I’ve just been to the Coop. Local shops are dangerous places for the recently dumped. Not only does excessive chocolate, beer and Pritt Stick (there are worse ways of sticking a relationship back together) buying go on, but you meet people. Who know. Who ask how you are. Who sympathise with sympathetic faces.
Now, mostly, I’m fine. I have done the hiding in the cupboard thing, I have had many a romantic evening in by myself. I have slept. A lot. I have vowed to give up lusting after lost loves, longing for babies, missing cats and wondering why the house is so tidy.
The problem comes only when some bastard person sympathises. Then I crack. In the Coop. The staff of the Coop are definitely on the verge of banning me from the premises. Frankly, I’m giving a bad impression of local shopping. A great deal of expense, time and poor planning have just gone into refurbishing this enchanting emporium. The shoppers should now skip around the newly-narrowed and confusingly laid-out retail outlet in veritable paroxysms of delight. Which they would. If it weren’t for the middle-aged women sobbing on relative strangers’ shoulders in the aisles.
I do, however, have a solution. I’m going to get a tattoo. This is a very cunning plan as a tattoo will achieve a number of necessary goals in one fell swoop, or one fell tattoo:
Fulfil the need for self-harm that many a rejected soul feels the need to accomplish.
Fulfil the need for improved body image that many a rejected soul needs.
Fill at least an hour of time where thinking about anything else aside from pain will be unnecessary.
Fulfil the need for something (anything) that actually lasts a life time.
Be green.
Stop people sympathising with me as it is going to read ‘DON’T TALK TO ME’ in large letters across my forehead.
Cunning eh?
Sunday 28 October 2007
Wednesday 24 October 2007
How to Love Yourself
Now that you have successfully fallen out of love (and into the second person narrative style)(if you missed previous post here’s a quick recap: you are now squatting in a cupboard with your eyes, ears and mouth covered) it is time to reconnect with your inner being. Oh, done that in the cupboard, ok, good.
They say that in order to be loveable you must first love yourself. This is sometimes a challenge to the recently dumped. Self-esteem, self-worth and self-abuse can be at an all-time low. Not only that but hours spent in a cupboard can lead to awkward cramps and a general fear of light, air and iridescent cockroaches.
Fret not. Here are a few handy tips to self-love:
Remember that you are beautiful – when you pass mirrors (if you haven’t smashed them all) smile. Say ‘Hey gorgeous, you are looking wonderful tonight.’ ‘My God who is that attractive person?’ or, if you feel that is going too far, simply stick to ‘Good, ok, still alive.’
Treat yourself as you would like to be treated by someone who loves you (that’s you). Buy yourself flowers, chocolate, more chocolate, and many small figurines of Jean-Luc Picard. Ha, how clever, only someone who REALLY loves you would know to buy you that.
Take yourself out for a romantic evening. Many a dumpee finds it difficult to get out, go out, go. Here’s the solution - simply simulate a romantic evening in the comfort of your own home (if you still have one):
Eat a meal with your loved one - a carefully placed mirror (if you haven’t smashed them all) or photograph of yourself (choose one from ten years ago) on the seat opposite will enhance that couple effect.
Take your loved one dancing – put your mp3 player on high volume, turn the lights down low, and if you are a disco type, blink a lot to simulate a strobe effect.
Go for a romantic walk by the riverside – fill the washing-up bowl with water and a few unidentifiable bits of debris and place on floor, open the windows for that fresh-air feel, and open the bin for that romantic river smell.
Whisk your loved one off to bed – undress slowly (here is where loving yourself really comes into its own because it suddenly doesn’t matter that you have forgotten to put clean knickers on, shave or remove those stray pubes that think that the pubic area extends to the upper (and/or lower) thighs). Mutter sweet nothings (again yay, it doesn’t matter if you are actually incanting tomorrow’s shopping list or yesterday’s suduko numbers because only you can hear). If you are not now feeling truly hot - turn on the electric blanket. And, just like a real relationship, or in fact better (because you know that is going to happen), fall asleep.
When you wake in the morning and discover that you have slept blissfully with your loved one all night without them even disturbing you with incessant snoring, terrifying sleep apnoea, or twitching like a person being given electric shocks direct from the local power station then you know. It’s love.
They say that in order to be loveable you must first love yourself. This is sometimes a challenge to the recently dumped. Self-esteem, self-worth and self-abuse can be at an all-time low. Not only that but hours spent in a cupboard can lead to awkward cramps and a general fear of light, air and iridescent cockroaches.
Fret not. Here are a few handy tips to self-love:
Remember that you are beautiful – when you pass mirrors (if you haven’t smashed them all) smile. Say ‘Hey gorgeous, you are looking wonderful tonight.’ ‘My God who is that attractive person?’ or, if you feel that is going too far, simply stick to ‘Good, ok, still alive.’
Treat yourself as you would like to be treated by someone who loves you (that’s you). Buy yourself flowers, chocolate, more chocolate, and many small figurines of Jean-Luc Picard. Ha, how clever, only someone who REALLY loves you would know to buy you that.
Take yourself out for a romantic evening. Many a dumpee finds it difficult to get out, go out, go. Here’s the solution - simply simulate a romantic evening in the comfort of your own home (if you still have one):
Eat a meal with your loved one - a carefully placed mirror (if you haven’t smashed them all) or photograph of yourself (choose one from ten years ago) on the seat opposite will enhance that couple effect.
Take your loved one dancing – put your mp3 player on high volume, turn the lights down low, and if you are a disco type, blink a lot to simulate a strobe effect.
Go for a romantic walk by the riverside – fill the washing-up bowl with water and a few unidentifiable bits of debris and place on floor, open the windows for that fresh-air feel, and open the bin for that romantic river smell.
Whisk your loved one off to bed – undress slowly (here is where loving yourself really comes into its own because it suddenly doesn’t matter that you have forgotten to put clean knickers on, shave or remove those stray pubes that think that the pubic area extends to the upper (and/or lower) thighs). Mutter sweet nothings (again yay, it doesn’t matter if you are actually incanting tomorrow’s shopping list or yesterday’s suduko numbers because only you can hear). If you are not now feeling truly hot - turn on the electric blanket. And, just like a real relationship, or in fact better (because you know that is going to happen), fall asleep.
When you wake in the morning and discover that you have slept blissfully with your loved one all night without them even disturbing you with incessant snoring, terrifying sleep apnoea, or twitching like a person being given electric shocks direct from the local power station then you know. It’s love.
Saturday 20 October 2007
How Not to Fall Out of Love
There comes a time in many people’s relationships that’s called ‘The End’. It seldom causes the same sense of satisfaction as those mystical words rolling up as a classic film finishes, nor does one get the opportunity to discover who it was that actually played the leading roles, directed or who the mysterious man that looked like your father’s uncle was. Sometimes, often the better times, the end of a relationship is of one’s own volition. Oft as not though it is because one has been dumped, rejected and generally thrown out into the world of singledom without a by-your-leave, an excuse-me or even a darling-would-you-mind-if-I-just….
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
Wednesday 17 October 2007
How Not to Cure a Broken Heart
They say that time cures all things. I can see how that applies to hams, hangovers and the flu.
But, the problem with time, as many of us know, it that it’s a tricky bugger. On any given day there is both not enough of it and far too much of it. As previously discussed I have a Things to Do list as long as a very long-armed person’s arm, in fact both their arms, and there is never enough time to do all the Things to Do. On the other hand I’m busily waiting for time to cure all. And whilst I’m busily waiting for time to cure all I’m finding it tricky to do the Things to Do because I’m busy. Waiting for time. To cure all.
Now, Einstein had a theory about time. He claimed (although I believe he never actually tested this) that if one was to move very quickly, I mean very very quickly, like quicker than a van driver on a roundabout, quicker than Superman on a trampoline, even quicker than the time it takes for a Beloved to break a heart, then time would slow down. Even go backwards.
But, in my case, since I am waiting for time to cure all, I want time to go faster. Being a bit of a scientist (the other bits of me are strictly bits of artists) I’m thinking that if I go very very slowly, slower than the slugs that enjoy my lettuces, slower than a van driver on the M25, even slower than a Beloved takes to mow a lawn, then time would speed up. And thus cure all quicker.
So this is my cunning plan:
Only move in slow motion (this will also help time to cure my broken foot)
Only drive in first gear (and again, since I won’t have to change gear that should help the foot)
Sleep – a lot (yay, another foot cure too).
Should this plan not work (although I see no reason, scientifically speaking, that it wouldn’t) I have another plan to make time pass without me actually noticing it doing so. And thus cure all.
I have got the entire 10 series of Friends on DVD. The Lawyer, being a kind-hearted self-sacrificing sort of girl, has agreed to join me in this scientific experiment into the nature of time.
I’ll see you all in 2009 when I will surely be cured.
But, the problem with time, as many of us know, it that it’s a tricky bugger. On any given day there is both not enough of it and far too much of it. As previously discussed I have a Things to Do list as long as a very long-armed person’s arm, in fact both their arms, and there is never enough time to do all the Things to Do. On the other hand I’m busily waiting for time to cure all. And whilst I’m busily waiting for time to cure all I’m finding it tricky to do the Things to Do because I’m busy. Waiting for time. To cure all.
Now, Einstein had a theory about time. He claimed (although I believe he never actually tested this) that if one was to move very quickly, I mean very very quickly, like quicker than a van driver on a roundabout, quicker than Superman on a trampoline, even quicker than the time it takes for a Beloved to break a heart, then time would slow down. Even go backwards.
But, in my case, since I am waiting for time to cure all, I want time to go faster. Being a bit of a scientist (the other bits of me are strictly bits of artists) I’m thinking that if I go very very slowly, slower than the slugs that enjoy my lettuces, slower than a van driver on the M25, even slower than a Beloved takes to mow a lawn, then time would speed up. And thus cure all quicker.
So this is my cunning plan:
Only move in slow motion (this will also help time to cure my broken foot)
Only drive in first gear (and again, since I won’t have to change gear that should help the foot)
Sleep – a lot (yay, another foot cure too).
Should this plan not work (although I see no reason, scientifically speaking, that it wouldn’t) I have another plan to make time pass without me actually noticing it doing so. And thus cure all.
I have got the entire 10 series of Friends on DVD. The Lawyer, being a kind-hearted self-sacrificing sort of girl, has agreed to join me in this scientific experiment into the nature of time.
I’ll see you all in 2009 when I will surely be cured.
Sunday 14 October 2007
How Probably Not to Get a Life
Today I joined Facebook. Mostly due to peer pressure. Peer pressure is a powerful tool when used in the right way. When used in the wrong way it is about as useful as a broken drill, a lawnmower that won’t start or a strimmer that has run out of petrol. All of which I have, so I know just how useful they are when it comes to using them.
This is what happened:
I got an email. From my sister. It said
I've requested to add you as a friend on Facebook. You can use Facebook to see the profiles of the people around you, share photos, and connect with friends.Thanks,Andrea
You’ll note no kisses or anything. And just a friend. Not a sister. Don’t they have sisters on Facebook? However I liked the idea of connecting with friends and seeing their profiles (I’d have preferred to see them front-on but beggars can’t be choosers or whatever) so I made myself a Facebook for this express purpose. And connecting with sisters.
This is really where the problems started. They kept asking me difficult questions. Like those fucking machines in the gym. They ask difficult questions too. Things like how old I am, how much I weigh, what exactly am I intending to do on this machine, why exercise machines aren’t oranges, what is the meaning of life and is there any point to it. ‘Come on machine!’ I cry, ‘You asked me all this only yesterday! Have you no memory? What is the meaning of life? Is there any point to it?’ The machine generally whirrs gently and smells of a previous occupant’s sweat. This, I feel, is no answer to anything.
So, Facebook. Questions. Questions that made me stop and examine the meaning of life and if there was any point to it. It started ok; I aced ‘basic’ because I knew some pretty tricky stuff like my birthday, that my political views were definitely ‘other’ and that my religion was blank. I even coped with the ‘contact’ page by leaving most of it blank and then listing far too many websites for a decent and legal human being to be involved in. It was the ‘relationships’ page that left me completely flummoxed.
First it asked if I was interested in men or women. I ticked both.
Then it asked if my relationship status was;
Single
In a relationship
Engaged
Married
It’s complicated
or
In an open relationship
Ok, fine, but I WAS ONLY ALLOWED TO CHOOSE 1 OPTION.
I would have of course been able to rule out ‘engaged’ but would have put myself down as single, in a relationship, married, it’s complicated AND in an open relationship.
I opted for ‘single’. See how my life has simplified itself beyond the bounds of reason and sexual gratification?
Finally it asked what I was looking for –
Friendship
Dating
A relationship
Random play
or
Whatever I can get
Luckily (and thank you all deities for this luck) I was allowed to choose all of them. So I did. I don’t think that sounds too desperate does it?
This is what happened:
I got an email. From my sister. It said
I've requested to add you as a friend on Facebook. You can use Facebook to see the profiles of the people around you, share photos, and connect with friends.Thanks,Andrea
You’ll note no kisses or anything. And just a friend. Not a sister. Don’t they have sisters on Facebook? However I liked the idea of connecting with friends and seeing their profiles (I’d have preferred to see them front-on but beggars can’t be choosers or whatever) so I made myself a Facebook for this express purpose. And connecting with sisters.
This is really where the problems started. They kept asking me difficult questions. Like those fucking machines in the gym. They ask difficult questions too. Things like how old I am, how much I weigh, what exactly am I intending to do on this machine, why exercise machines aren’t oranges, what is the meaning of life and is there any point to it. ‘Come on machine!’ I cry, ‘You asked me all this only yesterday! Have you no memory? What is the meaning of life? Is there any point to it?’ The machine generally whirrs gently and smells of a previous occupant’s sweat. This, I feel, is no answer to anything.
So, Facebook. Questions. Questions that made me stop and examine the meaning of life and if there was any point to it. It started ok; I aced ‘basic’ because I knew some pretty tricky stuff like my birthday, that my political views were definitely ‘other’ and that my religion was blank. I even coped with the ‘contact’ page by leaving most of it blank and then listing far too many websites for a decent and legal human being to be involved in. It was the ‘relationships’ page that left me completely flummoxed.
First it asked if I was interested in men or women. I ticked both.
Then it asked if my relationship status was;
Single
In a relationship
Engaged
Married
It’s complicated
or
In an open relationship
Ok, fine, but I WAS ONLY ALLOWED TO CHOOSE 1 OPTION.
I would have of course been able to rule out ‘engaged’ but would have put myself down as single, in a relationship, married, it’s complicated AND in an open relationship.
I opted for ‘single’. See how my life has simplified itself beyond the bounds of reason and sexual gratification?
Finally it asked what I was looking for –
Friendship
Dating
A relationship
Random play
or
Whatever I can get
Luckily (and thank you all deities for this luck) I was allowed to choose all of them. So I did. I don’t think that sounds too desperate does it?
Monday 8 October 2007
How Not to Sympathetically Restore an Historic Vernacular Building
I visited the Beloved in his swanky new flat today. So we could sign the Separation Agreement. I imagined an event rather like the signing of the Magna Carta, or the Declaration of Independence. You know, a lot of serious men in beards, quill pens, strange hats, trousers that have little flappy bits and button up at the front.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
Saturday 6 October 2007
How Not to Just Fucking Sort It
Well, Just Fucking Sort It September is over. And it’s time to take stock of just how very sorted everything is now. My world should be as sorted as an immaculate filing system, an accountant’s underwear drawer, a tube of Smarties after it has been sorted into different colours and then eaten in just the right order. Whatever order that is. Blues last I think.
So this is what happened:
At the beginning of Just Fucking Sort It September it was September 1st. Good start I feel. It was a Saturday, again an auspicious day. It wasn’t raining, or not much anyway, well, not enough to make the shed roof leak.
There were things that needed sorting-
The leaking shed
My underwear drawer
The flowerbed
The thousand other flowerbeds that inhabit my garden
The garden
The cupboard under the stairs
All the other cupboards
The house
My relationship with the Beloved
My life
On September 1st this didn’t seem un-ambitious. On October 6th, which happens to be today, I realise that maybe I was just a tad over-optimistic.
This is what happened:
The shed is still leaking. I fixed the roof. But then it turned out that all the walls were leaking too. Which isn’t a problem as long as all rain in the next foreseeable future remains strictly vertical. Could happen. I will therefore classify this in ‘Just Fucking Sorted’
I have given a great deal of attention to the garden. Mostly by removing most of its contents including trees, shrubs, grass, children, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things, and large knowable brown things. It is now not so much a garden as a wasteland that abuts the house. Again, fucking sorted.
I have also given a great deal of attention to the house. Mostly by removing most of its contents including the most of the cupboards, my underwear drawer, furniture, spiders’ webs, walls, doors, ceilings, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things and large knowable brown things. The house now resembles not so much a house but a handy building site, which could attract attractive builders. Perhaps. So, fucking sorted.
The Lawyer removed herself to her bedroom. The physicist removed herself to Uni. The snotty cat removed himself to the after-life. The Beloved removed himself to swanky flat in Radyr to cavort with his new beloved therefore ameliorating the necessity to sort my relationship with him. Tick that one off my iGoogle Things To Do List.
So, really the only item that is still left outstanding at the end of Just Fucking Sort It September is my Life.
Buy hey, given how successful I’ve been sorting everything else out, surely a life can’t be that hard?
So this is what happened:
At the beginning of Just Fucking Sort It September it was September 1st. Good start I feel. It was a Saturday, again an auspicious day. It wasn’t raining, or not much anyway, well, not enough to make the shed roof leak.
There were things that needed sorting-
The leaking shed
My underwear drawer
The flowerbed
The thousand other flowerbeds that inhabit my garden
The garden
The cupboard under the stairs
All the other cupboards
The house
My relationship with the Beloved
My life
On September 1st this didn’t seem un-ambitious. On October 6th, which happens to be today, I realise that maybe I was just a tad over-optimistic.
This is what happened:
The shed is still leaking. I fixed the roof. But then it turned out that all the walls were leaking too. Which isn’t a problem as long as all rain in the next foreseeable future remains strictly vertical. Could happen. I will therefore classify this in ‘Just Fucking Sorted’
I have given a great deal of attention to the garden. Mostly by removing most of its contents including trees, shrubs, grass, children, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things, and large knowable brown things. It is now not so much a garden as a wasteland that abuts the house. Again, fucking sorted.
I have also given a great deal of attention to the house. Mostly by removing most of its contents including the most of the cupboards, my underwear drawer, furniture, spiders’ webs, walls, doors, ceilings, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things and large knowable brown things. The house now resembles not so much a house but a handy building site, which could attract attractive builders. Perhaps. So, fucking sorted.
The Lawyer removed herself to her bedroom. The physicist removed herself to Uni. The snotty cat removed himself to the after-life. The Beloved removed himself to swanky flat in Radyr to cavort with his new beloved therefore ameliorating the necessity to sort my relationship with him. Tick that one off my iGoogle Things To Do List.
So, really the only item that is still left outstanding at the end of Just Fucking Sort It September is my Life.
Buy hey, given how successful I’ve been sorting everything else out, surely a life can’t be that hard?
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