Trooper...?

I went to work today to fix the report that was supposed to be ready by this afternoon. I still feeel terrible and it must show. All day colleagues tell me to just go the bloody hell home! I am a trooper but by 3pm I'm not fooling anyone and decide that maybe I should leave. The thing is that, while having a job no-one else can do makes you almost indispensible, it does create problems when you take time off. No-one else can cover any of it and it just piles up. But then I do have my health to think of. I should try and recouperate and shake this thing off for good.

Crappy and not happy

I feel like absolute crap. I mean serious crap-o-la. I stayed in bed all day today and missed two house viewings in North Hoddesdon and West Cheshunt. I couldn't even drag myself out of bed for a quick email or two, or to play Rollercoaster Tycoon on my PC. I just wanna sleep. I just want my brain to stop trying to expand beyond the boundaries of my skull. Do I have meningitis? I check my arms and stomach for blood poisoning. Nothing. I must have actual 'flu and not just a bad cold. Damn!

I haven't eaten all day. I am so hungry. I crawl downstairs and make a sandwich and a nice long drink of orange squash and aspirin. I sit in my drug-infused stupor and watch Pirates of the Carribean before deciding that maybe I should go back to bed...

The next Nina Simone?

Normal people stay in bed when their head feels like its pumped with steel cotton wool and their voice sounds gravelly when they talk. What do I do? I get up ridiculously early for a Saturday (well, 9am) and drive to Ramsgate to see Pete. I've been meaning to see him for ages and I'm not gonna let some pesky 'flu bug stop me. At the petrol station I fill my car with unleaded and my bag with tubes of Lockets. Throughout the entire drive I do nothing but eat one after another of honey and lemon Lockets; they taste vile but oh, boy do they work! I sound more bluesy when I talk now and not so raspy. I can sing Nina Simone songs with surprising accuracy.

It was cold and rainy all day as it always is in Kent when I'm there. I never quite shook off the 'Rainmaker' nickname... Pete was pretty upbeat as per normal and happily whisked me to Whitstable. The town is dead and boring but tourists think it's 'quaint', which is not a word I would normally associate with an ex-fishing town full of weirdos. Anyhow, Pete is part of the production crew at the Playhouse, the brightly-violet-painted theatre on the high street. We go up to the sound booth and have the perfect view of the audience and stage. Pete is in his element, doing checks on the sound effects he's gonna need for the performance and gladly explaining what every single switch and button does on the switchboard.

People start to file into the theatre and a girl joins us in the booth, setting up the spotlight she operates and checking the colour filter. The pantomime started and it was good fun. I got to follow the script which was covered in bright orange post-its to mark where Pete had to use a sound effect. It was mostly thunder for when the bad guy came out but it was cool as sound effects go. In the second half, while kids from the audience were singing She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain up on the stage, we got to shoot water at the audience with tiny plastic water guns, which was probably the highlight of the afternoon!

The panto ended at 5pm and I bootlegged it back to London, just in time for my brother's birthday meal out. We hit a crowded restaurant in Grange Park and calmly ask for a table for nine. Orders for food and drink are fired at the hapless waitress who appears to be short on a few brain cells. As the evening wears on I feel more and more like crap. Instead of dessert, I have hot chocolate. I know! I skipped dessert! Me!! What annoyed me was the drink was supposed to come with frothy foam, chocolate shavings and café sticks, and all I got was a lame layer of bubbles. No foam. No chocolate shavings. No freaking café sticks! If I wasn't ill I'd make a fuss. But I'm too groggy. So I drink up, wrap up, and hit the sack in a phlegm-filled haven of duvet and pillows.

Flooring the statistics

After Friday's meeting with an external contractor, I was lumbered with typing up the minutes, arranging visits to the company's main and local offices, drawing up a list of properties for re-surveying, and issuing a list of properties already accessed. Today, I finished it all.

I originally sent out the first draft of minutes on Monday, waited until this morning for everyone's responses and amendments, and then sent out a revised copy about 11am. At 4.30pm, the lawyer writes back to ask if I could send her amendments out in a final email of minutes. Oh my god! They are just freaking minutes!! And she didn't even add anything major. She basically re-wrote one of my comments to make herself look better. I'm not sending out minutes a third time. It was embarrassing enough having to do them twice!

Anyway, after lunch I set about doing all the things I should have been doing over the last two days. By 2pm my throat is sandpaper-like and I'm praying the phone doesn't ring because talking will be near impossible. I feel like crap. And I bet I'm dragged to the company's local office tomorrow to take more minutes. 5pm on the dot I leave the office. On my way out, the new manager stops me and says how my property lists were really good and that I floored the statistics. I smile, nod, and manage to croak out a thank-you, even though I'm not sure how a property list can floor statistics...

Bad hair day

You know some days you just wake up but don't feel like actually doing anything? That's today. Unfortunately, I have a hair appointment. I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and head into the cold for the short walk to the hairdressers. The woman who usually does my hair only works there weekdays so the manager does my hair instead. Well, I've had better cuts. I didn't tip because she didn't curl the back properly or cut the front slants in a very straight line. Its a bad cut when you go home and find yourself cutting your own hair. Needless to say, it's going to be tied up for a couple of weeks and then it'll have all levelled up and won't be so noticable.

I cheered myself up with a raspberry & peach muffin and tall latte from the v crowded Starbucks before picking Rosemary up from drama class and heading home for an afternoon of back-to-back Avengers episodes.

And even though it's my brother's birthday today (he's 19) I didn't see him all day. He spent it drinking in the local and shooting pool. That's how I spent my 21st.

Out and out

Dad’s out of hospital. He was discharged yesterday but didn’t come home until late last night. He stills looks like the living dead but is nevertheless going to Pam’s again tomorrow, despite the fact it’s Christopher’s birthday, because Pam’s friend is 50 and her party is apparently more important. Hmm…

One wedding and a singleton

Today I received an invite for Tara and Peter’s wedding in April. Weddings are cool - free food, a usually well-equipped bar, a good chance to catch up with people you may not have seen for some time, and generally a chance to have a good old time.

The only problems I have with weddings is that they celebrate togetherness and, disregarding my latest attempt at a relationship, I have believed for some time that some people are just not meant to be in a ‘couple’. Having been single for the vast majority of my life, I find that I actually like it like that and, even though I often find myself wishing I had another person to depend on, I like my single status, my independence away from others, and the fact that I’m bucking from the trend where women have to get married and have kids in favour of concentrating on a career and basically doing things for ME. Sure it’s selfish, but then so are the people who call to sell kitchens or double glazing while I’m eating my dinner.

At least the invite just stated my name and not something like ‘Clare + 1’ or ‘Clare and Guest’. It shows that people are comfortable with me being single and that I don’t have to scour the countryside for a bloke called Guest.

Reality check

Anna woke me up at 7.30am this morning in floods of tears. In between sobs (and me telling her to take deep breaths) she says that Pam has called her to say that Dad collapsed around 3am this morning from suspected food poisoning. He was wandering around the room and, being half-asleep, she asked him what the matter was. He replied he didn’t feel too good and then just crumpled to the floor. She called for an ambulance and Dad is now on a drip in a hospital somewhere in South London.

Anna is distraught to say the least and I quickly dress and drive her to work. We have decided to tell Chris what has happened but will keep it quiet from Rosemary. I drop Anna off and drive to work on auto-pilot. Stuff like this gives you a sudden sense of perspective and a good reality check. Anna said it was lucky Dad was at Pam’s because if he had collapsed at home, none of us would have realised until we had a phone call from his office asking where he was. I just shrugged my shoulders and pointed out that he probably wouldn’t have gotten food poisoning if he wasn’t at hers in the first place.

How now brown towel

Sometimes it's good to wait until really late before writing my blog (or my blogity blog blog, as Anna calls it).

Originally, this was going to be a lengthy tale of Anna's failed attempts at an omelette - she basically added too much milk, it went incredibly watery, it took twenty minutes to cook, and then it just fell apart, and the bottom burnt. It was one horrible mess. She dished it up and said, "Jamie Oliver, eat your heart out!"
Dad quipped, "I think he'd prefer to."

But then something else happened. Which somehow was lots funnier. Anna passes the internet cable to me to use, stands up from her chair, and starts rifling through the clothes hung on the back. "Have you seen my towel?"
"The towel hasn't been on your chair for ages," I said.
"It was there Saturday when I washed my hair. It's my brown one. Where's my brown towel gone? How now brown towel?"
We both suddenly collapse into hysterics and Anna can barely stand up from laughing. She then starts searching the room: under the desk; behind the radiator; in the bathroom next door; in her washing bags; the back of her chair again; the bathroom next door again; between her duvet and top blanket... All the time muttering, "Where is my brown towel? I had it..."

In the end I said, "If you're sure it's not in the wash cycle, look in the bathroom cupboard. I bet someone took it off the dryer and put it in there."
"But I had it in here!" she whines.
"Where now brown towel?"
This only sets us off again and we even start to manipulate the lyrics of One Love by Blue to fit the situation, which is fitting since it's playing on Anna's media player:

I don't wanna give up, I don't wanna give in,
The towel has disappeared
I don't wanna give up, I don't wanna give in
Gotta keep looking
Brown towel, where have you gone?
Brown towel, oh gone so long
Brown towel, where do you hide?
How can I survive?

We didn't get much further because we just collapsed in hysteria again. We should really drink less caffiene.

Diabolical masterminds

Were you unfortunate enough to watch the film The Avengers today on C5? Wasn't it a load of trite? Of course it was!

If anyone affiliated with film had even watched one episode of the Steed/Emma seasons they would know that this film captured absolutely none of the style and charm that made the TV series The Avengers such a delight to watch. They would know, however, that its basically the storyline from A Surfeit of H2O and the criminal mastermind from the Honor Blackman episode, Mr Teddy-Bear. Uma Thurman is trying to be aloof but just appears miserable. Ralph Fiennes looks more like Stan Laurel than John Steed. If you are a fan of the TV series, please please please do not watch this film. It sucks. Big time.

Wanna know the nitty-gritty details of why it failed on such a grandoise scale? Read this (from one of the fave websites): http://theavengers.tv/forever/movie.htm

PS You would think dear Patrick Macnee would have had the sense to avoid this, wouldn't you? But he didn't. He had a speaking part as Invisible Jones so you don't actually get to see him. Diana Rigg was the smart one. She avoided all connection with the film. Bet she's pretty chuffed with herself now.

Bridget Jones Syndrome

I am rapidly expanding. Well, I've put on two and a half inches in two weeks, which I feel is an expansion of rapidness. I asked Anna if she thought I looked any bigger. She drags her eyes away from Coupling and surveys my figure as I twist about in front of the mirror.
"Yes, you do," she says.
Good bigger, or bad bigger?
"I don't know," she replies distractedly. "Good bigger?"
I need honesty.
Anna sighs and eyes my waistline. "Well, your stomach would look smaller if you breathed in."

Okay, maybe I'm being a little drastic. I am slim - ask anyone - but I'm putting weight on fast. And breakfast is the culprit. The scales were dusted down and stepped upon. Thirty seconds later I took a deep breath and actually looked at the dial. I stepped off. Then repeated the process another two times. This is the problem when you have a fully carpeted bathroom: the scales only work on a flat surface, so you have to weigh yourself three times and use the average measurement. My average was okay. I was hoping to be half a stone under my result.

My father doesn't understand my obsession. When I told him my weight, he said, "Even if you were four stone over that you'd still carry it off."
Unfortunately, it doesn't compensate for the fact that I feel like a whale. Still, only another two weeks and January is over. You can still get gym discounts in February, right?

Relocation, relocation, relocation

I was officially told today that our team could be moving offices. The senior turned and said, "By the way, you know you might be moving across the depot?"
"No," I replied, "I'm always the last to know."

But I have to admit, there have been some rumours going around about a possible move for some time. A couple of people have cornered me at the printer/ watercooler/ stationery cupboard to ask me if I had heard anything about staff movements. Please, like I would find these things out first! The first rumour was that we were relocating to Wood Green. Then there was talk about some of the staff rotating so only some people would relocate. Now there's talk that the smaller teams within the department are being moved to the store huts so the larger teams can be together in the offices. It kinda sucks.

Anyway, I'm going to wait until floor plans are produced before I start sticking my oar in. I'm going to attend meetings and voice my opinion! It's cool being off agency. And, if I do relocate, it'll be my fourth move in four years. I guess it's important to keep moving. I might catch something otherwise...

The Benton Bunch?

Yesterday I was officially told about how Dad and Pam want to sell their respective properties and have us live all together as one big happy family. I’ve already known about it for a couple of months now, so it wasn’t a great shock. I was really just biding my time, wondering when they were actually gonna tell me. I had visions of being told to “pack a box because we're moving out tomorrow”.

Anyway, I just smiled sweetly and said “Cool.” Not in a tone that said, “Oh, great, wow, I'm thrilled” but more in a resigned tone, like “Whatever you wanna do is fine” sort of thing. Dad tries to soften his approach. “You would like a room of your own, wouldn't you? I know you have had to share with Anna all the time. It'd be nice to have your own space, wouldn't it?”

What got me was how he was bragging about being able to afford a seven bedroom house in Hadley Wood and I can’t even afford a studio flat in Edmonton. So I’m having to be all smiles so I don’t get chucked out when Dad actually does sell up and move on. I need to secure my place in the new house, maybe even enough to snag an en suite bedroom. It’s worth a shot…

I told Mark about it at work today. He said, “All of you together? Like The Waltons?”
“More like the fucking Brady Bunch(!)”
Mark laughed. “Yeah, I guess so…”

To breakfast or not to breakfast?

I have to say, this whole ‘eat three meals a day’ certainly has a downside. Of course, the upside is that I’m supposedly healthier. That’s probably because the downside is that I seem to be hungry nearly all the time. I’m having breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, mid-afternoon snack, dinner, late evening snack… It's ridiculous. I can’t tell you how many bowls of cereal I’ve gone through in the past week. This breakfast thing is stupid. Seriously.

Next time I see Andrew, I'm gonna be two sizes bigger... and I'm gonna kill him. I can't be two sizes bigger and be happy. I live in London. I have to be self-obsessed about looking good and keeping fashionably up-to-date. Eating breakfast is gonna ruin my life and my waistline. I very much doubt I'm the svelte 27" I was pre-Christmas and I'm only ten days into the New Year.

Yep, Andrew will just have to die. Then I won't be obliged to keep my promise to him.

Daniella's Christening

Pamela and Joni's daughter, Daniella, has her christening today. Unlike their wedding, which was overflowing with people, this event was very low-key with only close family and friends invited.

Mina and I had already decided to arrive together, being young single females without men to accessorise our arms with. I drive to Stoke Newington and we take a taxi to the church, situated near Bethnal Green train station. We are the first people to arrive and we sit shivering in the cold church, chatting softly about Mina's brother's wedding in two weeks. Laura then arrives with Beryl and... is without George.
"Where's George?" we ask.
La rolls her eyes and tuts loudly. "He's still asleep." It's 3.15pm. "I get so annoyed with him. He always does this. He says he's gonna come and then at the last minute decides he can't be bothered. Mum is gonna tell me he always does this. I've got that to look forward to when I get home. I wouldn't have told Pamela to pay for his place if I knew. You know she had to pay the restaurant per head? I'm glad Beryl could give me a lift..."

She continues to rant as more people fill the tiny church. Daniella is dressed in a heavy white christening dress and is rather restless. Joni is playing the proud father and is grinning ear to ear the entire time. Victor is playing with his nephew and sitting with his sister. Linda is at the front with her brother John, playing the role of godparents. The priest ambles out and starts muttering something. I can't hear him from five pews back. Laura shows me the text he's reading from and I attempt to follow. Thankfully the ceremony lasts about fifteen minutes and we're out in the cold again.

Mina calls a taxi and Pamela asks where I'm parked. I point at my four inch pink sandaled feet and say, "I ain't driving in these babies!" Pamela gets annoyed that Mina and I are using a taxi service, saying that there is a space in her and Linda's cars for us and, when Mina said she was coming with me, she presumed I was driving and didn't need a lift. In the end, Mina goes with Linda and I'm squashed into Pamela's car with her mother practically sitting on top of me, her father in the front, and Joni holding Daniella on the other side of her mother. For the entire journey from Bow to Walthamstow, Pamela's father was saying, "Why are you going this way? John would drive the other way along the motorway." I presumed he meant the main roads - there aren't any motorways in Hackney. "John's going to be there before us. Why are you going the long way around? You're letting everyone cut in front! We're going to be last." In the end Pamela just snapped. "I'm driving Dad, not you! I'm going this way because it's the route I know. I'm letting people in because I'd rather they didn't smash the car up and I have four cars following me. It doesn't matter when we get there, as long as it's safely. I have Daniella in the back and she's not strapped in." Pamela's father shut up and quietly smoked out the window.

Eventually we arrive at Uffizzi, which has been closed to the public for this occasion. We are seated according to name tags, and I am placed with Mina and Laura at the back of the restaurant. The food was good - parma ham and melon, ham and cheese chicken, and chocolate fudge cake. Throughout the entire meal, a photographer was taking pictures of Daniella sitting with people, and taking group photos of her with Pamela and Joni, and various members of family and friends. I managed to get a couple of photos of my own after dinner, by which time Daniella was increasingly fractious, having been man-handled all day, passed around to everyone, and being consistently jogged up and down.

The manager of the restaurant then set up a karaoke machine at the side of the room, plugged in this woman's white Ibanez, and started singing some classic songs - Jailhouse Rock, Daydream Believer, Mustang Sally, Stuck In The Middle... It was a right sing-along! After a while though, it began to get boring, although Maxine's little girl did ask for the Barbie song and had her request rejected, much to the amusement of us and the embarrassment of the manager, as the little girl promptly burst into tears at being denied a cheesy song by Aqua.

Eventually Mina and I made our excuses and taxied back to Stoke Newington. I go in for a cuppa, and Mina asks if she can tell her Mum about my NYE 'experience'. I nod and suddenly Mina spouts a torrent of Italian, waving her arms around and pulling over-dramatic faces. I wonder if she's telling the right story! And then she suddenly went, "Bastard!" It was hilarious! A rapid speech in fluent Italian punctuated with "bastard" in a London accent. Classic.

He's not 'The One'...?

After a week of feeling sorry for myself, I decide that there is only one thing for it: I have to see my best friend from school. Tara is v. cool, way cooler than I will ever be. And she's very helpful when I need advice, including how to get over being rejected by a guy who is possibly 'The One'. And she actually read my on-line novel, though she admits that Jenny's was better (but then any novel by an English major is always gonna be better than mine).

Tara and Pete, her newly-acquired fiancé, live near Southend, which is about 45 miles around the M25 and down Southend Arterial. Its a nice little jaunt and I intend to visit for lunch and maybe hang out for most of the afternoon. Gale force winds from the South coast try and push my little Ka upside-down as I'm hurtling down the motorway at 80mph. I can actually feel the car being rocked, and whoosing past lorries on the left, with the wind pushing on the right, is a real experience!

Anyway, we discuss my 'situation' - I like a bloke, he doesn't 'dig' me that way, I'm pretty distraught by it all, I'm assured that he probably isn't 'The One'... But what was funny was the conversation that followed my whole explanation of the events and my wallowing in self-pity.
Pete: "You're dressed as Shania Twain?"
Me: "Yeah."
Pete: "You danced like that?"
Me: "Yeah."
Pete: "And he doesn't stick his fucking tongue down your fucking throat?!"
Me: "Nope."
Pete: "He's a poof." (Pause) "I would have stuck my tongue down your throat."
I think I'm flattered.

Anyway, since weddings are on the agenda, this is pretty much all we talk about. We're discussing dresses, flowers, colour schemes... We're pouring over brochures, menus, bridal magazines... Guest lists are looked at and counted up. Menus are playfully argued over (apparently steak and chips are not on). Suddenly its 9pm and maybe I should get going...? It was amazing how time just flew by. I didn't realise. Mention weddings and that's it: women will talk about them all day.

Simpson's & the Painted Hall

My grandfather loves taking me out to the West End and treating me to dinner at expensive restaurants. It's cool having a grandfather like that! Anna doesn't appreciate on-ceremony in restaurants but I love it, so you can imagine my absolute delight when I'm taken from Liverpool Street station by black cab and stop directly outside Simpson's on The Strand.

Simpson's is located a couple of doors down from The Savoy in the heart of theatreland and is incredibly upmarket. It is also incredibly old-fashioned and women weren't allowed in the upstairs bar area until about ten or twelve years ago. Luckily I dressed up a bit but I had to wear trainers because we always end up walking loads! Surprisingly I'm allowed inside and we relax upstairs in the soft leather armchairs. A waiter serves us drinks and I observe that the other occupants of the bar are older men acting as they would in the old-style gentlemen's clubs - a lot of guffawing, slaps on the back, and phrases such as "Hel-loo old boy!" and "How are you, old chap?" surfacing above the general hubbub of conversation. I swear, if someone had said something like, "Ooh, what ho!" I would have doubled up laughing. It was like being in the 1930's! Photos adorn the walls, some of them signed, including a barely recognisable Charlie Chaplin, complete with wavy blonde hair and smiling in a shy manner.

The restaurant is situated on the ground floor and the waiter insisted on carrying my unfinished drink for me on a tray.
"Why can't I carry my drink down the stairs?" I whisper to my grandfather.
He looks shocked and stutters, "You can't carry your drink when there are waiters being paid to do it for you!"
Oh. Right. Silly me.

We are led to our table and the maitre d' pulls my chair out for me and then whacked my heels with the chair as he tried to push it back under me so I could be seated. He apologised profusely and I just smiled, saying it wasn't his fault my legs barely fit underneath the table. I wedge them underneath the low-set table and allow him to fuss over the table placements and place my napkin for me. He then hands me a menu and, oh my god, I couldn't see anything that I would feel okay about eating! Fallowed deer, casseroled pheasant, quails eggs... I was just bewildered at what I was being offered. I unbravely go for the 'London traditional soup' (which is pea and ham) followed by roast lamb. The soup is probably the best soup I've had for a long time. Empty hot plates are placed on the table and the roast lamb is wheeled out onto the restaurant floor and carved in front of me... I am only slightly horrified. The meat was slightly pink but, oh my god, was it good stuff! Lamb gets greasy so easily but this was absolutely spot on. It was seriously good food. Dessert was just as good - lemon sorbet, brandy snaps, and fresh strawberries and blueberries. Coffee was served by a very good-looking waiter who kept looking at me strangely. I guess he thought my grandfather was some sort of sugar daddy...

After lunch we headed to Greenwich so I could see the Painted Hall, which is situated across the road from the Maritime Museum. The hall was so beautiful, like what the Sistine Chapel must look like. The ceiling is just one enormous Renaissance painting and to save neck strain, there are mirrors on what I can only describe as tea trollies, so you can look down and see the ceiling reflected in the mirror. I took a few photographs but it was so gloomy outside that the inside was lit poorly so they might not come out properly. But it was a wonderful feast for the eyes. I can't believe I didn't go sooner! A definite must for the tourist who thinks they've seen everything.

Epiphany

Ah, the twelfth night of Christmas. I never understand why we celebrate the manifestation of Christ to the Magi by tearing down Christmas decorations. It seems a bit silly. "Oh yes, the wise men travelled hundreds of miles on camel-back following a star to Bethlehem and, to celebrate their long and arduous journey, we take down the lights, recycle the cards and burn the tree." Nice, eh?

I personally think that the Epiphany should have its own celebration. That way, Christmas Day itself may actually have a little more meaning if the whole thing was split into two separate celebrations. Surely the long-suffering Magi deserve better recognition? I mean they had that long journey by camel, and riding a camel isn't all that great I'm told; they smell and are incredibly uncomfortable to ride. They also had to deal with King Herod and go home another route from the way they came, probably longer and even more uncomfortable. We celebrate Christ's birth and we celebrate the fact that the shepherds came and worshipped Him. Why not celebrate the arrival of the Magi too? I mean, the Magi nearly missed Him and all, because they all had to leg it into Egypt until it was safe to return back home to Nazareth. Give the Magi a break. Take down the decorations on the 7th.

New Year's Resolutions

Like many people across the globe, a new year arrives and I feel as if it is like a new beginning, a fresh start where I can finally bring my life into order. I therefore make resolutions that will somehow make my life better for this year and many to come.

The reality is that the resolutions are either so far fetched that they would never be feasible or they are so stupid that they don't really count as resolutions. This year's are the same as last year's:
1. Move out of parental home
2. Stop biting nails
3. Join the gym
4. Eat three meals a day

No 1: Well, the housing market in the UK is slowing but I still need an annual income of c.£30K before I can buy somewhere. This will only happen if the housing market crashes, I get a salary hike, or I get married - all of which are pretty unlikely in the near future.

No 2: I need willpower, Sally Hansen formula, and no bad days to break this habit. It's unsightly, unattractive and unbreakable. Roll on 2006.

No 3: It's for my well-being but it's not the most social of settings, trying to talk to another person whilst out of breath. And it's costly if you don't go at least twice a week. Anyway, I don't 'do' sweat. Maybe I should just check out the solarium...?

No 4 is happening but will probably lapse when I can't get into my snug-fit jeans. The argument was that eating breakfast would be healthier and, if I got a size bigger, I would be able to carry it off. I'm keeping this one until February. Promise.

Goodnight 2004

I was woken up by the sun this morning (stupid east-facing window) and probably got a total of four hours sleep. I jump into the shower, get dressed, and realise I've left my book at home. Andrew must have reading material somewhere... Nope. We have a collection of computer programming books, a Thai cookbook, and zero reading material. I play with my mobile phone, text people 'Happy new year!' and try and imagine different room layouts for the flat.

Andrew eventually emerges about 12.20pm, three hours after I woke up. We slowly potter about, yawning away, and wander around a few shops in the city centre. I know it's New Year's Day but it's also a Saturday and only half the shops were open. And they all closed by 4pm. We were rushed in Dolcis where I bought the prettiest pair of pink sandals for £15. (I love shoe sales!!)

In the end though, we decide that we are way too tired to be bothered to actually do much and, now that it's dark outside, we could maybe sleep for a couple of hours before going out. I'm promised to be woken at 6pm, and we both get some shut-eye. At 8.20pm, I wake up shivering (I don't think the radiator works in the spare room) and stagger into the bathroom, completely disorientated from my evening nap, and my body not knowing what time of the day or night it is. My mock-anger at being left to sleep was countered - Andy has cooked for me and thought it'd be nice of him to let me sleep. Too disorientated to argue, I decide to just eat and keep quiet!

We eventually head out for a couple of drinks at 10pm. Hardly anyone is about and only a handful of pubs are open. It's like a ghost town! Only two weeks ago to the day, Nottingham was pumping with people. Tonight, I think we saw a total of maybe 100 people in two bars and all the streets inbetween. It was, in a word, dead. I couldn't believe it. In a way, though, it was good because we could talk without having to strain over loud music or other conversations. We finally gave up about midnight and headed back for, yep, more sleep! I can't believe I spent the majority of my first day of 2005 sleeping...