Another one...

Yet another receptionist started work in our building today. We go through them like hot dinners. The problem is that we need someone to cover reception so contractors and visitors to the building don't go wandering around and can be dealt with. However, most of the contractors we use send the same operatives to our jobs each time (so we know them, the tenants know them, etc) so they know where they need to go, and don't even stop by the reception, and just walk straight past to the person they need to see. All in all, apart from the odd company director coming in for a meeting, the reception itself is pretty quiet, and all the receptionist does is frank the post and book the meeting rooms. Rather boring... which is why we go through so many of them. They just get too bored and move on to another job within a few weeks.

But this guy, Reuben, is different. He seems to actually like the job and vehemently denies being bored (even though I can tell he is). He brings in a new book every day, insisting that its his interest that drives him to read, not his boredom (yeah right!). Reuben is also extremely perky. Perky with a capital P-E-R-K-Y. He would even surpass Melissa in Monday morning perkiness, which is a scary concept, I know. I'm keeping a wary eye on this one...

The One With Clare & Rosemary's Day Of Fun

I took a day off work today to take Rosemary out for the day to do whatever she wanted to do. Her immediate response? "Can we go to the National Portrait Gallery?" Can we ever! So we spent a good deal of this morning walking the corridors of the NPG. She knew a few of the people in the '1960's Britain onwards' section and we went to the Victorian and Tudor sections as well, as she's studying those periods in history at school.

Afterwards, we traipsed around Leicester Square a little, watching camera crews set up for tonight's premiere of Shall We Dance? starring Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon. Apparently, Mr Gere is in London tonight. Alas, we didn't see him at all. I was disappointed. "Why do you like Richard Gere?" Rosemary asks. Uhm, Pretty Woman? Helloooo?!

After lunch, we tubed to Knightsbridge so Rosemary could see the food halls at Harrods. She was pretty much in awe of everything she saw. And when we reached the toy section, she went crazy and started rushing from stand to stand to see everything! One toy was a mechanical panda that has movable arms, so when you hug it around its middle, it hugs you back and says things like, "I love you" and "I like hugging you". She absolutely adored it and did nothing but refer to it for the rest of the day. It was enough to make me go barmy. I wouldn't have minded buying it but it was £35 and its not even a special occasion... Maybe for her birthday! She did buy an outfit for her boy Bratz doll (Koby - how gay does that sound?) which was some compensation.

We didn't have time to make a stop at Hamley's so we made a quick stop to the Disney Store on Bond Street before heading home. Again, she went bananas and started hugging all the cuddly toys she could reach but she was easily placated with a Piglet jelly lollipop and fluffy keyring.

I like these days out with Rosemary. I don't get to spend a lot of time with her, as I work all day and in the evenings, she's usually occupied with homework. Plus the 13-year age gap does really show sometimes. It's more of an aunt-niece relationship than sister-sister. But we had fun and that's the main thing!

Happy birthday

It's Heather's 21st birthday today. And it's Tara's birthday. And it's Lynne's birthday. What on earth is happening during June every year...?!

St Valentine's Day

*sigh* Empty postbox again.

Okay, that was a lie. I had some mail today. A pay slip, a bank statement, and two clothes catalogues. No cards. Dreams and visions of walking into work and finding my desk buried under a mountain of rose petals and swathes of chiffon disintegrated when nothing was on my desk save two sample bags of suspected asbestos floor tiles.

Is romance dead? Aren't I supposed to have a secret admirer writing me cute little notes and threading single stems through my windscreen wipers for me to find? Okay, if that happened, I would probably go to the police and report a suspected stalker. But I want to have something incurably romantic to happen to me!

My mate said that if her boyfriend bought her anything for Valentine's Day, she would get mad because he shouldn't be wasting his money on her. (Yes, she actually said that!) My other mate said that buying stuff on Valentine's Day wasn't romantic because it's expected and it's more romantic to be spontaneous. Okay, he's male and is just trying to justify not ever buying flowers. But is it really that dreary on the romanic outlook?

I'm not saying I want to grow fat on endless boxes of chocolate, have a room full of cuddly bears, and have vases full of flowers that only last a few days. I'm just asking for a little romance. Even if its just a card on St V's.

In Acton Town

My brother is trying to get onto a music course for the next academic year, doing either a diploma or a degree. He's not quite sure yet what he wants to do. He did a BTec last year and is working during his gap year to earn a bit of money and sort out what he wants to do with his life. Still not quite there yet but anyhow...

He's found this rather prestigous place in Acton where several well-known artists have graduated from in the past. They are a picky lot and insist on an intake of twelve students per course: lead guitar, bass guitar, drums, vocals. They say it's so they can give each student the attention they need. The reality is that they are crammed into a tiny building and there's no way it can accommodate more than 48 students plus staff.

Anyway, since Dad has conveniently gone away for the weekend, I take my brother to Acton for the open day. Chris admits he can't map read but finally gets the hang of it when we hit Shepherds Bush i.e. when we're almost there. *sigh* We get there and the place is practically deserted. We're told to wait in the foyer, which is six chairs against the wall and a watercooler. After 45 mins, Chris asks when it starts and is told that it's not for another hour. Annoyed, we bail and find lunch before heading back ten mins before it all starts.

Once it got going, it was good. There were live performances by the teachers, who explained about the school and its teaching methods inbetween sets. It was rather professional and we liked what we saw. Chris manage to sign up an assessment for both lead guitar and drums on the same day, which is a nice thing to hear when you have to cart your gear across London! He's a little nervous, obviously because of the small intake and because there were like 100 people there, but I think he'll do well. My fingers and toes are crossed for him!!

Busy busy bee bzzz...

I've been so busy the past week that everything has just flown by and I haven't done anything outside of the office. Since doing work for another directorate, I've barely had time to make myself coffee in the mornings or take a lunch break, it's been so manic. I'm not getting paid enough for this! Still, my six-month probation is coming up and from there on, it's a slow climb up the spinal points and gradual raises for the next two years. Well, it's something to look forward to!

The day fashion died

Anna had to go to a Teaching seminar today but wasn't feeling too good so I offered to accompany her to Embankment before setting off to Oxford Street in my search for Sketchers and the perfect dress. Halfway through my plans, I was supposed to meet Mina for lunch but she texted to say that she was in A&E and wouldn't be able to make it. It just gave me the entire day to work on my quest - excellent!

Unfortunately I found the downside to getting older... I don't like the current fashion. I know, I was horrified myself when I realised it. But I walked through Jane Norman, Morgan, Topshop, Selfridges, all my usual haunts, and all I could find were micro minis, slouch boots (a personal hate), peasant skirts, smocked tops and cheap-looking sequined numbers. Is this what young people of London wear? It would seem so. In fact, the only things I saw and really liked was a £500 John Frieda dress in Selfridges and a £350 Ghost dress in House of Fraser. I can never justify buying designer, and defintely cannot justify those amounts of money for something I would hardly ever wear. What is a girl to do?

I bravely took some items off the rails in New Look and settled into the changing room. I put stuff on and tried my best to like it... but it wasn't happening. I looked like mutton dressed as lamb - a twentysomething trying to look like a tweenie. I give up. Or maybe I should just give Trinny and Susannah a ring...?

PS Cropped trousers are a bad look for everyone. Please do not wear unless you want to look like you've just jumped ship.

The funniest blog yet

http://ihatemyflatmate.blogspot.com/

Tea with James Stewart

When you are sick with a cold, 'flu, or similar, do not drink lots of hot fluids and watch a weepie. You are guaranteed a one-way ticket to phlegm overload.

Here's the deal: hot fluids, whilst comforting, are not good for stuffed noses. The steam breaks the plugs but makes you more liquidy and actually generates more liquid than regular nostrils can cope with. Meanwhile, weepie films, made to make you cry, will actually work ten times better when you are at an all-time low of feeling sorry for yourself because you are ill. Plus, you have the hyper-senstivity of zero immune system and just feeling more vulnerable than usual.

So, drinking tea and watching It's A Wonderful Life is not a good combination! I was sniffly and tearful throughout the entire film. I usually only get emotional at the end. Today, I was even crying when George confronts Mr Gower with the pills he's made up for Mrs Blaine's son with diptheria. I was a freaking mess! Only watch this film during normal healthiness... And you simply have to watch it if you never have before. I love this film!

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...

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve usually sucks and involves watching Angus Deayton or Jonathon Ross interviewing D-list celebrities before orchestrating a countdown and then partying to the sounds of the latest pop sensation.

Not this year. I had already resolved some time ago that I wanted to see in the New Year in a club. Clubbing in London is expensive, with tickets costing something like £40 if you want to go to a decent nightclub. So Andrew offers to go out clubbing with me on NYE in Nottingham for £10. How can I refuse? I obliged and it transpires that it's a fancy dress ball. The reality is, Andy has bought a Dracula outfit and basically wants the most use out of it as he can get. He's therefore searching the area for fancy dress parties. And he's found one. And I'm arm twisted into going.

So I drove to Nottingham this morning complete with fancy dress outfit. I go as Shania Twain in her Man! I Feel Like A Woman video - white shirt, black tie, black mini, knee boots, long black gloves and top hat. I swear Andy's jaw actually dropped when I emerged from the bedroom. We met up with some of Andy's mates and we all walked to the Works nightclub. On the way, I got nothing but comments from people on the streets and endless car horn beeps. Andrew thought it was hysterical. I was really embarrassed, not realising that wearing a mini and knee boots was going to grab so much attention.

Once inside the club it was cool because there were loads of other people all dressed up in different outfits. At least six, including Andy's mate Mark, were in musketeer outfits. Mark's girlfriend, Tara, dressed as Velma Kelly from the stage-play Chicago. At one point we got chatting to Dick Tracy, Snow White, a Stormtrooper and Al Capone in the gangway (and the reward for the weirdest sentence of 2004 goes to...). Andy simply LOVED the attention he was getting from his outfit. He spent the entire evening draping his cloak around every woman passing by, and hamming it up for all it was worth. Such an exhibitionist!! His picture even got onto the club's website (see here). But he did keep his promise of protecting me from any unwanted attention, after a guy reached out as if to shake my hand (which happens a lot when you're in fancy dress in a bar) and then proceeded to try and cop a feel.

The nightclub has two rooms with dance floors: one plays chart music and the other plays dance and drum 'n' bass. We spent most of 2004 in the second room and then the countdown and the aftermath were spent in the first room. We even managed to get a slow dance to a couple of songs so it was all good! They didn't play Shania Twain though, even though I did request it.

Mark and Tara left about 2am and Andy and I headed into the second room again for one more drink and basically to wind down from our drinking binge! We left about 3.15am and walked back. It was pretty cold outside so I got to wear Andy's cloak home! It was toasty warm but I was forbidden from taking it home with me to London! More car beeping and hand shakes were dealt out on the way back, and we just fell into bed around 4am.

The Earth Strikes Back

Work was kinda fun today. Toblerone and Malteasers were passed rapidly around the office (obviously unwanted Christmas surplus) and the mentality was of a regular day at work... but with only 11 people instead of 27. Phones rang, invoices were paid, just the usual 'same old'. We chatted about what we did over Christmas and how some idiot is selling Christmas cracker toys on eBay for a total (so far) of 16p.

Obviously the talk did focus a great deal on the tsunami that hit Thailand. The oceanic plates should only move a couple of inches a year but on Sunday, slipped a staggering 10 metres, causing walls of water to hit all the surrounding coastlines at 500mph. The Earth actually wobbled from the force! People are scared mindless over global warming yet our own planet is taking violent measures of its own without our intervention.

A colleague's son was supposed to fly out to Thailand on Saturday evening, but the plane remained grounded after it was discovered that the door between the pilots and the passengers wasn't bulletproof, so he was put up for the night in a Hilton. Apparently he was pretty miffed. I'm telling you, if my flight was cancelled, inadvertedly saving my life, and I spent Christmas in a Hilton, I'd be freaking estatic!

Unfortunately, some jokes did circulate the office. Something about several thousand flip flops for freebies, water-based hotels, and amenities being a stone's throw from the sea...

Is Christmas over yet...?

Ever wish you were at work? I never thought I would until today. Four days at home with father is enough to drive me crazy. I can barely survive a regular two-day weekend. Four days is positively claustrophobic.

I stay in bed until 11am and then grudgingly get up for a cup of coffee and watch Apollo 13. Meanwhile, Chris went to Stevenage to buy pick-ups and, when he couldn’t find the ones he wanted, bought a £600 guitar instead (as you do). Boys and their toys, eh?

In other news, my best mate from home now has her own blog too (I think it's viral!). Check out Thoughts from Paradise Babe.

Christmas Two

Ah, the first of two Bank Holidays because Christmas falls on a weekend. After a luncheon of cold turkey (I’m beginning to hate turkey already) the family plus Pam and Lynne head out to my grandparents’ in Waltham Cross, and I take Anna with me to pick up my grandmother from Hoddesdon. Once we’re all there, there is the usual flurry of getting presents out and cups of tea being handed around the room. We all sat in a circle around three small tables of snacks (“It’s a bit like a dentist’s waiting room,” Chris remarks) and we all had a chat, relaying work-related information and enquiring as to whether everyone had a good Christmas.

Two hours in, and high tea was served (it's infamously known as Christmas II in our household). I was beginning to get bored. There is only so much you can talk about. I start texting friends, wondering if they were as bored as me. No replies. Crackers are pulled and I start to play with the tape measure I get, measuring everything I can, from the length of my middle finger (3.2”) and my waist (27”) to the table in front of me (18” x 12”) and my brother’s neck (14”). I start to pick at the snacks in front of me. I have a tray of Quality Street, a bowl of Pringles, and a bowl of roasted peanuts. One by one the Quality Street is consumed, and I am horrified when I discover I have actually had nine of them, not to mention the odd handful of peanuts. I go into the kitchen to escape the snacks and decide that my waist may not be a small as it was earlier…

We eventually left at 8.30pm, and I took my grandmother back home, texting Andy quickly before heading back to Enfield. He’s insisting on knowing what I’m wearing for the fancy dress party we’re going to on New Year’s Eve. I'm not telling. It's more fun that way!

Apple Betty

It was decided a few weeks ago that we would go out for Boxing Day dinner. So at 3pm, we all head out to this Beefeater-style pub in Enfield Island Village: six of us, plus Pam and Lynne, my grandmother, my aunt and uncle, and two of their five children - thirteen altogether. Since it was originally for fifteen people, there was going to be spare meals going around, but because no-one had taken note of what they had pre-ordered two weeks ago, it was all rather hit-and-miss.

Starters came out and we all just grabbed what we fancied the look of. I managed to swipe chicken coujons, which surprisingly came with cranberry jelly… A few of the group were disappointed to discover that the spicy prawns were actually regular prawns with curry sauce thrown over them. Not really what we had in mind…

Second course was a choice between turkey, beef or salmon. I avoid beef and don’t eat fish, so I had turkey for the second day in a row. Now, I know that restaurants serve dinner en masse and it can be hard sometimes, but it tasted just like school dinners, or something you would cook at home. When you go out, you expect something a little better than you’re used to. I wasn’t particularly impressed and left most of it.

Third course came up and the choices were supposed to be Christmas pudding, waffles or brownies. Plate after plate of brownies arrived, and eventually one Christmas pudding made an appearance. And then my father was handed what appeared to be treacle tart.
“I ordered Christmas pudding,” he told the waitress.
“It’s apple Betty,” she replied.
“Apple Betty?” my father repeats.
“I thought she said ‘Alphabeti’,” my uncle offers.
“Isn’t that spaghetti?” I ask.
“This is apple Betty,” the waitress insists.
“Alphabeti?” my uncle asks, clearly perplexed.
“It‘s looks like treacle,” my father says, lifting the bowl and inspecting the contents as if they were highly contagious.
“It‘s a surprise,” the waitress offers, trying a new approach.
“It certainly is,” my uncle says. “I thought Alphabeti was spaghetti shapes.”
“It‘s a horrible surprise,” my father says pointedly. “I want Christmas pudding.”
The offending apple Betty is removed, brownies are consumed by the entire table (except Sian who snagged the only Christmas pudding available), and my uncle is still insisting that the waitress said ‘Alphabeti’. My grandmother finally pipes up and explains that apple Betty is actually caramelised apples served with a crumble topping and custard, and was often served to schoolchildren for lunchtimes as it was cheap and easy to cook in large quantities. We all munch thoughtfully and my uncle and aunt disappear outside for a smoke.

Presents are handed out over coffee and Rosemary got a mystic orb, which is really cool. It’s like a bowling ball but much lighter, and you are supposed to ask it a yes/no question, channel your energy through the orb, and then turn it over to see the answer. The bottom has a circle cut out of the outer shell and you can see that the ball is fill with a black watery substance and a triangle that answers plainly ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and then gives 'maybe' answers like ‘It could be’ and ‘The stars shine favourably’. Of course we’re asking it really stupid questions like ‘Is Chris gonna be a rock star?’ and ‘Will I live to one hundred and three?’ and then laughing hysterically at the answers. Maybe we're just a bit punchy from the endless stream of fake smiles and niceties.

My 26th Christmas

Rosemary had promised to wake me up at 5am, which I had repeatedly told her was highly unnecessary. As it was, she woke up, decided it was too early, and didn’t get up again until 8.30am. I grumpily drag myself out of bed and we open our ‘Father Christmas’ presents. Now, I don’t wanna be too explicit, because young eyes may be reading, but I had ten years of believing, and now sixteen years of not. Damn, that means this is my 26th Christmas. I feel rather old…

My grandmother came over to the house about 11am and we all opened our presents from everyone. Paper and tags flew all over the living room, with Rosemary screeching in delight every time she revealed yet another present she had requested. I did rather well myself, including:
- The X-Files on DVD (seasons 2 and 3)
- Steel Magnolias DVD (my tape got screwed up in the player)
- the entire collection of Britney Spears videos on DVD (I have a defective music gene)
- Snow Patrol’s Final Straw and Franz Ferdinand on CD (well, it‘s not entirely defective)
- and the usual plethora of bathroom delights from Boots

Despite all my lovely gifts, one cannot deny that receiving a book signed by the author is pretty much the best and niftiest pressie ever, and Jenny got me just that: A copy of No Plot? No Problem! signed by Chris Baty. Apparently the world needs my book. I am so utterly jazzed! The power of Chris Baty compels me to complete the re-write before the start of the next NaNoWriMo competition!

After lunch, we listened to the radio a little, but by the time you’ve heard Band Aid for the fiftieth time, it gets really annoying. We switched it off and Chris bought his guitar down and played for us. In the end he was taking requests, and we were singing (mostly acapella) to Beatles songs, with the occasional punk song by Green Day and Blink 182.

Working(!) on Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve at work is like being in a morgue (I can only imagine, since I’ve never actually been inside a morgue). Phones were dead. The only call I got all day was from Noel, telling me that they were five minutes from the office and did I remember anything about work being carried out in Croxford Gardens?

I got more pressies at work: wine and chocs from Mark and Noel. At 10.30am, they decide to take me out for brunch, since there’s nothing better to do around the office. We drive around Haringey, trying to find a café that’s open, and find this little place off Seven Sisters Road, which seems to be inhabited by a bunch of people over from Lordship. I confiscate The Sun off Noel (he never skips page 3) and we all had a nice non-work-related chat. About 11.50am we stroll back into the office, and most of the people who could be bothered to come in have already gone. Air kisses and handshakes are exchanged between colleagues and, by 1pm, the only people left in the office are myself, Dennis, and Olubisi.

About 1.15pm, Dennis comes over and says, “I‘m on call out until five, so if you want to, you can go now.”
I ask him if he’s sure.
“Yeah, it‘s no problem. I bet no-one will ring anyway.”
Well, I don’t need to be told twice, and I’m out of there like a shot!

Scary, scary times...

I'm getting really worried about going to and from work lately. Only last week on the way to Induction, a whole corner of Wood Green was cordoned off because of a double murder. A couple of days later, a man was shot outside Tesco in Enfield Town. Yesterday a shopkeeper was stabbed in Wood Green and now this stabbing spree through Haringey and Enfield. All the time is gets nearer and nearer to home.

Roads have been blocked off all day. Worried colleagues from all over are enquiring if everyone is okay and if anyone has seen anything other than road blocks. Meridian Way had the road into Tottenham from the North Circular cordoned off. Further along, two police cars and a large van were parked up between the two lanes of traffic, stopping people randomly as they came out of Tottenham. At the side of the road, next to the railway line, a team of people came out carrying large envelopes marked 'FORENSICS' on them (just like on TV!), and it was all rather worrying.

It made top headlines across the news bulletins and was front page news on the BBC website. It really doesn't help that Edmonton was trying to shed its violent image...

Happy at work

I'm obviously doing something right at work. Normally, cards are exchanged between colleagues and only the boss gives presents. This is because there are so many people working in one area that giving presents, even to only whom we directly work with, would seriously damage finances. But today I received my fourth present from a work colleague. Maybe it appreciation of my administrative support…? Anyway, I'm really touched. Seriously. I can't stop grinning. Maybe it’s a ploy to keep me happy at work!

The finishing touches

The kitchen is finished. I know; it's a miracle! The floor was laid this morning and the last of the boxes were unpacked and cleaned up. The dining table is taken apart, moved into the 'dining room' (which is now a diner/kitchen) and that was cleaned up too.

Then Dad decides that the carpet in the living room needs cleaning. To do this, a hollow rubber ring is attached to the top of the vacuum cleaner and then a two-way tube is run through a hose attachment, so water goes from cleaner to carpet, and then the tube sucks up water from carpet into cleaner. It's very fiddly to put together, and we had all the usual grunts and over-dramatic sighs from father as he put the machine together and scrubbed at the carpet with the attachment. By 10pm, the carpet is soaked with water and shampoo remnants. Since we aren't allowed to step on the wet carpet, we all decide to retire to our bedrooms so we can watch the end of Armageddon on various televisions.

The morning after...

Now I know why I have the bigger room in the apartment: the window faces east. I woke up at 9am, sunlight hitting the sheets and refusing to fade even in the smallest measurement. I hide under the covers but I'm overwhelmed by the smell of the smoke still present in my hair and eventually give up all hopes of sleep by 10.30am. To add insult to the injury, I've forgotten shampoo and can't wash my hair. I tie my hair up and soak it in hairspray, which manages to mask the smoke rather well. Despite being tired and not completely sobered, I'm still wary of the frosted glass door of the bathroom and am extremely careful…! I read a bit of my latest purchase, Star Bores: The Original Parody, which is unbelievably funny, and start to poke my Christmas gifts from Andy. It consists of a smallish squishy package and a very heavy box, which I'm told is not a brick, but I can't drop it or get it wet… Hmm…

I decide that I'd like to see Nottingham Castle. If it was good enough for Robin Hood to steal for, then it's good enough for me! Unfortunately, the castle doesn't actually exist anymore and it's basically a house on a hill. Oh, so it's like Bruce Castle? The 'castle' part is just a name? I was disappointed. And it's full of hideous sculptures, scary paintings, and a cabinet full of silverware that looked like the one my grandmother has in her front room. The view is fantastic though and would have been better if we could have stood of the roof of the 'castle'. And Andy's sudden fascination with a squirrel had us (well, him) chasing it round the park for the best part of twenty minutes. It was incredibly cold though and we headed back into town and darted in and out of shops to keep warm. The city centre was really crowded, full of people trying to get last minute Christmas presents, and it got dark really quickly so I had to start heading off for home.

I eventually left about 5pm and got home about 7.30pm. Apparently, my sister had told my father that I was staying round a mate's and didn't divulge any specifics. About 9pm, Dad was about to go out and just said, "By the way, where did you go?"
"Uhm, Nottingham?"
"That's a long drive for a weekend."
"Yeah."
And that was it. Mind you, if he found out it was a male friend, I would have got the third degree. Sometimes, it's best if parents just don't know!

Tripping the Light Fantastic

I drove to Nottingham today to spend the weekend with Andrew. I didn't get up there until late thanks to an accident between junctions 8 and 9 on the M1, but it was enough time to get thoroughly lost in the city centre (no street name signs anywhere) and witness some pretty horrific driving skills. Anyway, it is advisable not to park on the streets so Andy managed to swipe a secure underground parking space from a work colleague. Once parked up, we head up to the flat. It's right in the city centre and it's ultra cool: balcony, good view, and not too noisy (for me, anyway!). Not keen on the whole design thing though, which includes a frosted glass bathroom door ("Are you sure you can't see in?!"), and a column in the middle of the kitchen area (obviously not there for decorative reasons).

We head downstairs and attack the buffet being held in the Chinese restaurant next door to the building. Apparently, the flat corridors only occasionally smell like take-out but it doesn't actually hit the flats themselves. The restaurant is full of people, mostly of Oriental ethnicity and we manage to swipe a decent table near the food counters. It's worth observing that people don't actually queue for things. They seem to form a queue but in reality, they're just chatting and are not actually in a queue per se. The flip-side is that people generally will not queue when they should. London this ain't!

Eating completed, we head out and stop in a bar which is not all crowded, plays music at a decent level and has v classy décor. We settle into comfy leather chairs and consume two rounds before the music becomes unbearably loud and we decide to move on to a club. Oh, but before we did, I took a trip to the bathroom and met Wonder Woman. Okay, it was a girl dressed up in a Wonder Woman costume, but it was really cool! I told her that I loved her outfit and she laughed and said that she actually wanted a Xena one but this was the closest she could get.

While waiting outside one club (before going into another one instead!) I noticed that there were a lot of people walking around in fancy dress garb – mostly Santa-related outfits, angels, fairies, and comic book characters – and it surprised me. London clubs, you see, are generally pretty fashion conscious and I wouldn't dream of walking into a London club without looking short of fabulous. Here, anything goes and I think it's brilliant! I now feel a little more confident about going to a NYE fancy dress club I've been roped (read 'guilt-tripped') into going to.

So, first club of the night: Long Island Club. The club is on two floors but they play the same music throughout the entire club. The basement consists of bathrooms and a coat check. The music is mainly chart hits of the pop genre so it was okay for about an hour or so. I've now consumed three rounds of JD & coke, and Andy's not sure if he's getting doubles or not… In any case, when we start to salsa to the music and I get spun, the room spins at twice the rate in the opposite direction. I also start to giggle at everything, including the guy at the bar who tries to look cool by tossing glasses behind his back and promptly drops the lot. These are usually signs of stopping. So I grab a diet Pepsi. Then we decide to go elsewhere because what I really love dancing to is rhythm 'n' blues/ drum 'n' bass.

We skip the heavy D 'n' B club and hit Faces, an R 'n' B club, which also stands on two floors, but the upper floor is really a standing area. The music is better in here and the club seems to attract professional dancers, or at least people who can dance extremely well. I have another two JD/cokes. And then my brain feels like its being squeezed. I find the bathroom to try and grab a breather in non-smoky air and witness two girls simultaneously throwing up. Suddenly, the air isn't so fresh in there… So I go out again and we go upstairs where it's a bit cooler and slightly less smoky.

I think I started phasing at this point. This is where the night kind of goes blurry. I generally can't clearly remember events during which I phase, which is anything from five minutes to half an hour. After that I start to sober up, unless I continue drinking, which is generally a bad idea! I do remember walking back without shoes on, and I do remember sobering up whilst still awake, which is a slow and painful experience. I also remember having to play 'Guess the artist' as Andy plays with his iPod and I manage to name a ton of people he doesn't own music for, including Blink 182, Green Day, Squeeze, Franz Ferdinand, The Beatles (!), Snow Patrol and Hoobastank. He did have a Keane track though and I managed to guess all he played except Tubular Bells (the Exorcist theme is Tubular Bells II) and the Prodigy, who I dislike at the best of times. I think sleep came into the equation at about 4am!

Christmas continues

My new boss' generosity continues… He walked around the office this morning and placed on each desk a bottle of wine with a Christmas card attached to it. It's good stuff too. I was touched.

No work was done today though. Friday afternoons end at 2pm for most of the officers and there was a get-together planned for the evening from about 4pm. People started to drift into the office from about 11am, hanging about and generally chatting until it was time to leave. Most people pushed off at lunchtime, leaving the office as quiet as a morgue for the entire afternoon. The phones hardly rang. It was creepy. I declined from going to the drink-up. By the time I've battled through the traffic to Wood Green and parked up in the multi, it'd be very crowded there and I'd never be able to get to the bar for people. Besides, I wouldn't be able to drink because I have the car, so the whole process is rather a waste of time. I've been to my office do; I don't need to go to the Corporate one.

Tax refund

I got a tax refund from Inland Revenue, a lovely gift at any time. Not as much as Anna got last month but enough to treat myself to a little something… £23. It's because tax is reduced on the first pay cheque you receive in a new job and it wasn't taken into account. Still, it's £23 I thought I didn't have!

Cake, anyone?

The new boss of Specialist Works bought cakes in. I think it's supposed to be in lieu of it being Christmas and a season of goodwill, etc, but it may be more of a bribe to make us more accepting of him. Not that I'm complaining. Free Danish pastry? Woohoo!!

Induction

As a new (!) member of staff I have to go on the Corporate Induction course. Not that I remembered. I walked into work, took off my coat, and flipped through the office diary to update the whiteboard. There, in my handwriting, said 'Clare - Induction all day'. Bugger. I grab my coat and start to leave.
"What's wrong?" asked Christine.
"I'm supposed to be at Induction in half an hour."
"Where?"
Hmm, good point. I frantically search through my folder for the memo. Civic Centre. I have to get to Wood Green in 30 mins during morning rush hour. This is not good.

20 mins later, I'm at the junction of the High Road and Lordship Lane and haven't a clue where to park. The front of the Civic is full and the rear car park is by swipe card and pin only. All the neighbouring streets are residential parking only or a maximum two-hour wait. I've been trawling the streets for a parking space for 15 mins before I decide I'm screwed and I have no choice but to park in the multi-storey for £5.

I park up and practically run to the Civic, and arrive in the Chambers flustered and 30 mins late. I make my apologies to one of the ODL people and am informed that the course has just started. Phew. I take a seat next to Nicky and the introductions begin. We are briefed on structure, planning and current goals. The Chief Executive then talked for about an hour and was a bit boring. The Mayoress then spoke for about 15 mins and didn't seem to breathe at any point, she was talking so fast. We are bundled on a coach for a tour of the Borough, during which the Mayoress continued to natter as we made our way up through Ally Pally, round Muswell Hill Broadway, down the border of Haringey and Camden, and then round so we went up Tottenham High Road and stopped at Bruce Castle Museum.

Bruce Castle Museum is very much like Forty Hall. It's a listed building with a few old paintings and some mad occupants and is regarded as a local antiquity. We had lunch and then a obligatory tour of the Museum. The tour guide was very enthusiastic about his work which I could empathise with, being interested in local history and all, but everyone else just looked bored. I have to admit, it was rather like a school trip. The view from the clock tower was very cool and the building is pretty, a mixture of Elizabethan, Georgian and Victorian architecture (is that the right order?), where blocks were renovated, extended and added throughout the years. Tour finished, we had another briefing, this time on equalities, and we finally wrapped up about 4pm.

We coached back to Wood Green and I drove Nicky home. We had a good natter and decided that we need to see each other more often! Once home, I'm all ready to collapse. Roll on tomorrow!

Nearly...

I've just spent the entire weekend unpacking the boxes that have been occupying the living room for the past seven months. Anna informed me that we've been living without a proper kitchen since 3rd June. That's a long time. But we're determined not to eat Christmas lunch off our laps so unpacking commenced. All that is left to do is the flooring so all the cupboards can be used.

Dad is away for the weekend so we can work without feeling hassled or rushed. Chris went to a mate's on Saturday (and I had to pick up him and his friend), a party in the evening, and then to work on Sunday, so he didn't help at all (as per usual).

Boxes were unpacked and I spent ages trying to scrub off the black that had been left on everything from where it had been wrapped in newspaper for seven months. Items were then dried by Anna and Heather, and stored away by Rosemary. It was a good working team. And the living room has enough space for a Christmas tree now. It's all go.

Christmas Dinners

I can safely say that no work was done today. At all. We are booked to have Christmas dinner at the Navigation Inn at 1.30pm, but colleagues start drifting into the office from about 10.30am, chatting, laughing, generally hanging around until everyone is ready to leave. I left with Noel about 1pm, because he wants to drink and so is leaving the car locked up in the depot. We depart with a convoy of vehicles behind the car, because the directions of "Take the main road and turn right on the Chingford roundabout" was too complicated for those who never drive outside of the borough.

Once we're there, some people have already arrived and are attacking the bar. I have a diet Pepsi and amble to the tables set up along the far wall. I want to sit on a good table! Funnily enough, we sat in our usual 'groups'. There was something I think Joel Schumacher said, about how people seem to keep to their 'groups' even when they don't mean to. We had the managers and surveyors on one table, and the administrators, purchasing officer, and the DA/DPC people on another; basically, the 'professionals' and the 'lay people'. Unintentionally split.

Anyway, we munched through four courses, during which I had half a glass of white wine because I still have to drive home. As coffee was distributed, some people broke off to go back to the bar, and the rest of us bunched together and had a good chin-wag. I left quite early (3.45pm) and drove home, showered, and then went out again and drove to Bow.

Linda and Pamela had invited myself, Mina and Laura to theirs for a pre-Christmas get-together. It was fun and we got to play with Pam's daughter, Daniella, who is still incredibly tiny. She fell asleep holding my finger and I had to prise her hand off so I could leave. It was kind of cool to get to hold her though. Mina did the whole baby-talk thing, which I don't really get on with. Maybe if I was older and had no shame I might... :)

Linda is seven months pregnant and is showing lots more than Pam did. I think she might be having a boy. Linda doesn't want to know what gender her baby is until it's born. When we asked why she didn't want to know, she said, "I'd like to have at least one surprise when it's born." Other than, "Oh my God, a baby?! How did that happen?" I presume...

Christmas at Work

Today I was finally nagged into decorating the office for Christmas. I don't mind, actually, but I do have work to do...! However, work was quickly left in favour of collecting the boxes from the stores and starting to make the office look festive, when a batch of mobile phone bills were plonked on my desk. Yep, they can wait!!

So I set up the fake tree and put baubles all over it, mending the thread loops as I went along. Colleagues made comments as they passed the tree on the way to the reception/ water-cooler/ photocopier, etc but most of it was patronising ("That is simply lovely, Clare" etc etc). The receptionist helped untangle the lights because only yesterday I was walking all over her desk putting up her decorations - even standing on the desk she couldn't reach the ceiling. Of course, I got all the usual "Are you sure you need the stool to reach the ceiling?" jokes. Yawn! Lights went up by the office entrance doors and some hanging decs went over the tea 'n' coffee area. Tinsel was wrapped around certain colleagues' PC monitors (the ones who specifically said they didn't want it - heheheh!!) and the remainders were wrapped around the supporting columns.

It all looks really nifty... and took all afternoon. Well, 1pm to 4.30pm, which is a pretty long time really. Just have to make sure I get all my work done before the office luncheon tomorrow...

Candlemaking Clare

I decided that I was going to make some of my friends candles for Christmas, in addition to presents that I have already bought them. I've been playing around with the idea for some time and, since the post-Nano blues kicked in, I'm trying to keep myself busy. Candlemaking is a long process and perfect for this type of depression.

So I dig out my brand new ball mould that I bought at a candle supply shop in Covent Garden before it closed down. It's in two halves so, instead of tipping the candle out when it has set, you just unlock the two halves of the mould and break it out that way. I put the two halves together, thread the wick, and seal it. I melt the wax, mix in the stearic acid, and start to slowly pour the mixture into the mould. Anna sets a mat and kitchen paper underneath to catch any drips. We don't want the new kitchen surface damaged. The mixture nearly reaches the top and Anna says, "It's dripping a bit."
I can see a thin line of wax seeping through the side of the mould. "It shouldn't be," I comment. "The mould was watertight when I tested it."

Suddenly, liquid wax starts seeping out at an alarming rate and I lift the mat so I can hold it over the melting bowl. The wax gushes out and I throw it across the cooker, away from me and Anna so we don't get burnt. But there was wax all over the place: over the side, over the cooker, over the grate... Anna looks at me and I ask her if she's okay. Wax burns are not pretty. She says she's fine and then looks at the molten wax, now solidifying over everything.
"Dad's gonna kill you," she says. Great.

I start scrubbing at the grate and cooker top with a wire mesh, and then take an old cloth and rub the wax into the surface, treating it like a polish. After scraping off most of the excess, the drips of wax melted into the side and cooker top, so no injuries there. I then take the remains of the mould and scrape off the now-solid wax from inside and out. I try to put it back together again, but it's not happening.
"Why did it leak?" Anna asks.
"Dunno," I reply, "but it's not going back together."
"The wax must have been too hot and it has warped the mould."

I finally forced the mould together and, after 'fessing up to Dad, he suggested placing the mould in ice water and then letting the wax cool off before pouring it in. When I pour cool wax into an ice-cold mould, it should set quicker and not warp again. Take two, tomorrow! For now, I have my old tested and trusted moulds hard at work in the kitchen. One's plain white and gonna be decorated with beads. One is really tall and gonna be blocks of colour. The third is all one colour and is being mixed with glitter. It's all go. I might try out an ice candle tomorrow if I'm going to be working with ice. They look like fun to make...

Shopping, Alternate Universes and Bridget Jones

So I have a day off work today, purely to go Christmas shopping. Yes, rather early you may think, but here's the deal: some people started thier shopping when Woolworths put up their Christmas decorations during the 2nd week of October. October is way too early for me. I usually shop the 2nd Friday of December but I have Christmas lunch with the office that day and I start seeing my friends for Christmas celebrations on that same day. So, today is the day.

I have already decided to go to Brent Cross instead of Bluewater, my usual Christmas haunt, since it now has the same shops after being revamped and has a generally nicer atmosphere. Plus its nearer, which about says it all when you wake up in the morning and find thick fog hanging around. I had full headlights on and couldn't see more than 300 yards ahead.

But I had been alerted of a new chain of shops opening across the country: Hobbycraft. It sounds geeky but they are the only non-business suppliers of candlemaking equipment within 50 miles of London and I have to satisfy my hobbying urges! So I have to trek to Watford first. Okay, fine. I can do this.

I get in the car and shoot up the M25 to Watford. Off the motorway, on to the roundabout and... There are three roads. One for North Watford, one for Watford town centre, and one for South Watford. Each direction is Watford. I'm in the Watford Alternate Universe. Scary. I know I don't want the town centre, because that's basically the Harlequin, a down-and-out shopping centre for chavs. So its North or South. I plump for South after three circuits of the roundabout. Down a little road, through a small town and following an incredibly large articulated lorry, I finally reach a retail outlet and discover Hobbycraft. Cool. But all they sell is parrafin wax and stearic acid. No moulds, dye sticks, wicks, moulding sealant, tiled blocks, scents... I was sorely disappointed. It was a good store if you want to furnish a dolls house or make your own Christmas cards, but candlemaking? Uh uh!! Apparently I need a bigger store. The search continues...

I buy 2kg of parrafin wax and stearic acid and leg it to Brent Cross. And I manage to buy presents for everyone, even my brother, who is so difficult to buy for on a budget, when all he wants is expensive music equipment and accessories. Shopping done, I relax in a sunken area on the ground floor which has been converted into a Starbucks (isn't everywhere?). I sip on my usual grande white mocha, coated with chocolate and vanilla, and make sure I haven't missed anyone off my list.

On the table next to me, a young man looking oh-so-much like Ralph Fiennes (I kid you not!) is playing with a new video phone. He's fiddling with the buttons and searching frantically through a tiny instruction manual. I try not to pay too much attention. He is then joined by a young woman and a girl of about four. She kneels on her chair and eats packets of brown sugar. She starts to sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' very softly. I notice her parents are now filming her with the phone. The mother's going, "Sing up, sweetie, so everyone can hear," and the girl obliges. The proud parents look about them, making sure everyone is looking at their kid, and grinning at anyone who so much as glances. It was cringingly embarrassing. I don't like parents who act like their child is the best child that ever lived.

Finaly got home about 5.30pm and Anna fancied going to the cinema. So we went along to the UCG and watched Bridget Jones 2. Not as funny as the first one, except the fight between Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. This fight was loads funnier. Watching Hugh being chased around a fountain was hysterical! But I didn't like Colin as much in this one. He was more of a pompous git with a snooker cue up his arse. And Hugh seemed loads nicer, not so oily as before. Sure, he hadn't learned the error of his ways, but he seemed nicer on the whole. And the whole Thailand prison thing seemed like a last-minute idea because they hadn't enough material to fill up two hours. It reeked too much of that box office flop Brokedown Palace. I saw it coming a mile off. Maybe, because Brokedown Palace was such a bad film, the film-makers hoped that none of the audience had actually seen it and it was perfectly acceptable to steal the entire film's storyline and shove it into Bridget Jones 2.

Post-NaNo Blues

So I think I have post-NaNo blues. I get home and think, "What can I do tonight?" The TV porgrammes I watch are repeats of Buffy, The X-Files, Friends... Boring after a while. Yet I don't want to start the re-write, which would be a good idea because the novel is still fresh in my mind. It's too tempting to just delete whole paragraphs at the moment.

I just don't know what to do with myself in the evenings any more. I asked Anna for her advice. "How about going to sleep at a decent time?" Hmm. Not quite the response I was looking for. But then I have been going to sleep at 2am most mornings during November. She does have a point...

Answers on a postcard!

Winner