Modern Love

The boy is abandoning me again this week for the exotic delights of Slough. Since he started his impressive new job he has been combining working from home with quite a hefty slice of travelling - in January we spent about 10 days together because he was back and forth to Slough, Hamburg and narrowly avoided Sweden.

February will see him in Slough this week, Devon next week and the week after we are both travelling together to the Lake District.

I was chatting to a friend about our little holiday to the Lakes with his mother, sister and sister's fiancee and she was horrified to realise that it was "on Valentine's week".

First of all it's a day, not a week. Second of all what does it matter if we don't spend Valentines Day on our own together?

It's not that I'm anti-romance, quite the contrary in fact, it's just that I am not a fan of contrived or enforced sentiment. Valentine's Day gives people an excuse to be romantic, which is lovely of course, but why do people need an excuse?? Why do you need an excuse to reinforce that you love someone? Why do we have one day a year dedicated to expressing how we feel just because everyone else does and we feel a need to conform or even worse compete?

Oh the one-upmanship! The flowers delivered to the office, the counting of cards, the proposals in Paris, the bitterness of being exluded or overlooked. It's all such a cliche. Around the time of Valentine's Day everything is painted red and pink and I am faced with 50% of my friends being nauseating and 50% of my friends being suicidal.

Here's a thought... how about I tell The Boy I love him every day, I show him I love him every day, I appreciate him every day and I am completely secure in my relationship. Valentine's Day is not a day for romantic people, it's a day for insecure people.
Don't take it all so seriously.

Do you know what I find romantic? That despite my being pretty and popular at school, despite always getting valentine's day cards or the single roses that our school offered to deliver for us my mother sent my brother and I an anonymous Valentine every year.
Just in case. Now that's sweet.

What's not particularly sweet is the random disgusting conversations that The Boy and I have had this weekend.

On Friday I came home early with ladypains after our night out and went to sleep with a full face of makeup and a trashy book wedged under my neck. The Boy came home in the early hours of the morning and puked himself stupid.

On Saturday we went for a late lunch at Brown's after visiting my mother and drooling over the Dream House™. Over flatbread with hummus and stilton dips, goat's cheese and apricot crostini, creamed spinach, honey roast parsnips, shepherd's pie, curly kale and roast pumpkin (c'est tres random n'est-ce pas?) and a pot of Earl Gay we for some reason began discussing The Boy's vomit from the night before. As you do.

He was particularly fascinated by managing to produce an entire prawn. I did question whether he chewed his food at all but he was resolute that he had. No these were clearly terminator prawns which had reformed in his stomach and gone on a rampage. Also, please note it was not the vast quantity of alcohol which made him sick - the terminator prawns were trying to crawl out of his oesophagus. I then admitted to having a nasty habit of inserting prawns up his rectum whilst he slept, this is what makes him sick so often when he drinks. Oh the poor people at the next table.

On Sunday, over tea and scones to belatedly celebrate our friend's birthday (blimey this weekend has been a carbfest and a half!) we somehow ended up discussing the 25 most disturbing sex toys on a website which The Boy had happened upon. He thoughtfully saved it in the favourites on my swanky phone so that if I ever need to show someone a Baby Jesus Buttplug it's there at the touch of a button. Thank you darling.

What would I do without him?

Well this evening for example I plan to go home, get into my pyjamas and watch old musicals in bed with a Lush facepack smothered on my face. I am indeed the future of rock and roll. Perhaps I will even push the boat out and go to the extreme of pumicing my feet or plucking my eyebrows. Ooooooh! The possibilities are endless.

Last night, once over our weekend of carb-indulgence and alcohol-excess we went round to his best friend's penthouse to cuddle up on a large purple beanbag, watch Cannibal The musical, drink champagne and eat pizza, chips and Butterkist toffee popcorn. Despite only having 3 flutes of fizzypops I have an acidy head this morning. I told you champagne should be avoided. Tea, tea is where it's at!

Peace out people.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Modern Love by David Bowie

The Buddha of Suburbia

Yesterday The Boy and I drove across to Cleckheaton where I used to live. I was born in Birkenshaw, moved to Pudsey with Nan after The Rents divorced then moved to Cleckheaton with Mum and husband number 2.
Cleckheaton used to be a town with more pubs than any town I've ever known, a decent supermarket (Tesco - I refuse to buy fresh produce from ASDA or Morrisons. It's not food, it's SHITE.) and all of my school friends living there so I bought my first house there (by myself) at 21 after living with a few boyfriends and realising that I was far too independent to rely on a trouser-shape to provide for me.

Ironically I now rent my house out to friends after moving into the Boy's huge 4 storey terraced monstrosity in a panic over a year ago. When QA took over Remarc, the training company I was head of marketing for I was concerned that they would take a slash and burn approach and get rid off all the staff, leaving me with a hefty mortgage, no savings and £4K of debt. The Boy was quick to step up and invite me to live with him.

Luckily I was one of the assets that the business kept and I've never been happier in a job in my entire life as a result of the takeover but I have gone from living in a house which was a haven of neutral colours and gorgeous furnishings to living here in a house with "potential". It has the oldest, most vile 70s carpets in the world, donated sofas which make my retinas hurt, no bath and with the exception of our bedroom which is now decorated beautifully... not a single room has been decorated and has either exposed plaster, pipes, holes in the walls - you name it.

Living with The Boy is worth the disgraceful surroundings though. We have such a laugh and the construction going on outside will be followed with renovations inside, then we'll rent out this house and buy somewhere else together. 3 properties, 2 rental incomes, 2 incomes... happy days.

Well there will be one day. I have still got £800 ish of debts to pay off, no savings and a recent damp situation in the house I rent out that is likely to cost me a pretty penny to fix. I rented it out to help me pay off my debts but reinvested most of what came in by putting in a new kitchen and bathroom - things which desperately needed doing - then the new oven in the kitchen broke so I had to buy a new one, then the boiler which was new 3 or 4 years ago broke and needed fixing. Never let anyone tell you that being a landlady will make you rich!
I had wanted to do more - get new carpet/laminate flooring in and finish the garden off but I don't have the resources until my debts are gone, not with little things cropping up that you don't expect.

The Boy and I have talked in depth about our next house, we've considered building one which would be wonderful - especially for a Grand Designs addict like me, then yesterday when we drove over to Cleckheaton the house which used to be my "dream house", the end terrace of my mother's street had a For Sale sign.

I literally jumped out of my skin, screamed, thought I was going to vomit and then simultaneously burst out laughing with tears welling up in my eyes. I was hysterical. I wanted to run straight up to the door and beg them to let me move in.

It's a huge 4 bedroom house with amazing character going for £249,950. It has a little wrap around garden with a cherry blossom tree that I used to walk past on my way home, watching Crazy Artist Lady pottering around it peacefully or spot her painting on the scrubbed oak table of the spacious front room with a glass of wine. I have always imagined living there. My dreams are realistic - I don't want to live in Buckingham Palace.

For a few seconds I could taste it. It was on the market, I WAS GOING TO BUY THE HOUSE. I glossed over the fact that I have no money but hey - I can do anything I set my mind to and I'm stubborn as fuck.

I did come back to reality fairly quickly but ever since then I CANNOT get this house out of my head.
Check out the glory.

I don't want to live in Cleckheaton. It's not nice any more - since the credit crunch most of the pubs shut down, Tesco don't sell any of the pretentious things I like to cook with, everyone looks miserable and skint and all these grotesque new builds have cropped up.

I'm spoiled living where we do, on the edge of the city. In 20-30 minutes (depending on whether I'm wearing heels!) I can walk from our house to the city centre, I am on the doorstep of great restaurants, shops, museums, bars, art galleries, cinemas, theatres, international markets and a million and one fantastic things to do. How could I move from that back to a town rapidly losing any charm it once had? Even if I still have friends and family over there. I love stumbling home in the moonlight after a drunken night out. I love stumbling back into Leeds after a drunken night out to get breakfast. I would hate to be too far away from Leeds, it's my home and it's everything that I want and need and have never found in another city before.

We don't know where we want to live but we want to be somewhere beautiful, with a garden for me to keep chickens in and grow lavender and herbs but near the city where I work and play. Near where our friends are.

Ah dreams.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: The Buddha of Suburbia by David Bowie

Friday on my mind

I last left you contemplating the healing power of that certain hue of red lipstick so I suppose it's rather poetic that I woke this morning, licked my lips and encountered a perfumed film of lipstick of the same shade.

Yes, I slept in my makeup. I'm as hopeless at questing as Don Quixote when there's wine involved.

My quest didn't exactly go to plan either. I got home from work, gooped up my hair with Blonde Aphrodite dye and started digging for red nail polish. I must have ever shade of every colour of nail polish in that damned bag but could I find red? No.

Salvation came in the form a hysterical message to my neighbour Holly, the future of rock n roll. She ran over with the perfect shade of scarlet harlot which I stabbed at my nails whilst watching my hair turn rapidly ginger.


I only had an hour and a half in the first place to get my hair dyed, showered, dressed, made up and figure out a hair style and unfortunately The Boy, wonderful thought he is did not quite understand quite how furious I would be when he booked a taxi 20 minutes earlier than we needed to be meeting everyone. Not his fault I suppose - he asked me if I could be ready on time and I didn't realise that I had another 20 minutes available.

So with half dried hair, the highest of heels, my new dress, scarlet accessories galore I was about to run down to the taxi when The Boy pointed out that my dress was so short that he could see my ass when I leant forwards. Not a "you look gorgeous", a "what on earth are you wearing"

Way to boost my confidence! Haha.

We had drinks, dinner and then the group moved on to go out for more drinks but by then my ladybits were in crippling agony and I didn't want to be a party pooper. So I left The Boy to go out raving and I got a taxi home and promptly fell asleep in my makeup.

I was also woken in the very undignified hours of the morning by his vomiting.

Girl needs an almond croissant, pronto. To Salt's Deli!

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Friday On My Mind by David Bowie

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

It all started with a red lipstick.

For the last 5 or 6 months I have been going through a bit of an identity crisis. A friendship that had meant a lot to me ended and I won't go into the details but there was no resolution, half a nonsensical explanation that did not satisfy, it was not by mutual consent and I was constantly reminded about what I had lost. I miss her horribly and can't see that changing any time soon.

When any relationship ends 2 important things are required for one to get closure and move on.

1) A respectful distance
2) Resolution and acceptance

If you don't understand why the relationship is over and you are constantly faced with that person (in this case via Facebook and my old blog site) then it's painful, stressful and often humiliating. Then there's the vomiting (Thank you Carrie)

I lost my way a little. Instead of being my usual happy-go-lucky bouncy rainbowtastic self I was hurt, stressed, run down, eventually contracted pneumonia after repeated illness and would have been happy to just give in and sleep indefinitely.

This week I was inspired to snap out of it when I was out picking up a birthday gift for a friend and caught my less than attractive reflection in a shop window.

I was wearing flat shoes, opaque tights, a baggy grey wool jumper dress with a cowl neck, no makeup and had unbrushed hair with an inch of undyed roots.
Ordinarily I would have my head in the clouds due to  soaring skyscraper heels, accessories, eye makeup and clean shiny blonde hair.
And this dress is supposed to be worn with a belt under the bust to give it a waist. It looks like a potato sack without one!

I'd gained weight and lost muscle tone due to the best part of 6 weeks bed rest and I already mentioned this week that my face has aged too. I just looked like one of those sad women who've given up on what they look like and turned to the comfort of the fridge.

I dug around my purse for the giftcards I was given on my birthday and deliberated whether to use them for good or evil. I had intended to use them for birthday presents for my friends and family over the next few months because with chronic home repairs to pay for and a credit card to pay off I knew I'd need some emergency sources of money.

This was an emergency though - I looked like hammered shit. Resolute, I headed straight for Boots for inspiration, packing Advantage Card Points with an itchy trigger finger and a determined grimace.
1 minute later I was armed with Diva Red lipstick, hair dye, hairspray and popping next door to M Butterfly, I picked up a glittery red crystal bracelet for £3.

Next, the dress; a trip to Debenhams with my £40 Debenhams voucher reawakened the shopping addiction that I had buried successfully with abject poverty for the last few years. That's going to hurt on payday when I'm being hauled kicking and screaming out of Zara by The Boy.

I stuck with floaty over foxy because my Bed Rest Induced Podge® in combination with Evil Hormonal Bloating® was about cause suicide in the dressing room. Note to self - do not wear flesh tones or pink when you are packing extra curves. You will only resemble a marshmallow.

This evening The Boy and I are going out to celebrate the new job and new nose of one of his ex-colleagues.

I am going to bomb home from work, dye my hair whilst painting my nails "fuck you, I'm fabulous" red (thank you hormones for making them grow. Much appreciated) and then attempt to put my hair into some sort of style without exposing my Dowager's hump or asphyxiating myself with hairspray.

I've spent 27 years refusing to put products in my hair. Wibble. Mermaids have one style and one style only "long". Back off with your backcombing and wax - I aint no Geisha.

Methinks that tipping my head upside down and drying it isn't going to cut it. Perhaps I have some hairclips somewhere. Hellllllllp.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Let's Dance by David Bowie

A Couple of Kooks

My favourite David Bowie album has always been Hunky Dory, and one of my favourite songs on it - Kooks.

Ever since I was a little girl I used to have these dreams about being a mum and having a daughter. She looked just like I did at the time - long blonde hair, big green eyes, freckles and a cheeky grin. And muddy knees. All the best little girls have muddy knees you know.

I never dreamt about the Daddy of my precocious daughter, these reoccurring dreams just involved me and her which I think is one of the reasons why I grew up to be so independent. I had every faith that one day I'd be a mum and have my daughter and the "getting her" part didn't come into it. I wasn't remotely bothered about getting married or having to share my child with a trouser-shaped adult. Selfish, non?

This could have been because when I was a little tom-girl, boys were for playing football with - not marrying. Why would a tom-girl need a boy when she was just as boyish and had far muddier knees?

Or it could have been because whilst David Bowie was one idol, Madonna was another and she managed to get everything she wanted without a man having any impact.Either way, last night for the first time in ages I had a dream about my little girl, but for the first time I wasn't alone in it.
The boy and I were sat on a picnic blanket in the garden of what I will assume was our house (don't you just love how in dreams you instinctively know things that aren't confirmed?) and both looking down at my large pregnant bump.

We were singing Kooks to the bump:
Will you stay in our lovers' story?
If you stay you won't be sorry 'cause we believe in you
Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of kooks hung up on romancing
We bought a lot of things to keep you warm and dry
And a funny old crib on which the paint won't dry

I bought you a pair of shoes a trumpet you can blow and a book of rules
On what to say to people when they pick on you
'Cause if you stay with us you're gonna be pretty kookie too
Will you stay in our lovers' story?
If you stay you won't be sorry 'cause we believe in you
Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of kooks hung up on romancing

And if you ever have to go to school

Remember how they messed up this old fool
Don't pick fights with the bullies or the cads

'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other people's dads
And if the homework brings you down
Then we'll throw it on the fire and take the car downtown
Will you stay in our lovers' story?
If you stay you won't be sorry 'cause we believe in you

Soon you'll grow so take a chance
With a couple of kooks hung up on romancing

Will you stay in our lovers' story?

If you stay you won't be sorry 'cause we believe in you
Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of kooks hung up on romancing

Will you stay?

Being an ex-psychology student I do hold some stock in the various theories of why dreams happen, how they happen and what they represent to us as individuals. I felt this morning like the unconscious part of my brain has now accepted what the part of my brain that I control already knew. That my life is falling into place on a path that it was always supposed to go down.

And I'm happy. This is who I'm meant to be with. This is what I'm meant to be doing and all the details in the way - money, two houses with "potential" rather than one home ready for a family are just that. Details. Don't sweat them.
Love has been described as finding the last part of a jigsaw puzzle.
I always went with Alanis Morisette's proclamation that "I don't wanna be you other half, I believe that one and one make two" but when it does happen all of those clich├ęs ring true.

We are a couple of kooks.
I'm majorly Hulking right now. Having the kind of horrible hormonal day that I'm firstly not supposed to have (DAMN YOU IMPLANON! Why have you reneged on our agreement?) and secondly makes me want to eat chocolate, hide under a duvet with a hot water bottle and cry.

The world doesn't stop though when you have a job that you love to go to. Maybe it should, I would throw less staplers at people if it did.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Kooks by David Bowie

Lady Stardust

"Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!" ~ Dom Perignon

No offense Monsieur Perignon but this girl would rather have a cup of tea than a flute of bubbly at this stage in her life.
Tom Cruise was quite astute when he said that champagne is perfume going in and sewage going out (and he should know, he was a bartender in that film) - it gives me ferocious hangovers now (yes, even vintage) so other than the first toast at a wedding, I generally avoid it.

Tea on the other hand is more than just a drowned Asian shrub.
It is the solution to any problem, it is a social lubricant, it is an opportunity for me to embrace my pretentionus side and dismiss the everyday bags of "dust" and go on an everlong quest for the perfect loose leaf teas.

Tea takes on the flavour of what it is packed with or stored in (which is why flavoured infusions work so well) and I pick up on the papery notes of a teabag and the stale taste of the inferior tea leaves in the way experienced wine tasters can tell whether wine was made or stored in oak or metal barrels.

I prefer teas made with whole leaves - either loose or in silk temples (Teapigs is my favourite brand) because the flavour isn't compromised. Tetley only introduced teabags in the 1950s I think (it was definitely after WW2) and though they later improved matters by introducing tea pyramids so that the leaves could diffuse and steep properly... the tea is still shit in my opinion.

I also have to drink my tea from a cup and saucer. Mugs are the very debbil and it spoils the experience for me if I have a big mug instead of a delecate little cup. I prefer a small, hot cup of tea which tastes fresh and lovely to a big overstewed mug which goes cold before you can drink it all.

Last weekend The Boy and I went for a late lunch at Pickles and Potter, a lovely little cafe which is expensive, but well worth it in the sense that you absolutely get what you pay for. He had the 12 hour stew, I had a chevre and gherkin sandwich with rocket and walnut pesto.

I also discovered that they had started selling one of my favourite things - lavender tea.

I am a freak for lavender. I used to grow 5 species in my garden and put lavender stalks in my bath, made jam from it, added it to my tea leaves and on one memorable occasion made lavender vodka. (Oh the hangover. Oh dear LORD!). Forget the powdery, synthetic lavender scent that brings grannies to mind. Smell the evocative, spicy scent of lavender flowers and tell me it's not the best smell in the world.

Anyway I procured some lavender tea leaves to take home with me and carted them into work with me today along with the Ecuadorian dark chocolate The Best Friend bought me for my birthday from Harvey Nicks.

Chocolate is another thing I'm pretentious about. I like it dark and I like it to be good quality. I am further difficult in that I am allergic to soya which is a cheap, horrible ingredient that most chocolate companies (even the once illustrious Green & Blacks) use in chocolate now. Soya is in everything at the moment - even soya flour in bread which makes life interesting for me.

If anyone knows of any decent chocolate which doesn't contain the dreaded soya (or pork fat, I'm vegetarian!) do let me know. Now that Green & Blacks is no longer an option for me I'm on the lookout for a new obsession.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Lady Stardust by David Bowie

Oh! You Pretty Things

I must confess, I very rarely watch television without premeditation.
The Boy and I prefer to spend our time watching something that we specifically want to watch rather than mindlessly stare at the idiot box all night or channel surf in an attempt to find something worth watching.

The television in our living room has been under plastic for literally weeks due to construction work and neither of us have missed it.

Last night, however, we settled down to watch Big Fat Gypsy Weddings on Channel 4 because last week I was amused by the barrage of comments on Facebook and Twitter about it.

If you missed it, for goodness sake watch it on catchup! I don't think I have ever laughed so much in my entire life. The Boy was so helpless with laughter that the sounds coming out of his mouth were attracting bats and we sputtered through the whole bottle of rioja.

The show covers weddings and communions and explored strange traditions such as dressing 6-8 year olds as "mini brides". I always assumed that a communion was some sort of solemn, religious experience. Not this! The ceremony wasn't covered but the preparation and the party was filled with tiny young girls in skyscraper heels, an inch thick of orange makeup, fake eyelashes, lipgloss and miniature wedding dresses. They looked disturbingly adult but oddly proportioned. A cross between Lolita and an oompa loompa.
There has been nothing like it on television since the Minipops. *shudders*

And when one girl changed out of her mini wedding dress because it was so heavy and tight that it rubbed off her spray tan (yes, you heard me, a 6 year old with a spray tan!) and into "something more comfortable" this was revealed to be an outfit that a stripper would deem too skimpy.

These little children were bumping and grinding and gyrating like strippers too - it was one of the most disturbing things that I have ever seen.
The spirit of Gypsy Rose Lee lives on!

The wedding featured in this week's episode was clearly inspired by Jordan's wedding to Peter Andre - the pink dress, high crown, fairytale carriage. it was simply ghastly.

The 17 year old bride, Sam (a marrying into a gypsy family) put her own individuality into this homage to Jordan the Queen of Tackiness by having her dress festooned with mechanical butterflies and uv lights.

Don't believe me?

Believe it. The 20 st dress was too heavy for her to walk normally in and also deemed a fire hazard so the dressmaker followed her around with a fire extinguisher "just in case"... oh and more spare batteries than the Ann Summers Valentine's Day sale.

The show wasn't all chav style on acid though - I was genuinely sympathetic to the travellers who were forced to move out of a settlement on land which they actually owned. They couldn't get planning permission to build on their own land and had illegally done so after having been there for many years. It was sad to see their settlement being torn down, their children watching and elderly women being carried off by the fuzz.
I know legally they were in the wrong for building upon it but it made me wonder why they couldn't get planning permission.

We all hear stories about when travellers come to settle in car parks or football fields or wasteland near our houses - there are tales of thefts, damage, noise pollution. Sure caravans are unsightly and of course their generators are noisy and their music carries through the thin walls of the caravans... we had some move in last year and couldn't wait to see the back of them but that's my only experience of them and I don't think that's enough to judge. I'd be interested to hear what your experiences are.
I'm sure they can't all be negative!

It was also really interesting to see that despite the inappropriate way that the children were dressed, the traditional customs of travellers are actually in total contrast to the way they dress. Women and men do not live together or sleep together before marriage, women are respected and protected and expected to fulfil a very traditional role - staying at home to care for the house and children whilst men go out to work. The women are very house-proud, keeping the caravans pristine - they even avoid having an indoor toilet for hygiene reasons. They seem to be very passionate about preserving their traditions and way of life and really what's wrong with that?

I must admit the subtitles were a nice touch. Brad Pitt's crazy unintelligible "d'ya like dags" patter wasn't at all far off the way some of them speak!

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Oh! You Pretty Things by David Bowie

Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess

This morning marked my first day back in the office after having to work from bed for several weeks to get over my pesky pneumonia.

I've been looking forward to it immensely but it's only lunch time and I'm already berating myself for my stubbornness.

I'm absolutely exhausted and what's worse is - I look it!

I just caught sight of my face in the mirror whilst washing my hands and noticed that I have permanent smile lines around my eyes.

It seems that the best part of 6 weeks of bed rest during the day, sleeping 15 hours a night, drinking lots of water and eating plenty of fruit and vegetables has actually aged me. I'm 27 and seem to have lost my baby face.
Does this mean they'll stop IDing me in Tesco when I buy wine?
Probably not.

Does this mean that the construction workers will stop whistling at me?

I'm unamused that the best of Lush, Clinique and The Sanctuary hasn't protected my skin better when I also have a healthy diet and don't smoke or do drugs or get the opportunity to damage it in the sun.

Besides - I've hardly had a lot to smile about lately whilst stuck at home in bed on my own because The Boy has been travelling with work!

Oh woe is me and my skin elasticity.

What's next? Tena lady pads? *runs away screaming*

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Rebel Rebel by David Bowie

This aint rock n roll, this is genocide!

In December I came down with a nasty bout of pneumonia and this entry finds me working from bed, (or rather on my lunch break) where I feel like I have been for the past 100 years.
I am a fan of working from home as an alternative to sick leave, but as for actually working from home I hate it. I get lonely, I tend to work even longer hours (meaning rather than bounce into the office before 8am and bounce out again sometime after 6pm I tend to wake up at 6:30am, turn on my laptop and crack on) and I miss the buzz of the office. I might not actually ever get time to actually stop and gossip with my colleagues but the gossip goes on around me nontheless.
The only buzzing that's going on around here is the relentless construction noise. Oh brother.
We (The Boy and I) enrolled in a Group Repair Scheme for Leeds so essentially our entire street is covered in scaffolding for the next 6 months. The view out of my bedroom window is this.

As an imaginative little buggar I can pretend that I have a somewhat rustic balcony, or that I am looking out on to the deck of a ship from my cabin. But whilst scenes from An Affair To Remember or Now Voyager spool through my mind as I pull up my rainbow socks, I am suddenly confronted with a grubby construction dude in a bobble hat and a hi-vis jacket walking past the window in an attempt to score a cup of tea.
Illusions shattered much? Not much too much.

Then there's upstairs - the old Velux window is being replaced with a new one, but has currently been replaced by a blue vinyl tarp. I so badly want to Errol Flynn my way down it with a stanley knife but The Boy won't let me play on the roof. Equally there's a new slide that he won't let me play with because sensible people view it as a chute for construction rubble to be transported to the skip below.

And last but not least there's the noise. OH THE NOISE! The hammering, sawing, drilling, clatter of rubble and singing along to cheese fm is unspeakable. It would be made more fun if The Boy wasn't such a spoilsport.

I was hoping to return to the office today but my litmus test was a trip to the cinema yesterday with my darling Nana. We went to drool over Colin Firth and the best of British (Helena Bonham Carter, Timothy Spall, Guy Pearce, Michael Gambon - they even sneaked Jennifer Ehle in which brought back many swoony Pride & Prejudice moments!) in The Kings Speech, took afternoon tea at Browns and then whilst waiting for The Boy to pick me up I casually wedged in a showing of The Black Swan. Both films were excellent and come highly recommended by yours truly.

Sadly my little outing did not prove that I was fit to be out of bed as I woke with glands swollen to the size of golf balls. It seems my immune system is about as rubbish as Britney Spears and instead of resisting germy things it's hoovering them up and inviting them to stay awhile.

I am hoping to kill them with lavender tea from Pickles and Potter, a peanut butter, banana and honey sandwich and some gloriously ripe plums. Go go gadget immune system!

I'm outie... Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: Diamond Dogs by David Bowie