What to do when the sun shines

What do you do when the evening is beautiful: when outside everything is bright and sunny, the birdies are tweeting, the flowers are looking beautiful and the most perfect thing in the world would be to go and sit on a bench in the garden and contentedly read a book...

... but you have hayfever, and if you so much as step outside for a second your nose will explode in a continuous gush of snot that won't stop until approximately 4.00 am a week on Tuesday?

Well, you discover that Channel 4 allows you to watch some of its programmes on the internet, and you spend your evening watching all the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you have missed!

Ha! Who needs sunshine anyway!

World Naked Gardening Day

Gardening whilst wearing nowt but a sunhat? As my Grandpa would say:

"Well, blow me! What will they think of next!"

I love the expression on the old man's face, here!

Hope!

We have just had announcement over the intercom that there is no mains water connected to our work site at the moment. Further update soon. My fingers are soooo tightly crossed that we will be sent home!

Thought: Unless it's a very cruel April Fool??

UPDATE: "Bing-bong! This is an update on the water situation. A limited supply of mains water is now reaching the site. All toilets are now functioning normally." Damn!

Snoring

I've got a sore throat today. Too much snoring, I reckon! There's definitely a role reversal in our house - the woman (me) snores and the man doesn't!!!

Charles says he likes me snoring, though. He listens through the bedroom door and when he hears snoring he knows I'm asleep.

Asleep means I'm not going to get up and come bother him!! :-)

It's for Charidee

Dragonfly, by Natalie

Natalie hopes he will turn into a handsome prince...

My department at work did our bit for 'charidee' today, getting down and dirty in a children's home. Various teams were despatched around the grounds to weed paths or build pagodas or paint walls. Not wanting to get rained on (wuss), I had volunteered for painting, and consequently found myself on a mural painting team. I got to paint fishes all day - hey, better than sitting in front of a computer moving emails around! You can see some of my handywork above. Arty, eh? :-)

We had about 100 pizzas delivered at lunchtime to keep our strength up. It was actually quite difficult to carry on after that - bending down to pick up turps or paint with a large, ironlike ball of pizza in your stomach ain't so easy.

Everyone finished their jobs a little ahead of time and, towards the end of the afternoon, we all found ourselves milling around waiting for the tour and the speeches to start. Me and Natalie decided we could forego the pleasure of standing in a hot, crowded room listening to boring people spout on about being worthy - even if it did involve champagne - so we snuck out the door when nobody was looking and drove home!

Crappy Old Day!

I've been in such a lot of pain today. I only slept for four hours last night so have had a thumping, woolly head all day; a vague pain in my knee that I've had for a couple of days has turned into a big, un-ignorable, burning thing; I have the killer back pain from hell (the cause of last night's lack of sleep); and on top of that I have an eye infection that won't clear up. What on earth have I done to deserve so many hurty things all at once? I can't have that much bad karma, surely?!

Had a crappy email this morning as well. We spent a few hours in Tooting yesterday with my friend Abdul, during which he had expressed interest in some tango information, and Charles said he would email it on. He didn't have Abdul's email address, so sent the tango links to me and asked me to forward it.

Reasonable? Yes?

Oh no! Apparently, because Charles had promised the information to Abdul, he should have sent it directly to Abdul and, because he hadn't, but had gone via me instead, he wasn't showing interest or friendship towards Abdul. Eh??!! The fact that Charles doesn't have Abdul's email address is neither here nor there, obviously - and does the fact that Charles had only gone and spent four whole hours chatting to him yesterday mean nothing? On what planet is a four hour conversation not showing interest or making an effort to get to know someone?! Strewth - men!

Anyway, I was feeling a bit low today, due to all that crap, and could have done with a cuddle really. Unfortunately Charles was having a Man Moment - "I vant to be alone" - so I took it out on the housework instead, scrubbing, dusting and laundering away for several hours. Woo, does our flat sparkle now!

'Baywatch' Running Must Have Hurt!

I've just decided that I'm going to run the Windsor Half Marathon which is in September.

This means that I have to actually do some running as practise, beforehand, if I want to survive for more than a few metres on the day. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination a runner. The last time - well, the only time - I ever did any regular running was in 2003 when I was trying to lose weight and I used to drag myself out of bed at 5.00 each morning to flump along the pavements for 20 minutes. (I had to do it that early so that it would be dark and nobody would see me!). My attempt at getting back into running last year involved just three runs in Richmond Park with Charles until a muscle pinged in my leg, and then I gave up. Haven't done a thing since, really!

Sooo, my first practise run this morning. I thought I'd start gently, with a little run to the shop to get some cheese. (Well, I don't want to overstretch myself!!) A walk down the garden to the back gate was my warm-up, and then 5 minutes of flumping - er, running - along by the Thames until I hit the main road.

Off I went, joggety jog. My new white running shoes gleamed merrily as they pumped up and down. My lungs wheezed scarily as they pumped in and out. Thud thud, cough cough.

I realised within about 4 milliseconds why proper runners are all flat chested. If you have boobs, running hurts! Ow! And yes I was wearing a properly supportive sports bra, but when your chest has a certain level of fattage, there is no bra in this world that can hold everything totally still! (I could have done with a bra for my bum and another for my belly, too - bouncey or what!)

Anyway, I managed to keep up the run for 5 whole minutes without stopping, until I reached the street. From there I walked to the corner shop, feeling that I had certainly deserved my rest. And my cheese. I felt very proud!

* * *

This evening I showed Charles our family photo album - me as a baby, through to my awkward, fuzzy-haired teens. He quite enjoyed flicking through it and seeing what I had got up to back then.

"Is this what you mean when you talk about us spending some 'bonding' time together?" he asked.

"Yes, that's exactly it!" It's only taken him two years to get it, but who am I to quibble - I felt like the teacher whose pupil finally understands the theory she's been trying to drum into him all year.

"I like it! Shall we do some more bonding on Tuesday evening?"

Aww, bless!

Human After All

I'm not usually keen on HR people. They are usually so rigidly into their policies that they forget the 'Human' part of their job title.

I have to take that back now, however.

Last week I had taken a week's holiday but had managed to cry throughout the entire week instead of enjoying a break. (Charles had bravely done his manly duty and let me snot all down his chest for a part of each day/night - lucky boy!) When I mentioned this to Boss Number 1 in passing this morning, she said I should actually take the week's holiday as sickness, for stress, provided HR were OK with that. Woo, she certainly wins her Best Boss Badge today!

The thought of talking to HR was a bit scary though. I chickened out and emailed them - only to have an immediate phone call back, saying that we need to have a face to face talk. Poo! But in the end the HR woman was ever so kind. I sniffed and squeaked my way through a conversation with her and she suggested I should do various things, such as call our company's confidential helpline, speak to a financial advisor, get counselling for the fertility treatment that me and Charles are embarking on, and ask my boss to reduce my workload. I should even take afternoons off whenever I feel the need!

In fact, all I really need is for Charles to get a regular income so that I don't have the stress of carrying us solely on my weeny wage, and for a good, regular sleep pattern to be established at our house so that I'm not so stonkingly tired the whole time. But I thought it was really kind of her to suggest all those things.

And, even though it's against company policy to let me take holiday as sickness without a doctor's sicknote, she said in my circumstances she will let it go through. So I like HR today!!

Back to the 80s

I am going to an 80s party in March and am trying to sort out what to wear. I have decided to finally fulfil my teenage dream of looking like Siouxsie Sioux (I never dared at the time!).

Looking at You Tube videos of the early 80s, clothing was very monochrome - black, white and grey, with maybe an accent of red or blue if you were lucky - bands were fronted by black-haired women wearing white clothes, and they were backed up by men with bleached, white hair dressed all in black. (We have to discount Boy George - and do you remember Haysi Fantayzee? - they were strangely dressed exceptions and nobody I knew even approached that particular multicoloured, raggy fashion!). The general look was very asexual, with similar clothes and hairstyles for men and women, and lipstick and eyeshadow de rigeur for both sexes too. Annie Lennox looked like a bloke, David Silvian looked like a girl, and everyone else joined in the asexual revolution with not an inch of cleavage or a single chest hair to be seen anywhere in the whole of England. And everybody went round with strangely serious expressions on their faces, probably because if they smiled they might crack their mask-like makeup!

Anyway, back to my costume - basically I'm looking for any clothing in black or white - particularly a round collared shirt or a long, loose T-shirt, and one of those triangular scarves that the New Romantics used to wear around their necks. And I will have gloriously black eyeshadow with painted on brows and spiky red lips - fab! How I achieve the sticking-up, spiky hairdo is another matter, but we'll think about that later!

To get you in the mood, here is half my teenage record collection - Jodie's Alternative 80s, the music you probably forgot you ever knew - if indeed you ever listened to it in the first place! No Bucks Fizz or Tight Fit in my record collection, oh no!

The Mobiles

Japan
Wasn't David Sylvian of Japan soooo pretty! I never fancied him at the time but right now, watching that video, my little heart is going pitty pat!

Psychedelic Furs

The Creatures
Woo, go Siouxsie Sioux and - er - Budgie (scary punk name that!)

Split Enz
Watching that last link I just realised how long Neil Finn has been going. Here he was in Split Enz singing my favourite song of 1980 (my brother bought me the record at the time, and I promptly melted it by putting it on the cooker!) and I saw him in concert just two months ago in Crowded House. Which was a fab concert by the way.

Oh my god!! I have just remembered my 1980s rockabilly phase! I used to wear demin jeans with dayglo pink or green socks! Thought I was really cool. Stray Cats, woo! Look at those quiffs, how on earth do they stay vertical?!!
Stray Cats

And I can even top that hairdo - this one will make you spit your tea out - look at Vince Clarke's quiff here!! Candy floss anyone??!!
Yazoo

Ooh, I do like a stroll down Memory Lane.

Blogging

Oh dear, I haven't written in here in ages, have I?

Well me and Charles have moved house, and the new place is nearly sorted... so I will be blogging again soon!

Giant Pickle

I found this piece of spam in my inbox this morning:

Do you like charming the ladies? Watch their jaws drop when you whip out your improved giant pickle!

Er – quite!

Men!

Tango at El Portenito this evening. Leo, the host, usually intersperses the tango with a salsa or two, and sometimes a jive or a cha cha cha, during the evening.

I always long for someone to ask me to salsa, although this longing is tinged with nervousness that someone might actually do so because I don’t actually salsa! On one or two occasions in the past, however, I have managed to do a passing version of a salsa when I have had a leader who understands that they need to keep it uncomplicated. And lead clearly. This has led me to a (false, as it turned out) confidence in my ability to do that particular dance.

I happened to be dancing with one of my regular partners when a salsa came on. I made the mistake, on a past occasion, of telling this same man that I have never learned to salsa and would need a good lead – assuming that he would dance with me and treat me gently – only to have him walk off and find another partner! Barsteward! So this time, when he asked if I salsa, I said yes.

Me, salsa? Har har! Ten seconds later I wanted to go back in time and unsay it! Tom seemed to be in a rhythm all of his own – I have no idea what music he was listening to in his head, but it certainly wasn’t anything that I could hear, and his feet were doing nothing that my feet could replicate. And he was winding my arms around my head and behind my back and just not getting it that I was JUST NOT GETTING IT! At the same time I was trying to keep the shoulder strap of my dress from sliding down and exposing bouncing bits of me that I’m sure people would prefer not to see, plus trying to keep my ring from flying off my finger – not helped by Tom sliding it down my finger every time he grabbed my hand – and also being rather embarassingly aware that my dress was wafting a little too high every time I spun round.

My thoughts during the dance were not:
“Hey, I can do this, I look so cool, I bet everyone wishes they could dance like me!”

Instead my thoughts dotted about, something like this:
“Eh? What is he doing? Ow! Ooh no, I think I showed my knickers then! And my fat belly, I can feel it hanging down over my knickers! Oh god, why does Charles have to be watching me NOW? What the hell rhythm is this bloke dancing to? Is this really salsa? God why can’t we sit down! Huh? What is he trying to do? No my arms can’t do that, you silly man! Oh no, my ring, please don’t pull off my ring! When will this torture ever END!”

It was one of the most embarrassing dances of my life. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I expect Tom felt heartily the same way!

Charles and I had been to Leo’s other milonga, in Wimbledon, on Friday. I didn’t get many dances, then, because Charles was seated next to me and for some reason that always stops other men asking me to dance. I see them look over at me and then look away again as soon as they spot him.

I managed to get Charles to realise this by the end of that milonga, so tonight he spent part of the evening sitting on the other side of the room in order that I could get asked to dance by some other people. It worked, thank goodness! However, I think it’s so silly that that I can’t sit and talk to Charles whilst waiting to be asked to dance! Charles explained that, psychologically, on a primitive level, men see a woman as the possession of a particular man so they can’t go up and ‘take’ a woman from another male. Apparently this would be morally wrong in Man Code! Men, huh!

Women!

Woohoo! Only two weeks to go until my trip to Gay Paree! Well… Gay Disneyland, to be precise. (Oh dear, that sounds just so wrong!)

One of my friends mentioned in an email that she thinks she is plain. Why do we women never see ourselves as we really are? I think she is enviably graceful and feminine, and I would willingly swap my bouncing belly, flat feet and three chins for her grace and slimness any day! Sometimes when she is dancing she is so beautiful!

Old Flat and New Flat

I’m all painful – got period pain, headache pain and sore throat pain. Bleugh. I went into town with Ingrid at lunchtime… we just went into two shops and I came back absolutely flipping exhausted – pathetic or what!

We have our survey thingy booked for the new flat. 11.30 on 16^th. Also, the lettings agency have received my personal reference (that was Simon, who made me sound fab) but not my bank reference. It’s all happening slowly.

My flat sale still isn’t happening yet, though, damn it – I want the money! My solicitor is off work with a sore throat so I can’t really hassle him either!

Computers

Charles’ computer died a death the other day and, as he needs a computer for job hunting (also can’t live without one because he is an IT person who can’t conceive of a day without electronic information in it!) I have lent him mine.

It’s strange not having a computer – I can’t watch TV or get on with my work. I’m having family history withdrawal symptoms, can’t update my records or search my records for information, oh my! What on earth should I do with my evenings now? I’ll have to – um – read a book. Or hoover. Talking of which, I was awake really early this morning so tidied up and did two loads of dishes before work. That felt quite good! One day, oh one fine day, I will actually be clear of all dirty dishes!

Now Now Now!

My thumb is getting gradually worse. Poo! But at least it’s not rheumatoid arthritis, as the tests came back negative. (I almost wanted them to be positive just to show my annoying GP, but no, it’s good that the result was negative!)

I want to put my thumb in a box and not use it for a few weeks as I keep accidentally hurting it, which might be why it isn’t recovering. There are so many things you can’t do without the help of your thumb – pulling up your knickers, trousers and socks being just one – try it, it’s almost impossible. I can’t go knickerless and trouserless just to save my thumb though!

I’ve been told that I may have a new boss soon, to replace Boss Number 2. Oh no! I have worked with this particular lady sometimes in the past, as some of her work overlaps the work of Boss Number 1.

She is a leopardskin-leggings-wearing, super rich, Greek lady and she is such a pain. She wants literally every single thing done now now now, and will stand over you to watch you do it, commenting all the while as if you are not capable of thinking for yourself. Because of her demanding nature I have taken to not answering my phone to her… but if you don’t answer your phone she immediately messages you to ask why you are not answering it… and if you don’t immediately reply to her message she comes running over (from another building!) to ask you why you didn’t reply! I have, on occasion, returned from a meeting or a coffee trip to hear Boss Number 1 explaining heatedly down her telephone that the reason I wasn’t answering my phone was because I wasn’t actually at my desk! And then, after a moment, saying incredulously, “Well, perhaps Jodie has gone to the toilet, Krystina!” She actually phones my boss to find out why I'm not at my desk!

Apparently this lady is going to move over to my area so she will be constantly on top of me. Bleh!

Pray

We have had the result of our site survey at work. No redundancies – yee har! In fact we are going to be given millions of pounds to improve our ugly, dilapidated buildings. Hey, we might even get air conditioning that works!

My flat sale is coming along, too. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel at last. The retrospective consent for the windows I had installed has been given, which I think was the only thing holding up the sale, so it should zoom ahead now. We have put a rental deposit down on a posh flat near the river and move into that on 16^th January.

It has occurred to me that Patrick’s group at work are getting very religious. Both Patrick himself and his admin are both keen churchgoers, talking about religion and god and church whenever the opportunity presents itself, which, as a total non-believer, I find a bit uncomfortable. And the other morning I came across Vince, slumped across his desk, with his head in his hands. I was a little concerned.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

No answer.

“Are you alright, Vince”?

Still nothing.

“Vince?” I screeched, loudly, and prodded him on the shoulder.

He jumped and looked up at me.

“Sorry, I was praying,” he said.

Oops!

Blimey, Patrick’s group meetings are going to turn into prayer meetings soon!

Because lettuce tastes lovely - doesn't it?

Watch out World, I'm on a diet!

I shall spurn your luscious chocolate cakes in favour of limp green crap. I shall laugh in the face of blubber. I shall be thin!

Ha!

Flats

I am having problems finding a place to live with Charles. We looked at the most gorgeous place yesterday - posh as hell, with ornate gardens leading down to the river, and two, yes two, bedrooms - but, because it's on the 'wrong' side of the river, all I got were moans from Charlie-boy. Basically he wants to be perched on the very top of Richmond Hill, as Mick Jagger's neighbour, and nothing else will do! The trouble is we don't have the budget for anything up there, they seem to start at around £2000 per month for one bedroomed flats, and anything up to £4000 for 2 bedrooms.

Convinced that I just hadn't been looking in the right places, Charles sent me a load of internet links for flats in Richmond, and I spent some time looking through those this morning. However, although initially they all sounded promising, none of them were as good as they made out. When I looked closely at the photographs, or read through the details, I realised that they were all pretty much studio flats masquerading as one bedroomed places, or basements with 2 foot kitchen 'areas'. We both got excited about one particular 1 bedroomed flat that we could actually afford, which was half way up the hill - only to find, when I phoned up the estate agent, that it was a single bedroom which could, in fact, barely fit a single bed in it! Hopes dashed on every single internet link!

In addition to the posh flat I mentioned, I have also seen two others by myself. On reflection, I think I made the wrong decision in trying to save Charlie-boy some time by viewing them without him though. The two flats were just about affordable and I must admit I had high hopes. However, one was an ex-student flat (and, boy, couldn't you tell - it had a rusting tin bath in the garden, and curtains instead of doors!) and the other had a kitchen only big enough for one person to stand in at a time (if they breathed in), and a shower but no bath. Crap, basically. And they were only one bedroom - no room for a study for Charles. But as Charles hadn't seen either place he was under the impression that the posh flat we viewed was a bit cruddy and we could do much better! O to live in Charles' little world!

Anyway, I now have to try to convince him that we would be lucky to get the flat we saw, and that cheap Richmond Hill flats only exist in a parallel universe. And quickly enough that some other person doesn't snap the nice flat up before us!

And if I go to see any other flats I'm blooming well dragging him along with me!!

Va-va-voom! (not)

I was wearing my new, black, see-through, Ann Summers number with silky black stockings. Over the top I had on a hip-hugging pencil skirt and a lacy red top. All very clingy. And I wore my stiletto-heeled boots for good measure.

I hid everything bar the boots underneath my coat and drove up to the station to collect Charles.

When we arrived back at my flat I pulled him in through the front door. I slid my coat from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, showing him what was on offer. He liked!

I moved into the kitchen and began to prepare our food - honey roast parsnips.

"Charles!" I called, "Would you come in here and take off my boots?"

He obliged and, bending down at my feet, took off my boots, one at a time, sliding his hands up my legs as he did so. I heard an appreciative "Mmm!" from below. He stood up and squeezed his arms around my waist. I could feel things stirring just where they ought to be stirring...

"Now take off my top!" I sighed, seductively.

There was a pause.

"Oh no, let's do that later." he said.

Eh?

"I'm trying to seduce you!" I prompted, just in case he hadn't spotted it.

"Yes, I know, but can't we do that after tea?"

* * *

I obviously have less va-va-voom than a parsnip!