Go-Go-Go

The title describes my last 3 days. I'm exhausted. I've never been so grateful to get to Sunday evening and looking forward to Monday.

Friday
Swimming with Bea. We had to meet a bit earlier because I was due to go to the dentist. That was the theory. The reality was: my internal speed was set to 'slow' and I had to text her to say yet again, I was going to be late.

We got to the swimming pool and it was filled with vintage swimmers and the pool was cold. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against vintage swimmers apart from the fact that they were twice my age and swimming twice as fast as I could manage.  Bea and I agreed we'd do 10 lengths and head for coffee and cake.

I then had to make a dash for the dentist. He's very pleased with the orthodontal work. Nine months has passed and I've probably got another 10 months to go. I can't wait. When the brackets come off I'm treating myself to a thorough clean and a whitening session. Yes, I will have the Hollywood Smile.

Saturday
Boy's furniture, ordered at the end of December was due for delivery 'in the morning'. Now, I don't know about you, but my experience of waiting in for a delivery has usually run along the lines of:

Them: we'll be there in the morning.

Me: what time?

Them: between 8am and 1pm.

Me: can't you be more specific?

Them: no.

Me (ringing at 1.30 to find out where the fuck they'd got to): where are you? How long will you be? I have a life/job/stuff to get on with.

Them: we're right around the corner. Be with you in half an hour.

Me (ringing at 4.30 to find out where the fuck they'd got to): where are you?

Them: no answer.

Me (ringing Customer Services the next day to complain): I lost a days' work because of your scandalous service.

Them: blah, blah, blah. Stop being such a difficult woman.

You get the picture. Anyway, I was fast asleep at 8.05 when my mobile phone rang. It was the Delivery Men. They were half an hour away. I was dressed and told Boy to get his act together when there was a knock at the door at 8.20. By 9 am they'd brought all the furniture in and carried it up the stairs. They drank their hot drinks, we'd had a nice chat and off they went with the remains of one of Boy's defunct bits of furniture. I thought there was going to more flat packing than was actually required. The Boy and his two friends assembled his new bed with little swearing or First Aid.

I'm not good with Chaos. I realised I was being a Stressed Bunny and unnecessarily stressing the teenage contingent with my Cowbaggedness. So I fled to Gee's for a cuppa for an hour. She calmed me down and patted my head.

I then dashed back to make sure I was presentable for my lunch with Z. I had to make sure I looked the part of a Lady wot Lunches (otherwise, she'd never come again). In the midst of me putting on my slap there was the knock at the door. Note to Self: when inviting someone into the bedroom, ensure the pile of laundry is in the laundry basket.

Gee introduced me to The Mulberry not so long ago and I thought it would be the perfect place for lunch. The food is great and reasonably priced. And most importantly, they serve my favourite cider.

Z is fantastic fun. We gossiped, laughed, ate and drank. I can't believe how quickly the time went. Had it not been for my next visitor, The Viking, arriving, I would have insisted she stay for longer. Note to Self: next time, get some appropriate nibbles in for the evening leg of the visit.

The Viking looks great. We haven't seen each other for a couple of years, so there was much to catch up on. We embarked on the world's slowest pub crawl. It took us 5 hours to do 3 establishments. We had a lovely dinner at 103 in the midst of consuming alcohol.

Remaining friends with someone you've been in a relationship with is highly rewarding. There's another human being out there who knows you well, loves you to bits and spending time with them is so easy and more importantly, fun. The friendship after the relationship means to me, that the relationship wasn't a waste of time. The connection endures. It's good.

The Viking went off early this afternoon. I've been feeling very fragile and undermotivated since then. I have 5 piles of laundry to do, and no, I'm not likely to do it now. I will do one load, simply because I think it's only right to wear clean clothes to work. I like people to stand next to me without the need to pinch their noses. But apart from that, I may do my nails, I will definitely indulge in murder and mayhem.

Got Ma New Boots On

Tuesday lunchtime, I belted into the City. I treated myself to some MAC goodies. On the way back to the alternative health care practice, I knew I was running out of time but I still called into House of Fraser in the Chapelfield Mall. Over the weekend, I had a vague look for some black, knee length boots, but nothing really grabbed hold of me.

As they say in Trinidad, 'who tell me do dat?'

I was served by the friendliest shop girl ever. She showed me these:

Well, what can I say? They fit fantastically well. And they look....AWESOME. These Ladies and Gentlemen are taxi shoes. No walking anywhere in these. The best bit? Darlings, these boots were a bargain. End of Season Sale, I had £50 off them. Of course I had to buy them. No question about it.

So, while I was there, I thought I really ought to look at some brown boots while I'm at it. I don't want to keep wearing my walking boots. Cyberpete is a bad influence on me. No more ugly shoes for me. And then I saw these:

Again, they fit surprisingly well. Darlings, these had £40 off. Bargain. My credit card is currently exhausted. It's refusing to talk to me.

I dashed back to work. When I told my Boss what I'd done, he wasn't at all cross I was 5 mins late, he wanted to see! I love the people I work with.

I wore the black boots into work, which was the Financial Services office. There are some disadvantages to working for your Independant Financial Advisor, especially when you've been categorically told to cut down the frivolous spending. However, he was in a good mood and I didn't get the lecture I was expecting.

I will say, wearing these gorgeous boots makes such a difference to me. I've been strutting around: shoulders back, chest out, tummy in. I couldn't wear such fabulous boots and not pay attention to make-up, clothes and accessories. Things I haven't been paying any attention to for many, many months. So, yay me.

MCW - Best Movie shot in Scotland

This is not an accurate historical tale. There are some real bloopers in here (including the myriad of Scottish accents from all over Scotland, when they were all supposed to be from the same village), but it does not detract from the fact it's a good tale, well told.

Yes, it's been Hollywooded. But I can live with that.

Enjoy.

And Happy MCW

Song Titles

For a bit of a laugh (as they say over here, in this part of the world), I thought I would challenge the breadth of your musical knowledge.

How many songs do you know with Jump in the title?

To kick things off, I'm putting this one out here. You can blame the lovely Savannah for reminding me what a completely awesome track this is, and how impossible it is to listen to it without bouncing along.



One song title per comment, no repeats. It would be outstanding if you can do YouTube links.

Come on, how else are you gonna spend Monday?

Comment from Anonymous

I found this in my Blogger spam folder. What can I say, Ladies and Gentlemen, I just had to share.

BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN


Why American men should boycott American women

http://boycottamericanwomen.blogspot.com/


I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don’t know how to cook or clean, don’t want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?


American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.


This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women.


BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN!


Posted by Anonymous to journeying at 10:58 AM

*  *  *

Wow.

Someone's a bit grumpy today.

I visited his blog. I couldn't help myself. I know, I should know better. I'm tired and it's been a long day. But he pushed the wrong fucking button.

What can I say? He's probably ugly. And without a job. And is definitely a misogynist.

I always think the whole gender specific chastity angle a bit worrying. There are all these rampant women running around, dropping their knickers. But riddle me this...who are they dropping their knickers for? Oh, men. Given I've never seen a woman be a slut by herself, I think he's got a slight case of: double standards.

There was the brief temptation to tell him to go fuck himself, but frankly, given the blog content, he's already doing that...and often.

MCW Best Political Thriller

For me, it is Syriana. George Clooney is stunning and by gaining the pounds and facial hair, I was finally able to see what the fuss was all about. The man can really act.

No, this isn't a movie I'll watch again. It's too hard. It requires no imagination, no suspension of belief. Instead it acts as a mirror.

This is what the world has been like.

A Bit of a Re-think

So Ladies and Gentlemen (and Dave), guess what?! It's the end of February. Yep, that's right. We're now two months down in 2011 and another ten to go. How're your resolutions faring? If your answer is 'WTF is she talking about? What resolutions?', I suggest you pour yourself another double, light your fag, sit back and relax. Don't worry, I've got enough energy and bounce for you too.

This is the end of the second month in which I made my resolution to do just one thing: stop thinking about it. (Yes, I know I'm repeating myself, have a little nap, I'll wake you up when there's a new bit) and do it.

In this time, I have started exercising regularly, time and aching muscles permitting. I also stopped smoking (ahead of schedule, that was supposed to be on the agenda for March). How do I feel? Actually, pretty damned amazing. I can't say I feel amazing physically. Looking at my wobbly bits, well, they're still wobbly and despite it all I've actually gained weight and it isn't muscle. Surprisingly enough, I'm losing my morning cough and I can breathe much more easily. I feel great in that I've done what I set out to do. Just doing these things for myself has made such a huge difference to my mood. I realised I can make a difference to me. It's opened up other possibilities as well. If I can do this small thing for me, what else can I achieve when I set my mind to it?

Hmmm....

At the moment, I'm having a bit of a re-think. February was supposed to be about meditation, instead I dealt with V-Day and stopped smoking. This means March is wide open. I could either do meditation, or see what crops up and go with that. Don't know. But that's okay. I've got a huge pile of reading to do in the meantime. I'm doing some research on NLP (Neuro-Linguistic Programming), I'm enjoying what I read and want to learn more.

Reflections on Walking

It was something Zoe said about reverting to child's perception of time, coupled with a conversation I had yesterday with the very kind massage therapist, gave rise to this blog post. I went to see the massage therapist at work, as recommended by my dishy osteopath. He has crunched my bones into submission, now it's time to tackle the knots between my shoulder blades. Apparently, normal people do not feel like they are carrying around a bag of new potatoes in between their shoulders. Who'd have thought eh?

The first thing I really learnt about children with Boy, is contrary to belief, they do not have a short attention span. Oh no. Small children can watch the same dvd to the point where you scream at the Postman Pat soundtrack.

That was just an aside to the point I am eventually getting to.

The massage therapist, asked me if I go on walks.

Oh yeah, she's not a massage therapist in the sense that she plays plinky plink music and has hot towels and a selection of nice smelling oils. She's a massage therapist that wants you to only uncover the bits that hurt, massages all the achy bits firmly until they give in and piss off and you spend your time moving from your back, to side, to other side, to front, so she can best get to the achy bits. Forty-five minutes with her is not a relaxing experience, but my goodness she's really good. I was sent away with orders to drink a litre of water (what nothing in the water?) and to go have a gentle swim today.

Walking, yes, I'm coming to that. Can't you follow this train of thought? Can't keep up? Yes, anyway, she asked me if I go for walks.

Actually, I don't. Certainly not the way she meant.

Walking with a small child broke me of that habit. Small children are fascinated by the world around them. If you let them walk at their own pace, it'll take you an hour to go a hundred yards. They want to check out every crack; after all, it might have something hiding in it. An ant is a busy being to sit back on your haunches to watch. Chewing gum makes such an odd pattern in the pavement. And if you eventually get to the park (well done) there's flowers, weeds and maybe even a sandpit to check out. My job as a parent, was to find things for my Boy to enjoy. I walked with my head down, looking for ladybirds, grasshoppers, mushrooms, curly braken.

And then I did my BA in Creative Writing. Part of my degree involved conceptual art. Conceputal art is not 'pretty' and tends not to involve the natural world for its inspiration. However, it taught me to look around my environment with child-like eyes. It was easy to fall back into the role of mummy, to look for things which are interesting, the metaphors, the juxtapositions, the beauty in the every-day.

The last walk I went on, was with Dave. He had his camera, I wasn't feeling very robust at the time and we ambled. He got some cracking shots of dragonflies.

I'm not able to walk at a healthy, heart-raising pace. Head in the air, ignoring my world and the other people there. When I was little and went to spend time with my Gran, in the late afternoons, after we had tea, I'd have been bathed and changed into something pretty. We would go out for a walk. It was a stroll, a promenade if you will. Her friends would usually be sat on their porch, having their 'sundowner'. We would pause and I was to stand quietly, speak when spoken to, and not to sigh at all costs. I was brought up to say 'good morning, good afternoon, good evening' to the people we passed, even if we only knew them by sight. People we were unsure of, we smiled politely to.

After my divorce and the post-divorce relationship, I met a man. He was the kind of man my mother would have rather I married in the first place: well brought up, good family, potential for making lots of cash. He and his family went for walks in the fresh air because it was good for one. One walked at a brisk pace over fields, paths and pavement, dressed in green wellies, and Barbour jackets. Frankly, they were so mean-spirited, outside was warmer than the house in winter. I'm sure this was their only way of warming up. I distinctly remember him bitching at me, Boy all of 4 years old, was holding him back on these walks. He needed to keep up, walk faster. This is one of the memories that makes me cringe, this is one of the things I wish I could do over.

So no, I don't do walking for health. Yes, I would rather spend 30/40 minutes sweating with Davina McCall for my exercise. But writing this blog post has given rise to something else. A creative project if you will. Hmmm....

MCW Most Over-rated Oscar Win - Braveheart

The trouble with this category, is that obviously the Most Over-rated Oscar winning film is Titanic. That is just in no doubt whatsoever. Therefore, I returned to the oracle of the stupid and indifferent that is Wikipedia and looked at previous Oscar wins. That list, Ladies and Gentlemen is impressive. It is an ode to fantastic film making, much of it groundbreaking and heartbreaking in it's content. Show me the person that does not shiver with the opening lines of 'Last night, I dreamt of Mandarlay...' or cry like a baby with Gone with the Wind....I'll show you a hard hearted soul indeed.

Braveheart...well...let's see what irritates...ummm...Mel Gibson Scottish/Aussie accent which sounds occasionally as if he's got marbles stuffed in his cheek; his hair, which is a mullet by any other name and I suppose, if that's the total amount of ire I can muster about this, then you see why it's on here. It's a mediocre film. It neither raises my heart, as did Gladiator or hurts my soul as did The Deer Hunter. In fact, a far better and underrated film of this type is Rob Roy with Liam Neeson. Though I will admit to some bias as far as Liam Neeson is concerned, he does make me want to lick the screen when I see him with his long hair and in a kilt.

Anyway, Ladies and Gentlemen, my offering for MCW for the Most Over-rated Oscar Win, I give you Braveheart!

Faithless - I Want More

Not the first time I've put this video up.

But this is the anthem for which I will live my life this year.

More oneness, less categories
Open hearts, no strategies.
Decisions based upon faith and not fear.
People live right now and right here.
I want the wisdom that wise men revere.

*crash*

That Ladies and Gentlemen is the sound of me falling off the wagon. My smoke-free status changed after a particularly heavy day Wednesday. I came home, walked to the shop bought more baccy and accountrements. I so missed the ritual of rolling my fag, putting on my coat and standing outside, gazing at nothing. That first fag was eye-rollingly fantastic. The fourth one, not so much.

So, what have I learnt in the last couple of days?

Tobacco addiction is a sneaky, sneaky beastie. I'd grown up with the "Say 'no' to drugs" campaigns in the 80's. Movies like Christiane F, showing addiction as this monster that reduces addicts to gaunt sticks, experiencing withdrawl symptoms that has them gouging their skin, pulling their hair out.

It's not like that. The first day....a doddle. Filled with self-righteous pride, not having a ciggarette is not a big deal. The second day, thoughts of tobacco crept in and stayed in. In the afternoon, I would have chewed the table quite happily. Wednesday, well Wednesday was hell and I gave in. I didn't feel physically uncomfortable. I was occasionally a bit twitchy. Emotionally, I can honestly say that coming off tobacco seriously impinged on my ability to give a fuck. For three days, I was ready to stick my two fingers up in the air and mouth obscenties a sailor would be shocked at.

Truthfully, I've been nagged into giving up smoking. I don't have an immediate, pressing need to give up. I can risk the stats. After all, I started late in life. And it's not like I smoke a huge amount now. Nine thin roll-ups is counted as a 'low' addiction, according to the NHS.

Giving up smoking and failing miserably, makes me determined to give up even more. Not for any other reason than my own personal contrariness. If I have to do something, I don't want to do it. I see now I have to smoke and now I am determined not to. I am not going to live my life dictated by any substance. I won't do it.

It may take a while for me to finally quit. I may fall off the wagon many, many times. Actually, it doesn't matter how I get there, all that matters is I quit. If one way doesn't work, there will be another way to try. One step at a time.

MCW Best Broadway to Movie Phantom of the Opera

I confess, I scratched my head. I then consulted the oracle of the stupid that is Wikipedia and found one of my favourites: Phantom of the Opera. Technically a West End show that was shipped to Broadway, but hey, we're all friends here.

I chose this clip, simply because I heart Antonio. I know he's let himself go of late and quite frankly Sarah Brightman has to turn down her voice just so he can be heard. But enjoy anyway.

Tuesday, Day 2

Those of you who put up with my endless purile Facebook status updates 'Gone to bed now. Friday night sux', will not be surprised to hear the following. Indeed, many of you have been wondering how long it would take me to blog about it. In that case, whoever won that particular pool, better be buying me something nice. Anyway, for those in the know, now is the time to wash your hair, go put the kettle on, watch some car crash tv.

For the rest of you, consider this a public service anouncement. Don't give me any whiny shit, when you're picking your teeth out of the carpet. I did tell you so. You were warned.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I quit smoking. I am an ex-smoker. I no longer smoke. I smoke no more.

How do I feel about it? Truthfully, fucking grumpy.

I am in fact, a trucculent child; having to kiss the smelly, spinster aunt with the spiky chin whiskers who just gave me £5.00 for my birthday.

That is exactly how I feel. I'm doing it because it's good for me, that and the fact I promised my dad I would. I'm doing it because I took up smoking at a particular time in my life when I didn't cope. I am doing more than coping now and smoking feels out of place. I am doing it because it's supposed to be good for me and all the incessant nagging...

It was on my List of Things to Do. January was all about exercise; February was supposed to be all about meditation, but that hasn't happened; March was giving up smoking; April was to focus on healthier eating. Sometimes the best laid plans have to be shuffled around a bit. I was finding cutting back my smoking incredibly stressful. I'd capped my smoking to 9 a day since I came back from Trinidad. Out there I was smoking anywhere from 12 - 18 a day. The day of my dad's wake, I gave up counting. The last few days I was stressing out so much about cutting it down, I just had enough. So at 2 am Valentine's Day, I lit and smoked my last.

I'm doing it cold turkey. No nicotine patches, replacements or crutches will be used. If I struggled cutting down the fags, I'm going to struggle cutting down the nicotine. I might as well just lump it and get on with it.

Yesterday, I was high on oxygen. No other explanation. I was bouncing around annoying people virtually and IRL. Today, I feel like I've got PMS times 2. At about 5 o'clock this afternoon, I was ready to head to the shop to get some more accoutrements (when I announced I'd given up yesterday morning, Boy gathered up all my stuff and sold it to his friends at school. Got to admire the entrepreneurial spirit). I'm sticking with it, moaning about it. But I am determined. Boy very helpfully found a widget for my PC. It throws up helpful tips, hints and facts, counts the time since I last smoked and how much money I've since saved. Given I smoked small roll-ups, it lies about the last point.

Anyway, this non-smoking thing is temporary, just to warn you. I'm going to pick it up again when I'm 70. I figure if I live that long, I'll be entitled to a few pleasures.

My Saturday, filled with Saturday things

Does Life get much better than this? I think not.

I crawled out of bed for my hair appointment, which I stupidly booked for before mid-day. Of course I was late for it. That's really no surprise. I rang and said I was parking (when I was parking). Before I went I knew I wanted to grow my hair again and to have a darker colour put on. I have semi-permanent colours to hide the masses and masses of grey. Usually, it's a chocolatey-brown with red tones. This time I've gone for a very dark violet. Because my hair is so dark, the violet doesn't show up much, except in the light. I love it. My adored hairdresser, who I loves to bits, even if he is straight and very married, prefers short hair. I make him sigh a lot. I grow it long and then will come in out of the blue and say 'I want it short', he cuts it short and then 6 months later I say 'I'm growing it out'. He excelled himself today. I love my short cut. I've been staring into shop windows all day.

There were the things that I needed to buy: pens. But then I went into the Department Store where I used to work. All my favourite girls were working. What should have taken 5 mins, took half an hour. Of course I need new lip gloss. I mean, just because I've got like, a thousand kicking about in drawers, boxes and bags, doesn't mean I could live without this new lipgloss. And of course, with another purchase, I could get my free gift. My ability to invoke the power of no, needs work. I know this. But I'm wearing the lip gloss now and of course it looks fabulous. And my free gift includes a fabulous slut red lipstick. I'll wear it to work next week and shock the hell out of people.

Duly laden, of course it was lunchtime (for normal people, for me, breakfast), so I went along to Frank's Bar, ordered lunch - rump steak, sauteed potatoes, roasted red peppers and aioli and a cup of earl grey tea. Outside in their patio area, I'm having a puff, admiring my hair cut and colour and there are people waving at me from inside. Some gesticulation later, they all settle down at my table. I go in and have a lovely socialise. We'd been saying 'yes, we really must meet up'. And there they all are.

I rolled myself out after eating. I was good, you'll be pleased to note. I did not get the carrot cupcake topped with cream cheese to go (no, I didn't eat it in either). I wanted to get some workout pants. Primark used to be the place to get cheap clothes, cheaply. The Norwich shop always looks like a jumble sale, clothes strewn everywhere. But if you ignore that and the Jeremy Kyle rejects, you used to be able to get nice enough clothes for not a huge amount of money. Nowadays, their clothes are cheap and nasty and you have to pay for the pleasure. I was feeling optimistic enough to risk it, to see if I could find some appropriate work-out gear. I went in, went half way down the main aisle, did an about turn and went out again. Briskly. Ugh.

I hit Chapelfield shopping centre. Of course, as it's Valentine's Day on Monday, I need more chocolate in the house. Don't ask. Perhaps I'm pre-menstrual. I wade through the hordes of panic-stricken men grab my goodies and make a run for it. I stop in the sports goods shop, buy 5 pairs of workout trousers, a pair of lounge trousers, a pack of sports socks and some ankle weights. My osteopath has given me some exercises to build the muscles around my knee. Yes, I know I could have made do with a shopping bag and a tin of beans. At least, I'll have proper exercise stuff gathering dust. I'm a classy lady, you wouldn't expect anything less from me.

On the way home, I called in for a coffee with Gee. We put the world to rights, exchanged confidential gossip. I have no idea why people trust me with their secrets. I mean, really. Don't they know me well enough to know what a daft idea it is? Start off a conversation with 'Don't tell anyone but...' I'm there on speed dial, ready to tell everyone else. I over-share about everything. And honey, if you had a drunken night with Mr Wrong, ended up at a chemist looking for the morning after pill, feeling more than a little sheepish, really don't tell me. I look at this inability to keep a secret as a public service. After all, if you go around with a face like a wet-weekend, if everyone knows why, there's no need to explain why you're upset/surprised that he didn't call.

Oh shit. By the way, that was told to me in confidence. Please don't tell anyone I told you.

Ah, I didn't tell you. I'm having my patio and fence seen to. It's all terribly exciting here. At the FS place of work, they have lists of tradespeople. Everyone from plumbers, painter & decorators, electricians to curtain makers. Because they're part of a network, they have to maintain a good quality of work. Through them, I found a plumber who called and turned up. Anyway, I asked about having my patio re-laid. Walking sober on my patio feels like you're walking on the deck of a ship at sea in a storm. It's worse if you've had a couple of alcoholic beverages. Anyway, this guy comes along, assesses the job, tells me how he's going to do it and when I can expect the quote to land on my doorstep. I like his attitude and ask if he does fences. Does he do fences? Is the Pope a Catholic Nazi? Do bears shit in the woods? I ask does he replace knackered garden gates? Does he replace garden gates...you get the picture.

Part One was achieved during Thursday. He pressure washed my patio. Ladies and gentlemen, I didn't know my paving slabs were pale yellow. It's a bit bright out there now. Yesterday, my garden mysteriously acquired concrete posts and fence panels. It's all a bit exciting. When I next see him, I'm going to push the boat out and ask him if he paints house exteriors...

February Resolutions

So, how's it going with those resolutions people? Apparently, if you do something regularly for a month, it officially becomes a habit.

I sit here, still absolutely exhausted from the hour's worth of Davina workout. I'm still not convinced by the exercise argument. I'm knackered and I'm rapidly discovering new places that ache. I really want to crawl back into bed, but no can do. I'm off to the pictures in a bit.

January was all about getting into the exercise habit and seeing to my health. I haven't quite got to my goal of at least 30 mins worth of exercise every day. But I've taken the 'sensible' view as I haven't exercised regularly in years, if I build up to it gently, I'm less likely to hurt something and then stop. My knee causes me some concern. It really doesn't like squats and lunges. It's been aching quite a bit. There's a balance to be found between pushing it to build the muscle around it and pushing it too far. My dishy osteopath agrees with my sensible approach and when I saw him Friday, he's asked to see me again in the coming week. Working my shoulders really is seeing an improvement in keeping them away from my ears and keeping my neck pain-free. Result.

You'll be pleased to hear, I passed my health MOT. Bloods and everything else within normal parameters. I certainly was pleased. My genetics conspire against my love of everything fat-laden and I was concerned that I would be seeing a nutritionist in the very near future. A life without butter and double cream, is bleak for me. However, being more aware of the fats I consume has lead to making better choices (sometimes) of what goes into my mouth (I can't wait to see what smutty comments I get for that sentence, but I'm leaving it in).

Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll notice that I've not made any mention of my weight. This is deliberate. Generally speaking, my weight fluctuates by about 7lb at a time. In the grand scheme of things, according to the BBC BMI calculator, I'm the lower end of the normal curve for my height and weight. What I'd like to do, is stop that weight fluctuation. I'd like to cook good food more regularly. But frankly, one thing at a time.

February is all about my mind. This is the month I want to start meditating regularly. To this end, I have myself a cushion and a mat and tonight, I'll kick it off. The Buddhist meditation I've been reading about isn't about making your mind blank, it's about developing focus and concentration. So, that's this month's goals sorted. This is what I will be doing.

It's funny, just by changing one thing in my life, I feel far more confident. I can do the things I set out to do. Small steps, not giving up, not beating myself up, makes such a difference.

March will be about giving up smoking.

April will be about eating good food. Small portions, regularly. I will be pestering you for ideas in April, you are warned.

I am making this up as I go along. It seems to be working so far.

Tuesday, the new Monday

Ladies and Gentlemen, let it not be said, I lead a boring life. Indeed, I would go as far as saying I live in 'interesting times'. Not the 'interesting times' of being stalked by Robert Downey Jr; pestered by Prince Charming to give up my life in Norwich and go and lie with him on the beach of his private island in the Tropics, to be waited on hand and foot; nor discovering the winning lottery ticket worth an obscene amount of money 'interesting'.

Oh no.

Yesterday, I enjoyed my first cup of coffee; nay, I savoured it. I rolled it around my tongue, appreciated every whiff of coffee aroma. Thus fortified I headed off to work. There was the usual traffic, I crept out of a junction and then...

*BANG*

I hit another car.

In the Grand Scheme of Things, I have much to be thankful for: no one was hurt, no one died; both myself and the other driver are properly insured; I have an insurance company who has proven itself worthy of the hefty premiums; I have employers who are understanding; I have friends who on hearing my voice and tale of woe, put the kettle on.

Within an hour, my poor battered Pride and Joy was put on the back of a lorry and carted off to the body centre to be assessed. I sat in Gee's back room and alternated between shaking and sighing. I drank very sweet coffee, smoked half a hundredweight in tobacco and ate toast slathered in butter and honey.

It was a few hours before I could get it together to go pick up the courtesy car. The courtesy car, I've decided is the punishment for my lapse of attention. I try very hard not to hate it. I'm being grateful that a) I have a courtesy car, because having to rely on public transport for the next few weeks would be a nightmare b) it's clean, tidy and new. Can you tell I write that with gritted teeth?

When I said to the insurance company that it was my fault; that I broke the cardinal rule of road traffic collisions (RTCs) and told the other driver so, the very nice lady laughed. She said if I hadn't have said it was my fault, she would have been telling me so.

I thought I was clear to cross the junction, I wasn't. It's quite cut and dried. If I had a do-over, I would do it differently. I don't. So there it is. No one died. When I said that to the guy who winched my Pride and Joy up the back of his lorry, he just looked at me and shook his head. He said that he wished all of the RTCs he went to had a similar story. He said he seen things that still give him nightmares.

So, all in all, I'm shaken, not stirred.

Preparing for the Vampire

As part of my New Year's kick up the butt. I thought it would be a good idea to go see a doctor to reassess my prescribed medication. The doctor who had looked after Boy and I for the last 14 years, took the opportunity to leg it, while I was in Trinidad (jeez, was it something I said?) and so I had to find a new one.

I'm a bit old fashioned in my views about GPs. I believe in continuity of care. If I see you for my veruuca, I want to see you for my blood pressure. I have these odd beliefs that the GP I see will actually put the face and the name together and our 10 minute consultation will be memorable enough that when I next go to see them, they'll remember who I am. And they'll give a shit. Perhaps I should have started the paragraph off with, 'I'm a bit optimistic in my views about GPs'?

Anway, to cut a long story short, I trooped along to the GP I'd briefly met a couple of weeks ago. I liked her a lot. She was energetic and fun and she seemed sensible. We had a brief discussion about my prescription meds. It's coming up to the dreaded Hayfever season and I've learnt that if I start taking my antihistamines a couple of months before, I am less miserable. So, she gives me access to more drugs and we talk about my dragging backside. She decides she want the full blood work up, just to make sure I'm not anaemic or anything. While I'm there, I ask about having a cholesterol test. She agrees it would be a good idea.

As I sit here, waking up without a cup of coffee, I disagree. It's not a good idea. It's not a good idea to start a Monday without my steaming cup of good coffee next to me. I can survive on the water. That's fine. I can put up with it. But Ladies and Gentlemen, it's just wrong not to have coffee to kick the day off. I know I need to have the blood tests done. It's a good thing to know whether the steady diet of butter, double cream and chicken skin is clogging up my arteries. However, no coffee. Now that's not good.

Given my genetic makeup is such that my cholesterol will be high; the question is, will it be high enough to warrant regular blood tests? I do hope not. The thought of starting my day off without caffeine is becoming more than I can bear.

On Meeting an Infomaniac Bitch

I clocked that fellow Infomaniac Bitch, IDV was also to be found in this fine City. We would nod to each other occasionally, but for the most part, that was that. Then I found myself stalking him round his blog too.

We e-mailed each other a couple of times and then decided we really ought to clap eyes on each other.

Of course, I spent ages obsessing: what I should wear? what if he thought I was really boring? what if we couldn't find anything to talk about?

We agreed to meet at Frank's Bar yesterday afternoon. Surprisingly, I was on time (don't tell Dave, he'll get upset, I'm always late. It drives him nuts). I walked in and thought 'oh God, I've only seen a few pictures of him, what if I can't recognise him'. This gorgeous, tall guy came towards me, gave me a questioning look; and then, we smiled at each other.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you, he's hot. And tall. And any man who presents me with chocolates from here called 'boozy combo', is going to be great company.

I had a lovely couple of hours. We just talked and talked. Considering we'd never met before, we didn't seem to run out of conversation, there were no uncomfortable moments. He didn't roll his eyes when I'd start a conversation off at Point A and somehow, half an hour later, end up at Point T. I suspect he's just very polite.

At the end of our time together, we both agreed that, if/when we could convince Cyberpete to come visit, we'd have to up our game somewhat in the 'fabulous stakes'. It's IDV's turn next time to get the coffees in. I'm going to hold him to it.

Week 3 of New Year's Resolutions

So, how's it going people? Reverted to the chocolate, alcohol and fags again? Or are you holding strong in the face of temptation?

At the end of Week 3 of my resolution of Stop Thinking and Do, I continue to exercise. Yes, you read that right. I am still at it. I'm still huffing and puffing through my workout dvds. This week has been a bit of a challenge. Other things have required my attention, but the good news is, the thinking led to action. Amongst other things, my pile of laundry is at least currently limited to the laundry basket. When the week started, it was creeping across my floor. Ladies and Gentlemen, let me assure you, dirty socks chasing The Cat around the bedroom at 3 am is not conducive to a good night's sleep.

As January rapidly hurtles into February, next on my List of Things to Do, is meditate regularly. I want to get able enough to do at least 30 mins of exercise a day and then to parcel some time for meditation. Last year, I purchased a book called A Path with Heart by Jack Kornfield and I've been slowly making my way through it. It is not at all New Agey. No quick fixes, no 'follow my wisdom and you too shall live a Perfect Life'. This book addresses the perils and promises of the spiritual journey. At the end of each chapter there are meditations to be followed. 

Now, we all know I'm a lazy shite. I can sit and appear to do nothing for hours on end. What's actually going on is me obsessing. Picking at an issue like a vulture going over roadkill. Any hint of having to make my mind go blank, tends to lead to this internal dialogue:

Focus on my breathing
Breathe in...my back hurts
Breathe out...focus on breathing
Breathe in...is that someone at the door? When is Boy coming home? Do I have enough time to do this before the invasion of the teenagers?
Breathe out...make mind blank. My mind is blank. Shit. If I'm thinking my mind is blank, it's not blank...

You see my problem? I believe it's called chattering monkeys. I have a whole troop of them living in my head. However, Buddhist meditation give you mantras to repeat during meditation. The idea is I focus solely on the mantra, which works brilliantly. It's much easier to reign in the chattering monkeys if I've got something for them to do. Those meditations have been far more successful and have left me feeling great: I've achieved what I set out to do and my brain has had an hour off. Of course, this means I will be treating myself to a zafu and a meditation mat. I couldn't possibly consider any meditation without either.

Small successes work for me. In the past, I've rushed into things, given 110% and then fizzled out equally as quickly. The endorphins from the exercise have a very positive impact on my general mood. My shoulders aren't cramped around my ears.  I've also noticed that my body temperature has risen, I'm not so chilled internally.

So, that's me. How's it going with you? Come on, share.

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to
dream of meeting your heart’s longing.


It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.


It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.


I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if youcan dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.


It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
 
I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”


It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.


It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.


It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.


I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

*  *  *

My apologies if the line breaks do not follow those of the original. You get the idea.

On Wednesday, during a meeting with my work Mentor, he suggested I have a look for this. He suggested I would appreciate it and it might be useful. I duly did.

As far as a piece of writing goes, the Creative Writing tutor in me, would love to cover it in red pen. Scrawl all over it. As far as a piece of wisdom, the skeptic in me who hates pop psychology with a passion verging on the murderous. I want to get chopsticks and poke out Dr Phil's eyes. To the person who was mortally offended at my response when he suggested my experiences over the last 2 years were 'challenging'. Be grateful. Be grateful, I had enough self-control and didn't immediately bludgeon you to death with the metal folding chair.

However, there is something glorious in it's imperfections. Heartfelt, in the simplicity of message. It reminds me of the Life I want to lead.

It reminds me of my goal: when I'm dead, people will say 'that Roses, completely nuts, but damn she Lived.'

Further...
I've had a bit more time to think on this. I've finally figured out why, although I do like the idea, it makes me grind my teeth.

Yes, as a clarion call to lead an authentic life, it's very well intentioned. However, I'm also a big fan of the superficial. I'd like to lead an authentic life, with pink, sparkly nail polish. I like indulging in my Laura Mercier bubble bath. There are times when only murder and mayhem will do on the television. It introduces more fractures and is done in a 'worthier than thou' manner.

I suppose people are a complicated mish-mash and I'm no different. I want the space to allow for everything about me.

MCW Favorite 1950s Movie

It's just got to be The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Fabulously understated, ground breaking and challenging.

The remake or 're-imagining' was 3 shades of pants.

Happy MCW.

A New Recipe

I've come up with a new recipe, I thought I'd share. For two reasons 1. because I like to share and 2. I have no idea what to call it.

You will need:

Spices and herbs
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground corriander
1 tsp paprika
about 5 or 6 cardamom pods crushed in a mortar & pestle
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tsp ground cinnamon
handful of fresh coriander, roughly chopped.

4 chicken breasts, skinned and diced
small bag of dried apricots
1 tin of cider
1 tin of green lentils
1 tin of chickpeas
1 red onion, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped.

In a large sauce pan, heat some oil. I cook with extra-virgin olive oil out of preference. Proper foodies will say with this kind of cooking it makes no-nevermind as the flavour gets cooked out. But it's the only oil I have in the house.

When the oil is hot dump the onion and pepper in. Fry for a few minutes until it's a bit soft and then add all the spices except the fresh corriander. Fry and breathe deep for a couple of minutes. It's smells divine. It really does. Add the chicken. When the chicken is all nice and brown, throw in the tins of lentils and chickpeas. Stir well. Add the cider a bit at a time until chicken is all covered and bubbling nicely, turn the heat down to simmer. Add the apricots and fresh coriander. Cover the pot and occasionally stir.

With dishes like this, I have no idea how long they take to cook. I think it takes about an hour. About 15 mins before you'd like to eat, put some rice on. Take the lid off the pan of chicken. You'll need to stir regularly. The idea is to get the liquid to evaporate, to thicken up the sauce a bit. When you're happy with the consistency and the rice is ready, remove from heat and serve.

Enjoy!

There is no reason why you could throw other things into the pot. Mushrooms, the odd potato would work too. If you like a bit of heat, add dried or fresh chillis when you fry the onion and pepper. If you, like me, adore cream, just before you're ready to serve, take the pot off the heat and add some double cream or creme fraiche or sour cream. Return to heat, but make sure it doesn't come up to the boil. Simmer is the trick here.

If you are moved enough to cook this, please let me know how you get on.

So finally, what do I call this dish? Gee's husband tends to think anything with apricots, automatically becomes Moroccan. I think a Moroccan might take exception to this. This dish smells and tastes fantastic, so I've just been calling it Fragrant Chicken, but that's not terribly exciting.

Oh yeah, these quanities fed 3 adults and two teenage boys. I'm sure it would be great for left-overs, except there are very few left-overs in this house these days.

Good News Day

After a busy week at work (both places thereof) and spending yesterday in reception watching the same footage of the Brazilian and Australian floods, I thought we could all do with some cheering up. Because obviously, my blog is all about ME.

Today, has been pretty busy. Bit of a bummer, considering I was awake for 2 1/2 hours last night. I don't work Fridays. Technically, Fridays are my lazing about day. Which is why I was awake at 7 o'clock, attaching clamps to my eye lids and eye brows to try and keep moving (have I mentioned, I'm not a morning person?). I had to go to my doctor's surgery. Now therein lies another tale. Boy and I have been under the care of the same GP for the last 15 years. When I came back from Trinidad, he'd moved on. I'd been determinedly carrying on, not requiring medical attention since then. Come January, I realised in 3 months, my hayfever season will kick off, unleasing the horrors of gooey eyes, streaming snot and general unpleasantness. If I start taking my antihistamines before the season starts, generally my symptoms don't drive me to murder. During the course of today's visit, I met this fantastic woman doctor: lively, engaging, big sense of humour. I thought 'I'm going to have you'. So, in the next couple of weeks I will be going for drug meeting with her....umm...that sounds wrong. Prescription drug meeting. You know what I mean. Stop sniggering in the back there.

So, that's my first bit of good news.

Second, I have managed to acquire a designer handbag, for not a lot of money. This is the first designer handbag I've ever owned. Mostly, my bags come from sensible shoe shops or a market stall. A trendy young thing at work had ordered it online and when she opened the box in reception she said it was a bit old lady for her. Given I am pretty much twice her age, I made her an offer for the bag. I like it. I can't show you a picture, I looked online and can't find it. You'll just have to take it on my word that it's rather nice.

Third, through work, I have managed to secure the services of a plumber. Now, you in different parts of the world, may be scratching your head going 'WTF?' Let me explain how it is here. In your part of the world, plumbers may be considered blue collared workers, poorly paid, the butt of many innuendos...over here, plumbers are rarer than unicorns. A good plumber gets paid more than a suited banker in the City. I kid you not. I've been trying to get plumber in to sort out a few jobs around the house: taps need new washers, singing pipes, leaking sinks, servicing my boiler so we don't die. Nothing major. Because the Financial Service Company also do property investment, they have on hand lists of good tradesmen. The plumber, rang me within 24 hours of me asking for the referral. He was able to organise a time that was convenient and he turned up 10 mins early. For an hour and a half, he and his son, poked, prodded and made occasional banging noises. With the result Ladies and Gentlemen, my pipes no longer sing! My boiler is safe. My radiators bled. My sink no longer leaks and he also changed my plug for it. Yes, the bill did make me blink. But you know what, I don't care. It's done.

And finally, as you know, I occasionally require the services of my dishy osteopath to coax the shoulders from my ears (mine, not his). Stress tends to lock my shoulders in place round my neck, as well as locking my spine in the middle. It requires him folding me into a pretzel until my vertebrae crack and I squeak. Or he takes my head in his hands and twists and tugs making me wonder whether he's really homicidal and is practising his snapping neck technique.

Anyway, I didn't workout today. Today, I went into my place of work and saw him. After stretching, I could still feel my back resisting in several places and I did want to have a chat with him to make sure I was doing the right kind of exercises. My shoulders and neck have been so much better since I started the exercises again, I did feel a bit silly. My dishy osteopath agreed it was good I came to see him now; he said it was better to deal with things before they got to the painful stage. He approved of the exercises I was doing and advised me not to attempt any push-ups. He said it would hurt my neck. Damn. No push-ups. I wasn't even going to, and now he's said not to, well, that's all the excuse I need. Ah well. He agreed that everything was much better than usual and I'm doing good. He also said I could do the toning every day. Awesome. It's easier to develop a daily routine and I want to embed this into my life.

So all in all. I've had a pretty good day. I even celebrated it with a nap. I think today needs a cider and my sofa just to make things perfect. Yay.

MCW Favourite Fantasy Movie 13th Warrior

This is probably the most underrated movie ever. I believe (I haven't checked out the font of all knowledge that is Wiki), that it was due to be released the same time as Gladiator came out. Rather than go head to head, it was decided to go on limited release and straight-to-video. Usually reserved for truly appalling cinema. That, was a mistake.

This movie is based on the fabulous Michael Creighton's book The Eaters of the Dead, a re-working of the saga of Beowulf. The screenplay is fantastic, the acting superb. I bought it on vhs and then on dvd. I have seen it so many times and it never fails to delight and inspire. The attention to detail in presenting this story makes this a believable and engrossing tale.

It is truly fantastic. Enjoy my lovelies.



Happy MCW!

Week 2

So, how's it going with your resolutions people?

Personally, I'm finding more difficult to make decisions, not less. I find this somewhat frustrating. Mind you, deciding not to do the laundry or the dishes, is not taking any time at all. Nor is, ignoring the pile of personal admin stuff. Yes, I still think it's ridiculous that admin makes up both of my part-time jobs and my basket of paperwork overfloweth.

However, I have completed one week of exercising. Today, I stepped up the pace a bit. I'm doing a Davina McColl workout. Damned near killed myself too. But I finished it. Okay, so I marched on the spot during the interval training, but I did all of the toning stuff with weights. I have to say the happy hormones are fantastic.

This morning, I achieved a long-term goal. Something I have always wanted to do and have never done. Ladies and Gentlemen, today I touched my toes. Yes, you read right. I bent over with straight knees and touched my toes. How cool is that? Okay, so it's marginally less exciting that Victoria Beckham's pregnancy, I will give you that. But as my gran had been known to say 'small things amuse small minds'.

Your turn, how's it going? Are you flagging yet, or still enjoying the new experience? C'mon, fess up.

Confession Time

I can't be arsed to do a proper blog post this morning. I've got to do a workout, go to acupuncture and then stare at my navel all weekend. But because I'm lazy and curious (not quite sure how these two character traits of mine manage to manifest themselves so well, given they pretty much cancel themselves out), I am going to share my one and only New Year's resolution.

I have decided that this year I am going to Do, more than I Think.

For I have come to the realisation that I suffer from analysis paralysis. I can spend the whole day thinking about what I want to do that day, and do nothing. Therefore, following the advice that it's better to change ONE thing, rather than to change lots of things and get nowhere. This is the thing I'm going to change.

I'm Doing people.

Which brings me to you, Ladies and Gentlemen. What is your New Years resolution? Come along. Share it with us. How's it going? Tell us all about it and we'll provide a bit of cheerleading when the couch comes a-calling.

Aparently, it takes 30 days to form a habit (I read somewhere, I can't remember exactly). So, if we get to 6 weeks, I reckon we'll be doing really, really well. We can have a Resolutions party, with cake and alcohol to celebrate our strong wills.

Excuse me, I'm just off to do my workout.

Shallow as a Saucer

Forgive me, I'm still slightly over-excited. Let me set the scene: I'd finished thinking about what I wanted to do today, told Boy we were going shopping. The Ministry of Sound CD playing on full blast. It'd been awhile since I'd taken my pride and joy out for a blast. We needed to go get something edible in the house. As we are driving along, an Astin Martin Vanquish pulled out in front of me.

Tell me, do I lick the man or the car?

Now ladies and gentlemen, forgive me if I'm wrong...but that is just a totally awesome car on screen, in real life...it is just stunning. Both Boy and I were drooling and squealing.

We turned up the sounds loud. I took my pride and joy for a quick blast up the dual carriage way. By blast, I do mean blast. I was the asshole in the BMW doing a ton in the outside lane. My pride and joy, she is only a baby Beemer, but she is very quick and light on her heels. She flies. That feeling is just...joy.

Staples, the stationery emporium parted me with cash for a new printer and a pair of scissors (I know totally random).

Turn it up loud!

This track is blasting and I'm once again in the outside lane bombing down the A47 at *cough* miles per hour. I glance in my rear-view mirror and see this glide up behind me.

Oops. I think I came in my pants

Do bear in mind that I was not exactly standing still. I saw a gap and pulled into the slow lane. He just cruised on past, flashed his hazards and disappeared off into the horizon. I just knew the car was gorgeous, Boy knew it was Noble m400. Awesome. Just awesome.

If this is the start of things to come in 2011. Bring it on baby.



Plagiarism, or Imitation is the Sincerest form of Flattery

Our recent birthday gal Savannah, has been entertaining me with Someecards. I have to say, they have the right amount of bite and sarcasm. In any case, these manage to put their finger on how I feel at the moment.

Funnily enough, none of last year's resolutions happened. Which leads on nicely to this one:

So I heartily agree with this one:

Which will more likely that not, lead to this one:

Oh dear.

Out with the Old

Ladies and gentlemen, in true style, I am at home NYE. Boy and his friends have gone off, looking fabulous, for an all night party. I'll see them at some point tomorrow.

I had intended to do a lot of things. Instead I ended up at Ms Boxer's New Year party. We're partying like a Prince song and for every comment, Ms Boxer will be making a donation to a local charity of choice.

The vodka fountain is plugged in. There are games and nibbles.

Partying virtual stylee...

Shopping Local

Long-time readers may remember I used to work at the only Independent Department store in Norwich. It's been two years since I worked there and it's still my favourite place to shop. Firstly, because I get to see all the girls and catch up on the gossip and secondly, because I really do believe in supporting local business.

This department store has always been a family-run business and family remains at the heart of it. It's not unusual to find several family members working there, or people who've worked there for years calculated in double digits. The recession has hit the business hard, but I'm pleased to see it's still going strong.

When I ventured into the sales, that's where I went first. It's great to be served by someone I knew. Boy now has new bedroom furniture on order and while I was there, I bought a sofa. Now, I've had the futon for the past 10 years. It was a cheap alternative to a sofa bed and for the first 3 years it was comfortable. Futons aren't meant to be sat on regularly. The stuffing compacts into concrete. I got round that by draping a duvet over it. About 3 years ago, I'd had enough and bought a proper sofa bed. In chocolate leather, so the cat doesn't shred it to buggery. Obviously, with the sofa bed innards it was more expensive that it needed to be, but I wanted shot of the futon.

Boy was not happy. He liked the futon. He spent most of his time stretched out on it...his prefered position. So, I kept it. We moved house and I grumbled about the futon. He insisted. But then he started to relent when I brought the subject up. In the run up to the Festive Season, I saw lots of adverts for new sofas and began to covet one that has reclining seats. I looked one up on the internet...I put it to the back of my mind.

On Tuesday, I went shopping. The furniture section was quite busy. Shoppers looking to snag a bargain before the VAT increase on the 4th of January. While I waited, I sat on a very comfy sofa. It had a little lever on the side. I played with it. Suddenly, my feet were raised and I was lying back. I looked at the price and made the decision.

Yesterday, I got a call from their warehouse to say they would like to deliver the sofa in the morning between 8 and 12. Oh yeah, thought I, being of cynical nature and having previous experience of waiting in for such things and plumbers. I was dozing at about 8 o'clock this morning. I was aware of time, having prised my eyes apart to look at clock, but I figured it would be at least 11 before they showed. The phone rang. They were just dropping some furniture off down the road and they'd be 20 minutes.

I got dressed, woke the teenagers, put the kettle on and went outside for a smoke. Boy kept me company. I'd had two puffs and there they were. The delivery guys were cheerful and chatty. They put a mat down before they hauled the bits in. They explained how it all went together. They needn't have wasted their time, all I heard was 'blah, blah, blah', but they looked happy delivering their explanation, so I let them carry on. They made sure it fit where it was to go, they made sure everything was working, drank their tea and off they went.

Needless to say, I am writing this upstairs in my study. As soon as the delivery men had gone, the teenagers comandeered the new sofa and the x-box to play Call of Duty.

I see who's in charge in this household.

What became of the futon? I hear you ask. Well, Gee said she could use it for one of her lads. JD (her husband) came around yesterday and evicted it for me. So all in all, I'm a very happy bunny.

Isolation

I realise that over the festive period, I may have become a tad insular. Yesterday, was the first day I'd been out since Friday. I spent a shit load of money and then scampered back home. The City was packed with people, most of whom were grumpy and pushy. I was very glad to get home.

There apparently is a world outside my front door. I hear it hum when I go into my garden for a crafty smoke. I see it on the news: filled with angst and dire happenings. Mostly, however I'm content to potter around in the warmth and cosiness that is my home.

Today, I will have a visitor from The Outside. I will actually have to construct coherent sentences, offer tea, coffee and munchies. I'm not sure I remember how to be sociable. Talking to teenagers isn't the same. They're happy with simple language forms; if I point them to the cupboard and fridge, they leave me pretty well enough alone.

A visitor means I have to find my kitchen underneath the dirty dishes and pans. Not to mention the empty bottles, of which there are but a few. I'll have to clear an area where we can sit without having to look at cat hairs, crumbs and shavings of tobacco and the remnants of Boy's scratch card.

As it's warmed up a bit, I really should turn off the heating and open all the doors and windows, get some fresh air in. Let the smells of roasted duck, burnt chestnuts and teenage feet dissipate.

I think I'd better start with me though. Nothing says 'I'm happy to see you' more than being clean and dressed.

Oops.

I think I overdid it; the whole food shopping thing. Of course this doesn't apply to the alcohol, which won't go off.

I didn't bother to cook yesterday, I just grazed. Crackers with pate, soft cheese, salami, parma ham, more salami (I like salami). Chocolate and biscuits, oh and nuts. Honey roasted peanuts.

Waitrose ran out of full-fat Philadelphia, so I ended up buying the light shit. You'd think I'd learn, but no. I thought I must have some soft cheese, it'll be palatable. No, it wasn't. It tastes disgusting. It has an after taste that makes me want to shave my teeth. The day they start making low-fat/sugar/no calorie food that tastes good, I swear I'll eat it. Until then fat, sugar and calories are my friends. Being righteous and holier than thou 'oh no, I won't have sugar in my coffee, I have my sweetners'....is not worth it.

I like my food. You can tell that immediately by looking at the size of my backside. It's taken a long time to get these curves. While I do quite like the odd bit of junk food, I don't fantasize about crisps or chocolate. I do fantasize about bacon sandwiches though. Smoked back bacon. Proper bread. Piccalilli. Yum. I love cooking with cream. Double cream. Creme Fraiche isn't a bad substitute. Butter, never margarine. I got one of those hysterical health e-mails awhile ago (don't drink water out of a plastic bottle, it'll give you cancer), it said margarine was almost the same as plastic chemically and it's got no food value. Plus, it doesn't taste that good. Butter, now butter always tastes good. Especially on jacket potatoes. Or for frying mushrooms.

Fortunately, I have teenagers in the house. I'm happy to report that they are eating everything in sight, so hopefully I won't have to throw out the Philly. I do hate waste, but I hate eating that shit even more.

The question is: continue to graze, or cook something? Hmmm...I'll graze while I think about whether I can be arsed to cook.

Duck Dilema

The duck seems to have caused fun and games from the start.

I ordered said duck from my butcher in the beginning of December. I explained it was a duck for 2 and also ordered half a hundredweight of bacon and some steak. Christmas Eve, mid-morning (I'd finished work the day before and couldn't move any quicker), Boy, Best Friend, Mate #2 and I rock up to the butchers.

He'd forgotten my order. Personally, I didn't care. These things happen and I'd have found a way around it. But then he found me a duck in the freezer. This was not my duck. This was an emergency duck.

The emergency duck was a lot bigger than the duck I'd ordered. My butcher and I have a long-standing relationship. I tell him how many people I'm feeding, he factors in other variables: teenage appetites, hungry male company etc, and then he calculates how much to stick in the bag. This system works well. I've never cooked short using this method. But this emergency duck, was pushing the limits of my roasting pans.

Now my butcher said the emergency duck would defrost in the fridge in time. I believed him. I stopped believing him when I took emergency duck from the fridge and tried to remove it's innards (the innards were simmered within an inch of their lives to make sauce). At this point it was around about 11(ish. Very ish. Boy and I had started on the not-so-innocent smoothies when we unwrapped our pressies. No idea exactly what time it was). I cleaned the sink, put the plug in and attempted to drown the frozen, emergency duck in tepid water. The oven was already on, so I bunged in nibbles thoughtfully pre-prepared by our personal chef at Waitrose (if you think I'm playing with filo pastry, you've got another thing coming - disappointment). Boy and I nibbled our way through BBQ wings, filled filo baskets and ceddar and bacon rings, before I remembered the frozen, emergency duck. It was no longer frozen.

In my usual way I threw herbs and spices (and mango chutney) into a bowl, made a paste, covered the thawed, emergency duck, like it was sunscreen and the duck was going out in the mid-day mediterranean sun. Covered with foil and into the oven it went. In the meantime, Boy decided he wanted to play Oblivion. He's full of good ideas, my Boy is. So we adventured.

Two-thirds of the way through, Boy and I drained the duck fat off so I could roast some spuds. I had a brief experiment with roasting chesnuts which was a failure. One chestnut exploded. Burnt chesnut is not a pleasant smell, I know this. Especially combined with roasting emergency duck. It sounds like it would go, it didn't. Boy and I drank another batch of not-so-innocent smoothies.

Eventually, we put one of the Christmas dvds on: The Expendables. No, it had nothing to do with Christmas and everything to do with machismo, brotherhood and explosions. I nearly fancied Sly Stallone, but made do with Jason Statham. Om nom nom.

Speaking of which, the emergency duck was finally cooked. Probably a bit over-cooked in truth. Boy, piled his plate up high. Me, by that point, I wanted as little to do with that damn bird. He says it was tasty. He finished his plate. Teenagers. God love 'em. Metabolisms set to GO-GO-GO. We spent the rest of the evening playing Oblivion. I gave up and went to bed at around 9.30ish.

Not the most exciting of days, but it was exactly what we wanted to do, exactly how we wanted to do it. And that's all that matters.

Oh yeah, have you got any ideas what we can do with the rest of the emergency duck, because there seems to be an awful lot left.

Half Pint - Christmas Vibes

Enjoy darlings.

Hope today is bubbly and full of fun.