptable for us to cry? I've seen two distinct groups of people expressing similar views this week, in this situation and others. One group is the idealists; those who state that the negativity isn't productive, that we should continue to hope, to believe, to have faith. The other group holds true to the classic stiff-upper-lip philosophy, and encourages us to bottle up our feelings and not let anybody see them, for fear of betraying weakness.

What stuns me about both groups is the lack of honesty. Human beings are not automata, capable of being subjected to any amount of emotional abuse without response. Neither are we happy little pixies, cheerful all the time, immune to any feeling other than joy. To claim otherwise is to lie to ourselves and others. We are subject to a whole range of emotions; some positive, some negative, but none 'good' or 'bad'. It bemuses me that people are so determined to shut down any expression of what they consider to be 'bad' feelings. As one of my friends succinctly put it: "People are talking about how they *feel* about the way they have been treated. You are in no position to take that away from them - feelings are personal, the interpretation of action against one is personal". For myself, I can't help wondering why one person's feelings of disappointment, sadness or hurt are perceived as a weakness in their character, or why, if these feelings are indeed a sign of weakness, they are so threatening to the people around them.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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?