Monday, March 31, 2008

The healthkick

I've joined a fancy new gym in the hope that spending lots of money on a poncy health club every month will encourage me to start spending some time there. So far so good - much to the amazement of almost everybody I know. 'It's not very... you... is it?' said the fucking work experience when I passed up the opportunity of an after work drink in favour of an hour on the treadmill. To be fair, she's absolutely right, it's not very me at all. There isn't really any comparison to be made between a sweaty run and a nice chilled glass of sauvignon blanc. But there you go.

I even attended my first ever yoga class yesterday. By God, did that hurt. 'Stick your tail up,' yelped the yoga teacher, pulling my hipbones towards the ceiling while I balanced precariously on all fours, using quivvering muscles that I didn't even know I had. I was very tempted to tell her exactly where to stick my tail but decided that it wasn't in the spirit of what was supposed to be a relaxing activity. I'll go back next week, of course. The days are getting lighter and there is only so much longer that I will be able to keep my winter blubber under wraps. Perhaps I should think about migrating north for the summer...

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

back again

This morning I endured a three hour meeting without so much as a cup of coffee. Honestly. Where is the work etiquette in that? All was not lost though - two colleagues and I shared a cheeky lunchtime bottle of red wine afterwards. So apologies if this is a slightly rambling little missive.

I'm back from a relaxing few days by the seaside with MC. We took long walks, drank scrumpy in old smugglers pubs with wood fires, went to farmers markets and generally abandoned ourselves to rural pursuits (I even wore a fleece instead of my tailored winter city coat. For four whole days). Being out of town has renewed my desire to leave London for good. You don't realise how permanantly stressed you are until you walk away from it all, do you?

The initial reason for the visit was for more sombre reasons, however. I finally found out how my father died. It turns out his poor heart was twice the size it should have been. He had no symptoms, which is quite scary, and scarier still, he had none of the common lifestyle causes - he was fit as the proverbial fiddle and hadn't an ounce of fat on him (much to my continuing dismay). It's almost a relief to think that it was his time after all though, and there are no longer any 'what ifs'. He might have survived had he not been scuba diving at the time but dad was never the kind of guy who was going to do something as dull as to die in his sleep. The biggest relief perhaps is that he would only have been conscious for 7 seconds. I have tortured myself thinking about how much he might have suffered, might have fought.

I will leave him to rest in peace now, and not mention him here again.

Monday, March 17, 2008

you must remember this...

The secret to a happy life, said journalist Katharine Whitehorn, is a selective memory. Katharine Whitehorn is a heroine of mine, not least because she's a razor sharp octagenarian who spends her days sipping gin by the fire and being agony aunt for Saga magazine. If that is my future, bring it on.

Oh how I wish I had a selective memory of Friday night, so that I could forget screaming blue murder at MC for a badly phrased drunken line about me needing to go home - splitting up with him at least 8 or 9 times on the way back to my flat before throwing him a duvet (for the sofa) and ordering him to see himself out in the morning. We're still together - despite my best efforts. I was a psychodrunk on friday - a walking advert for the perils of binge boozing. I adore the guy, why do I treat him so badly sometimes?

However I wish I had a rather less selective memory of the gibberish I write here, so that when on Friday morning I finally buckled and sent the link to MC, he wouldn't have had the dubious pleasure of reading the innards of our entire relationship as seen by me. I really am my own worst enemy.

Friday, March 14, 2008

when something sounds too good to be true....

Last night MC and I went to see a property that sounded amazing. A cutesy little maisonette in trendy Notting Hill, which came with that rare London luxury, a garden. Two double bedrooms, two floors - I had already mentally moved us in. And got the damned cat.

Then we saw it.

Point one - It wasn't 'in' Notting Hill. It was in the shadow of the hideous Trellick Tower, up where the kooky little cafes and restaurants start to become rather menacing shisha houses. It was also the only ground floor property in the entire street that didn't have security bars at the windows.

Point two - The guy who showed us around the place wasn't the landlord - he was the extremely bitter ex husband of the landlord. It soon became apparent that not only did he know nothing about the poky, low-ceilinged house with electric cables hanging out of the plugs, he didn't really want to be in it at all. He did however have something of a fascination with the cupboard under the stairs (insert your own closet joke here) and insisted on showing MC a separate cupboard outside the property (MC peered in with extreme caution). Closet Guy was however unintentionally the best guide we could have hoped for. He told us that the neighbours like to play loud music all over the summer (adds to the boho atmosphere yah. But who wants boho at 4am?), and that the diverse multi cultural community was so friendly that it tends to congrate in the street of an evening. Hmmm.

And for this they wanted £1600 a month! 'It's a great property... if you can afford it,' he said as condescendingly as possible. I tell you what, mate. You couldn't pay me to live there. NEXT!

Thursday, March 13, 2008

more grown up things

Yesterday I took out an ISA, after much nagging from my wonderful little sister. I'm ashamed to say that until now my little stash has been sitting in a current account earning a paltry 0.6% interest a year, whereas now it's been promoted to a far more respectable 6.5%. For the first time in my life I have money in something other than a shoe/handbag/wine fund. Strange times.

Last night I had a dream about my father. He'd managed to blag a 'bonus day' (good old dad) - one extra day with me. We went climbing in this mad old spiralling wooden structure, and he was right behind me - which meant that I couldn't always see him. It was so lovely to talk to him again. I made him promise he would try to get another. I hope he does. Next Wednesday is his inquest. Ridiculously, I am preparing for this by going into grooming overdrive. Hair, nails, tan, you name it. I guess it's the proverbial painting on a smile scenario.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

In from the cold

The heating is broken in our office and the air conditioning is jammed on. Hence the lack of blogging - my fingers are so cold that I can only type for about two minutes at a time. My boss is also at his most unreasonable of late. The other day he had a go at me for not writing something he'd advised me not to write. When I pointed out it was him who had told me not to bother he replied that he knew what he'd said but I should have done it anyway. And he's practically bullied one reporter to tears. I told him today that perhaps she would respond better to encouragement than to being humiliated. 'Is this you having a go at me?' he said and laughed. He took the point on board though which I guess is a good thing. I really must find myself another job.

In other news MC and I are going to move in together. And get a cat. At the risk of turning this previously sassy blog into a complete schmaltzfest I never ever thought I would find myself in a relationship with such an amazing man. I am completely besotted with the boy. Bleugh. I'll get my coat ;)