£100 poorer
Yes. Last night I locked myself out, and two hours and £100 later I was back in. After kicking myself, I tried to look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t raining. At least the locksmith didn’t need to put in a new lock. At least I wasn’t in my underwear.
But then I kept thinking of all the stuff I could have spent £100 on. A flight to Poland, or Seville, or a trip to Bruges. A massage and/or a facial for my 30th birthday. Some new shoes and a dress. Solicitor’s fees and estate agents fees for when (if) we move. Fuck. This is really making me sad.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
I can’t afford to eat this well.
On Monday: a brown rice, lentil, roast aubergine salad with a garlic and oil dressing, and a new potato, baby asparagus, red onion and parmesan salad with a creamy hollandaise dip (which is so delicious I could drink it from a mug). And a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.
Today: Kastner & Ovens stung me again. £4.15 for a small salad and an apricot and almond* slice.
* which I pronounce Al-mond, like in ‘You can call me Al’, rather than All-mond. Cos I don’t know any better.
Stressy co-worker is annoying me. He overreacts to everything. Lots of swearing. Heavy sighs. Animatedly throwing things around. Head in hands. Opening printer and slamming it shut. Happens every day, so I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. In fact, I really want to tell him to chill the fuck out.
As usual, Wednesday night sees me curled up on the couch watching DH. I was curious to see how the storyline of Gabrielle’s unwanted pregnancy would develop. For those of you who (gasp!) don’t watch, Gaby’s husband, the evil Carlos, has been tampering with her birth control pills. She has told him a number of times that she doesn’t want kids, ever, and has no desire to be a mum. They agreed on this when they married, and she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. So Carlos switches her pills to placebos, and voila, she’s up the duff. I wondered whether the writers and producers would use this opportunity for an abortion storyline. In my fantasy world, Gaby would, after she’d calmed down and stopped screaming at Carlos, decide that she really did not want this kid, and go to her doc, and have a termination. She and the other Housewives would sit around at their weekly poker game discussing her choice and why she made it, and even if they didn’t all agree with her decision, they would all respect it as hers to make.
Somehow I don’t think we’ll see this. Without checking out the upcoming episodes, I predict that Gabby will decide that, even though she admits she and Carlos would make lousy parents, she will have the baby (so far, in DH land, there seem to be no other options at all). Cue funny/cute plotlines about Gabby leaving Baby Solis in the Manolo Blahnik shop, or at the beauty salon, or spending a fortune on designer baby outfits.
Bitch. Ph.D.: Abortion Just read this today and it’s great. Bitch says it a million times better than I ever could.
On Monday: a brown rice, lentil, roast aubergine salad with a garlic and oil dressing, and a new potato, baby asparagus, red onion and parmesan salad with a creamy hollandaise dip (which is so delicious I could drink it from a mug). And a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.
Today: Kastner & Ovens stung me again. £4.15 for a small salad and an apricot and almond* slice.
* which I pronounce Al-mond, like in ‘You can call me Al’, rather than All-mond. Cos I don’t know any better.
Stressy co-worker is annoying me. He overreacts to everything. Lots of swearing. Heavy sighs. Animatedly throwing things around. Head in hands. Opening printer and slamming it shut. Happens every day, so I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. In fact, I really want to tell him to chill the fuck out.
As usual, Wednesday night sees me curled up on the couch watching DH. I was curious to see how the storyline of Gabrielle’s unwanted pregnancy would develop. For those of you who (gasp!) don’t watch, Gaby’s husband, the evil Carlos, has been tampering with her birth control pills. She has told him a number of times that she doesn’t want kids, ever, and has no desire to be a mum. They agreed on this when they married, and she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. So Carlos switches her pills to placebos, and voila, she’s up the duff. I wondered whether the writers and producers would use this opportunity for an abortion storyline. In my fantasy world, Gaby would, after she’d calmed down and stopped screaming at Carlos, decide that she really did not want this kid, and go to her doc, and have a termination. She and the other Housewives would sit around at their weekly poker game discussing her choice and why she made it, and even if they didn’t all agree with her decision, they would all respect it as hers to make.
Somehow I don’t think we’ll see this. Without checking out the upcoming episodes, I predict that Gabby will decide that, even though she admits she and Carlos would make lousy parents, she will have the baby (so far, in DH land, there seem to be no other options at all). Cue funny/cute plotlines about Gabby leaving Baby Solis in the Manolo Blahnik shop, or at the beauty salon, or spending a fortune on designer baby outfits.
Bitch. Ph.D.: Abortion Just read this today and it’s great. Bitch says it a million times better than I ever could.
Monday, May 09, 2005
making the day go faster. I am totally hooked on this site . . . there are some real gems!
Very Scary Squaddie Author has emailed me implying that I have lost one of the photos he provided for the picture section of his book. He borrowed it from some tough guy, and, in a roundabout way, said that if the picture was lost there would be trouble for him and therefore for me also. So if I am found enjoying a quiet dip in the Thames wearing concrete boots, it’s not a new fitness regime or a fashion statement. Just so’s you know.
Danced on Saturday night at a highly swanky event. It was the Vintage Fashion Fair in Mayfair, and the sponsor was a classy champagne house, and much sparkly booze was flowing. The venue was done up in retrotastic 1960s style, and the stage we danced on was silver metal, eight foot across, and . . . round. So moving backwards or forwards was risky, and as there were large, low-hanging glass light fittings above the stage, arm movements were restricted. We did OK though. I think they even liked us (although Peaches Geldof, standing by the stage with her equally Nicole Richie-esque teen queen pal, both as blonde, tanned and thin as each other, rolled her eyes at us. I glared at her and she looked shocked. Ha!)
Very Scary Squaddie Author has emailed me implying that I have lost one of the photos he provided for the picture section of his book. He borrowed it from some tough guy, and, in a roundabout way, said that if the picture was lost there would be trouble for him and therefore for me also. So if I am found enjoying a quiet dip in the Thames wearing concrete boots, it’s not a new fitness regime or a fashion statement. Just so’s you know.
Danced on Saturday night at a highly swanky event. It was the Vintage Fashion Fair in Mayfair, and the sponsor was a classy champagne house, and much sparkly booze was flowing. The venue was done up in retrotastic 1960s style, and the stage we danced on was silver metal, eight foot across, and . . . round. So moving backwards or forwards was risky, and as there were large, low-hanging glass light fittings above the stage, arm movements were restricted. We did OK though. I think they even liked us (although Peaches Geldof, standing by the stage with her equally Nicole Richie-esque teen queen pal, both as blonde, tanned and thin as each other, rolled her eyes at us. I glared at her and she looked shocked. Ha!)
Friday, May 06, 2005
Did you vote?
My mum tried to, but couldn’t. She got to the polling station and didn’t have her card with her, and the guy (before even asking whether she was registered) said ‘Only British citizens are allowed to vote.’ My mum said that she was a British citizen, showed him her passport and a utility bill, and said she’d voted before. He said ‘That was probably in local elections. It’s different with a general election.’ My mum explained that she’d lived in England for 33 years, and she had voted in many a general election. But he wouldn’t budge, and said she could vote in the next one. When my mum told me all of this, I was outraged, but she was totally unfazed. I guess if she got upset every time someone made a snide remark, she’d never get a damn thing done. And after 33 years, she’s sadly probably used to it. I’m just glad she doesn’t let the bastards get her down.
Did anyone else hear the very brief news story about a place in south Wales where all the candidates for the election were female, and this incensed a local guy so much that he stood for election? And won? I cannot believe that, after centuries of undoubtedly all-male candidates, the very thought of no men standing for election was so terrifying. And what, precisely, was his campaign built on? The fact that he has a penis, or the fact that he’s a big fucking misogynist? Who voted for this cock face? It’s men like this who drive me up the wall. Men who are so scared of women having just a little bit of power, that they will do anything – anything, even running for office when their only reason for doing so is to prevent a woman from getting in – to stop it.
Freaky local things yesterday
2.30pm, Kennington Road bus stop: man wearing jeans and T-shirt, riding a carthorse (no saddle), slowly heading towards Central London.
6.35pm, further up Kennington Road: walking back from Tesco, I saw a red estate car festooned with red balloons, pumping out Abba’s ‘I have a dream’, with a very embarrassed Kate Hoey in the front passenger seat. As the Hoeymobile cruised through Kennington and Vauxhall, the expressions on people’s faces ranged from horror to incredulity to pissing themselves laughing. However, of all the MPs standing in my constituency, Ms Hoey was the most visible (OK, her office/shopfront thing was around the corner from where I live, sandwiched between an estate agency and Kitsch & Curio, a secondhand store/florist). I didn't see the Lib Dem guy at all (although Champagne Charlie is regularly spied watering his front lawn or shopping in Tesco), and the Tory was pretty much invisible. Which is how I like 'em.
God I am really crabby today. I hate being at work when there is literally nothing for me to do. People keep coming up behind me while I’m searching eBay for kitchen doors, and I want to bat them away…
My mum tried to, but couldn’t. She got to the polling station and didn’t have her card with her, and the guy (before even asking whether she was registered) said ‘Only British citizens are allowed to vote.’ My mum said that she was a British citizen, showed him her passport and a utility bill, and said she’d voted before. He said ‘That was probably in local elections. It’s different with a general election.’ My mum explained that she’d lived in England for 33 years, and she had voted in many a general election. But he wouldn’t budge, and said she could vote in the next one. When my mum told me all of this, I was outraged, but she was totally unfazed. I guess if she got upset every time someone made a snide remark, she’d never get a damn thing done. And after 33 years, she’s sadly probably used to it. I’m just glad she doesn’t let the bastards get her down.
Did anyone else hear the very brief news story about a place in south Wales where all the candidates for the election were female, and this incensed a local guy so much that he stood for election? And won? I cannot believe that, after centuries of undoubtedly all-male candidates, the very thought of no men standing for election was so terrifying. And what, precisely, was his campaign built on? The fact that he has a penis, or the fact that he’s a big fucking misogynist? Who voted for this cock face? It’s men like this who drive me up the wall. Men who are so scared of women having just a little bit of power, that they will do anything – anything, even running for office when their only reason for doing so is to prevent a woman from getting in – to stop it.
Freaky local things yesterday
2.30pm, Kennington Road bus stop: man wearing jeans and T-shirt, riding a carthorse (no saddle), slowly heading towards Central London.
6.35pm, further up Kennington Road: walking back from Tesco, I saw a red estate car festooned with red balloons, pumping out Abba’s ‘I have a dream’, with a very embarrassed Kate Hoey in the front passenger seat. As the Hoeymobile cruised through Kennington and Vauxhall, the expressions on people’s faces ranged from horror to incredulity to pissing themselves laughing. However, of all the MPs standing in my constituency, Ms Hoey was the most visible (OK, her office/shopfront thing was around the corner from where I live, sandwiched between an estate agency and Kitsch & Curio, a secondhand store/florist). I didn't see the Lib Dem guy at all (although Champagne Charlie is regularly spied watering his front lawn or shopping in Tesco), and the Tory was pretty much invisible. Which is how I like 'em.
God I am really crabby today. I hate being at work when there is literally nothing for me to do. People keep coming up behind me while I’m searching eBay for kitchen doors, and I want to bat them away…
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Tired.
Last night I had a half-hour standoff with a spider in my bathroom. I was reluctant to kill it (only cos I’m squeamish), so I talked to it for twenty minutes before trapping it under a glass, stared at it for another five minutes, slid a phone bill under the glass and moved the whole shebang across the floor towards the lav (whimpering all the while), picked it up and dropped it, screamed and shook for a further five minutes, trapped the spider again, and finally tossed everything down the loo, flushed frantically, and wished there was a bottle of vodka in the freezer for me to swig from. I must say, the spider was cooperative throughout, standing in the middle of the floor, rubbing his legs together, as if daring me to do something about it.
Finally got to bed at midnight, and had to read for 30 minutes to calm down.
Last night I had a half-hour standoff with a spider in my bathroom. I was reluctant to kill it (only cos I’m squeamish), so I talked to it for twenty minutes before trapping it under a glass, stared at it for another five minutes, slid a phone bill under the glass and moved the whole shebang across the floor towards the lav (whimpering all the while), picked it up and dropped it, screamed and shook for a further five minutes, trapped the spider again, and finally tossed everything down the loo, flushed frantically, and wished there was a bottle of vodka in the freezer for me to swig from. I must say, the spider was cooperative throughout, standing in the middle of the floor, rubbing his legs together, as if daring me to do something about it.
Finally got to bed at midnight, and had to read for 30 minutes to calm down.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Today, after 121 posts, I finally learned how to add links to my blog. But don’t click on Tim, as I messed that one up. Sorry!
Bank holiday weekends make spring my fave season (after summer and autumn). Sadly I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d have liked. All-night parties? Drunken shenanigans? Nope, just the heating in my block is still on, despite the fact that temperatures hit 25 degrees (what is that, 72 or something?) this weekend. Last night I woke at 2.30 a.m. and thought I was dying. Had to take a puff of my inhaler, drink some water, check the window was open (it was) and lie back down to sweat it out.
Went to a party at a colleague’s house yesterday. Most of my recent posts have been about property envy, and as soon as I sell up and move I promise this will stop. But damn Penny’s place is amazing. She lives in a lovely 3-bed Victorian terraced house in Camden, with a lovely little walled garden filled with plants and creeping ivy.
New recipe I am hooked on:
Heat olive oil in a pan, fry some (OK, lots of) garlic, then add chopped spring onions (mmm), a chopped up chilli, and then add roughly chopped pak choi. Serve on its own, or with noodles. Delicious, healthy, no added salt (and doesn’t need it), and cheeeeeep.
Also, a healthy* veggie side dish, which tastes like fries, is slices of courgettes in seasoned flour, fried in olive oil so the outside of each side disc is golden and crispy… drool!
*by my standards
Bank holiday weekends make spring my fave season (after summer and autumn). Sadly I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d have liked. All-night parties? Drunken shenanigans? Nope, just the heating in my block is still on, despite the fact that temperatures hit 25 degrees (what is that, 72 or something?) this weekend. Last night I woke at 2.30 a.m. and thought I was dying. Had to take a puff of my inhaler, drink some water, check the window was open (it was) and lie back down to sweat it out.
Went to a party at a colleague’s house yesterday. Most of my recent posts have been about property envy, and as soon as I sell up and move I promise this will stop. But damn Penny’s place is amazing. She lives in a lovely 3-bed Victorian terraced house in Camden, with a lovely little walled garden filled with plants and creeping ivy.
New recipe I am hooked on:
Heat olive oil in a pan, fry some (OK, lots of) garlic, then add chopped spring onions (mmm), a chopped up chilli, and then add roughly chopped pak choi. Serve on its own, or with noodles. Delicious, healthy, no added salt (and doesn’t need it), and cheeeeeep.
Also, a healthy* veggie side dish, which tastes like fries, is slices of courgettes in seasoned flour, fried in olive oil so the outside of each side disc is golden and crispy… drool!
*by my standards
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