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.

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.

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?

It's so unfair

I now have both internet and TV in the new flat. It's been several weeks without them, so it's nice to be reconnected.

The very efficient engineer who came to set up to these things kept referring to my new tivo box as a him. "He's just updating now, so don't switch him off for an hour or so". I think it was just a language thing, as he wasn't a native English speaker, but I now find myself thinking of the box as a him. He's quite friendly, suggesting things he thinks I might want to watch.

Update......I just tried to put on a recorded program, and he's asking me for a PIN to watch it because it's before 9pm. He's not friendly at all. It was all an act. He's actually an overbearing parent. I don't have a PIN and I don't need one! I'm 27 years old and I just want to watch Hellboy!

On the move

There's been a bit of a break in the blog writing, hasn't there? There are two reasons for this: Burning Man and moving house.Of the two, Burning Man is infinitely more interesting but, simultaneously, infinitely harder to write about. I have this problem every year. It's like trying to explain a purple dinosaur to a colour-blind herpetophobe who's never seen an episode of Barney. As is rapidly becoming traditional, I shall resort to a list of a few 'top bits', in an effort to encapsulate the joy:

• The Carport of Doom. Instead of tents, this year two of my friends and I decked out a huge carport with airbeds (with real pillows!), carpets, a canvas wardrobe and chest of drawers, bedside tables (well, storage boxes) with individual lamps (LED candles) atop! The luxury of being able to, not only stand up, but actually wander around one's abode is not to be sneezed at.
• Wandering through an imminent dust storm looking at art, then being drawn away by calls of "grilled cheese!", and finding ourselves being presented with delicious croque monsieurs and lethally strong vodka cocktails.
• The support and congratulations of my campmates on my first attempts at MCing the cabaret show. I had big shoes to fill, as the person I was standing in for has done this fabulously for years, so I was hugely relieved not to have ruined her pet project.
• Scrawling down some things I needed to let go of onto the walls of the temple, and then watching it burn. I've never attended the temple burn before, as I suspected myself of not having the emotional strength for it. Indeed, it is intense, as thousands sit there in absolute silence and watch their woes, celebrations and dedications to lost loved ones go up in smoke. I cried, of course, but the catharsis and beauty of it is extraordinary. Ooops. I seem to have turned into a hippy..........and I'm back! Sorry about that!
• Discovering my 'power animal' with the aid of a campmate in a traditional shamanic polar bear beanie, with a faux-American accent and a soup pan in lieu of a native drum.
• Standing on the prow of a ship art car in a princess outfit, leaning out into the wind in true figurehead style, then watching the man burn from the deck as my friend yelled touching song lyrics in my ear.
• Lying in a huge, cuddly pile of people on a trampoline, playing leg jenga while trying to explain the 'furry' fetish phenomenon to a campmate who was unwittingly clad in a fuzzy, full-body tiger costume.
• Being able to be there for others in their low moments, and having others be there for me in turn. Sorry, the hippy is back. I can't help it! You realise a lot about yourself and others out that thar desert.
• So many fun days and nights in camp and out and about on the playa. New friendships made and old ones cemented.

Once I came back I had just a week before I moved house. This was not ideal, as it can take longer than that to acclimatise to the real world again even without all the stress of packing and arranging. However, it needed to be done, and so it was. I'm in temporary accommodation now, as there are problems with the lease on the new flat. Fortunately for me, the Chameleon was looking for a lodger, and has kindly installed myself and Molly in her home. I am now, for the first time, living South of the river. I haven't been mugged or stabbed yet, which is excellent progress, and no doubt the practise in avoiding these things will come in handy on my eventual move to Tottenham.

 

On Thursday, with the kind help of my family, my belongings were split between storage and new lodgings in an epic undertaking which only took, oooh, about six hours longer than I expected it to. I also had to go back the following evening for the cat, who had not deigned to be captured the preceding day. This became more of a worry as Friday went on, and she still hadn't been trapped but, at the point when it was looking like I'd have to give up, leave the pub and head to the new home, I got a text instructing me to 'Go go go!', and hopped on a train to fetch her. The journey home, stinking drunk, with cat in basket, was interesting to say the least. I sat and shared a ham and cheese baguette with her, to the evident disgust of the prissy old lady opposite me, and prevented some young lads who were even drunker than me from poking their fingers at her through the bars of the carry case. Luckily the threat of being bitten was enough to scare them off, so I was not forced to resort to the threat of a clip round the ear.

 

The cat is unfortunately proving to be something of an embarrassment in the new home. This morning, as I put on my make up, I was called from my room to look at something, and emerged to find my landlady standing at the bathroom door, gazing in bemusement at the sink, which was inexplicably full of defiant feline. Despite this, I'm settling in well there, and very much enjoy getting to sit down to dinner and a chat with my friend of an evening. I'm also loving my new journey to work, which offers me glorious views of the Thames from the train, along with the sight of an old brick building, into the wall of which are placed lighter coloured bricks spelling out the phrase "Take Courage". It bolsters me nicely for the day ahead!

 

Grrrrrrrrr

I'm feeling a little highly strung at the moment. Those who know me well have probably recognised the signs, and are currently placing bets on whether I will explode or implode. Honestly? It could go either way. Last night I saw that a particularly emotionally-manipulative Hollywood tearjerker was on iplayer, and cried just considering watching it. On the other hand, a man accidentally put his hand over mine on the handrail on the tube this morning, and I snatched it away with an expression worryingly akin to a snarl. Perhaps it would be safest to enforce a standard ten second delay between anyone saying anything to me and me being allowed to respond in any fashion. On the one hand, my blank, mute stare during the waiting period may lead people to believe I've donated a few dozen IQ points to the needy, but, on the other, it may save them from exposure to irrational temper and/or tears. Of course I may reach the conclusion, at the end of the ten seconds, that they genuinely do deserve the sharp edge of my tongue, but then that's nobody's fault but their own.

With any luck the house sale/flat purchase process which is causing all this will be completed soon, I can dispose of this permanent conviction that something will go wrong, and return to my usual state of near-sanity. Fingers crossed!

Flat as a pancake

I had an offer accepted on a flat yesterday. It's a lovely, bright space in an area with only a mild to moderate risk of stabbage. I can't wait to move into it and put my stamp on it. I'm very excited, although I'm trying not to let myself fall head over heels for it, as nothing is certain until the contracts are signed, and I won't feel secure in it until I have the keys in my sweaty little palm. I can't say I'm looking forward to an extended period of anxiety over all the things that could go wrong between now and then. Weeks? Months? How long do these things take? Does anyone have a piece of string?

I'm also stressing about the teeming hordes of things to arrange. How do you sort out energy providers? Remember all the people and companies to call to advise of the address change? Ensure that your belongings are transferred safely to the new flat, rather than ending up in pieces being picked over by scavenging penguins in the Antarctic? Purchase all the multitudes of silly little things a home needs, the price of which add up horrendously when your entire wage disappears on bills and suchlike before you've had it two days? Prevent your Grandma from going so mad at the car boot that your home ends up furnished entirely with the cast-offs of an ninety year old, pigeon-fancying Yorkshireman?

No, I don't know either. I keep having to remind myself that this is a process that everybody finds stressful. It's not just me and my spectacular inability to function on any sort of practical level. This is hard for everyone. Of course, my incompetence is probably the reason that I'm resorting to whimpering and curling into the foetal position rather than actually dealing with any of these questions, so maybe it's time to get organised. First step......write a list.

1) Calm down
2) No really, calm the f**k down
3) Oh for God's sake.......pull yourself together........

Home comforts

I'm still decorating my imaginary flat. I aspire to the sort of home that looks like a cross between a junk shop and a cliched British pub. You know, the kind with 'Ye Olde' in its name. The sort of place where people wander around just looking at all the odd bits and pieces hung on the walls or tucked into nooks and crannies. "A dust trap", my grandma would say, but I'll either be hiring a cleaner, in which case it won't be my problem, or just cultivating the dust. Dust is good for you anyway. It prevents asthma. Admittedly only as you're growing up. If you've already got it, dust will pretty much be the bane of your life, making my imaginary flat a death trap full of wheezing asthmatics groping blindly for inhalers.

Accidental elimination of the airway-challenged aside, I am genuinely in favour of the kind of home where an empty surface is an anathema. Impressed as I am sometimes by houses which look like show homes, they never really feel truly homey to me. I don't want to feel obliged to take off my shoes when I enter, even if I usually do so by choice anyway. Coffee tables are calling out to be a repository for stray magazines and junk, the little gaps in front of books on shelves are surely designed to be filled with trinkets and oddities, and the correct place to put the paraphenalia of bits and pieces one sheds from one's person on getting home is wherever one happens to pause first. For me, a clutter of decoration and belongings is what elevates a space from merely being the place where I live, to being my home. It's comforting to me to be surrounded by that imprint of myself and my fellow residents, rather than perching awkwardly in an over-sanitised room, terrified of putting something down in the wrong place or spilling a drink. I want my home to say something about who I am, even if what it says is "My owner is a slattern, an overgrown child and a hater of asthmatics".