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?
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
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.
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.
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?
Thursday, 27 September 2007
How Not to Have a Successful Relationship
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
It’s been my ambition for quite a long time now to be ‘they’ because then people would believe me. And heed my wise words. However I have singularly failed to be plural and stalwartly remain ‘she’, which, frankly doesn’t have the same ring about it.
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
I realise now that my communication skills have obviously been lacking. I’ve had 25 years to impart important information and yet the Beloved is still unaware of many important facts.
I also realise now, since he is moving out on Friday, that there is stuff he will probably never know. I am deeply concerned about this. It could affect his future in a profound, deep and dramatic way. He is launching into the unknown (or at least a swanky flat in Radyr) unequipped with some of the most basic knowledge that leads to a successful life.
I didn’t realise just how poor my communication skills were until this afternoon. This is what happened:
The Beloved decided that he would clean the inside of the car. I advised the hoover as a expedient, effective and moderately jolly way to remove five years of crisp crumbs, chocolate dust and unknowable little grey bits from interior car surfaces. Unusually and quite unexpectedly he agrees with me. I reel in surprise. He reels in surprise. When we have finished reeling he asks,
‘Where is the hoover?’
You see what I mean? Important information. Not communicated. No wonder he is leaving. This is such a basic and unforgivable mistake that how he never left before is slightly unimaginable.
The hoover, in case anyone is now wondering, is in the same cupboard as it has been for the last 15 years. I told the Beloved this. He looked puzzled. I drew a map (he has a degree in Geography and I thought this was the sort of thing he might relate to).
It set me thinking. What else haven’t I told him? Loads. Oops. Damn. Bother. Blast. To remedy the situation I have compiled a handy list entitled ‘What I always meant to tell you but, sorry, somehow, in the hurly-burly of family life I somehow, quite without meaning to, and with no malice of forethought or intention to do harm I forgot’.
This is the List:
Where the hoover lives
Why pans in the cupboard are stacked with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on the top
Where your glasses are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why it is polite to shower
Where your keys are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why precious pieces of slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture are better stored inside rather than outside the shed
What the machine with the big round window is for (he has one of those in his swanky new flat and I don’t want him trying to store milk in it)
Why it is polite to use a condom
Where your wallet is (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving it)
Why that isn’t very nice
What women want.
I’m sure there are more. But I can always email him.
Ah, yes, that’s one – How to connect to the internet. I’ll send a letter instead.
It’s been my ambition for quite a long time now to be ‘they’ because then people would believe me. And heed my wise words. However I have singularly failed to be plural and stalwartly remain ‘she’, which, frankly doesn’t have the same ring about it.
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
I realise now that my communication skills have obviously been lacking. I’ve had 25 years to impart important information and yet the Beloved is still unaware of many important facts.
I also realise now, since he is moving out on Friday, that there is stuff he will probably never know. I am deeply concerned about this. It could affect his future in a profound, deep and dramatic way. He is launching into the unknown (or at least a swanky flat in Radyr) unequipped with some of the most basic knowledge that leads to a successful life.
I didn’t realise just how poor my communication skills were until this afternoon. This is what happened:
The Beloved decided that he would clean the inside of the car. I advised the hoover as a expedient, effective and moderately jolly way to remove five years of crisp crumbs, chocolate dust and unknowable little grey bits from interior car surfaces. Unusually and quite unexpectedly he agrees with me. I reel in surprise. He reels in surprise. When we have finished reeling he asks,
‘Where is the hoover?’
You see what I mean? Important information. Not communicated. No wonder he is leaving. This is such a basic and unforgivable mistake that how he never left before is slightly unimaginable.
The hoover, in case anyone is now wondering, is in the same cupboard as it has been for the last 15 years. I told the Beloved this. He looked puzzled. I drew a map (he has a degree in Geography and I thought this was the sort of thing he might relate to).
It set me thinking. What else haven’t I told him? Loads. Oops. Damn. Bother. Blast. To remedy the situation I have compiled a handy list entitled ‘What I always meant to tell you but, sorry, somehow, in the hurly-burly of family life I somehow, quite without meaning to, and with no malice of forethought or intention to do harm I forgot’.
This is the List:
Where the hoover lives
Why pans in the cupboard are stacked with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on the top
Where your glasses are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why it is polite to shower
Where your keys are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why precious pieces of slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture are better stored inside rather than outside the shed
What the machine with the big round window is for (he has one of those in his swanky new flat and I don’t want him trying to store milk in it)
Why it is polite to use a condom
Where your wallet is (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving it)
Why that isn’t very nice
What women want.
I’m sure there are more. But I can always email him.
Ah, yes, that’s one – How to connect to the internet. I’ll send a letter instead.
Monday, 17 September 2007
How Not to Mend the Shed – Or the French Vine Conspiracy
It rained today. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the shed roof leak. As you may recall I have just put my precious junk into (or rather back into) the shed. For safekeeping. Against the elements. Only the elements are also putting themselves into the shed. Possibly for safekeeping, or maybe for fun, but I suspect a certain amount of malicious intent. Because frankly, the places where the elements have discovered to get in are pretty small and obscure. I feel that the elements have probably gone to a lot of trouble to discover these small cracks and orifices. And if penetrating my shed was just for fun, then why the hours of dedicated research? Ipso facto, malicious intent. A prejudice against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers.
However, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I was undaunted. Elements pshaw! I declared. I will not let a few malicious elements defeat my cunning plan of making millions out of dismantled, slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture. So I set to to mend the shed. This is what happened:
Firstly I assessed the damage by carefully examining puddles and small drippy bits on the floor and sides of the shed. I traced the aforementioned puddles and small drippy bits to their associated holes in the roof and walls. This was most revealing. Because there appeared to be an escaped vineyard attempting to enter the shed along with the elements. Could it be that most of the crops of middle France were also prejudiced against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers? It appeared so. This smacked of a conspiracy.
Undaunted I decided to eliminate the escaped crops of middle France. Hours later, stained with mouldy grape juice and feeling slightly sticky I surveyed my work. A pile the size of your traditional EU wine lake of mouldy grapes, vicious vines and unknowable tendrils adorned not only my precious slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture, but the exterior of the shed, the rest of the garden and most of the outskirts of Cardiff.
‘Ha!’ I declared to the French escapee. ‘That showed you!’ The pile grinned knowingly. It had started raining again. The elements had taken on a new vigour. A vigour that only elements can achieve when they discover that not only that they can enter a woman’s shed through previous cracks and orifices, but that now, due to the lack of most of the crops of middle France, the cracks and orifices were larger and more welcoming than they were before I had started welding my trusty loppers.
‘Ha!’ declared the conspiratorial elements. ‘Fucking Sorted.’
However, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I was undaunted. Elements pshaw! I declared. I will not let a few malicious elements defeat my cunning plan of making millions out of dismantled, slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture. So I set to to mend the shed. This is what happened:
Firstly I assessed the damage by carefully examining puddles and small drippy bits on the floor and sides of the shed. I traced the aforementioned puddles and small drippy bits to their associated holes in the roof and walls. This was most revealing. Because there appeared to be an escaped vineyard attempting to enter the shed along with the elements. Could it be that most of the crops of middle France were also prejudiced against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers? It appeared so. This smacked of a conspiracy.
Undaunted I decided to eliminate the escaped crops of middle France. Hours later, stained with mouldy grape juice and feeling slightly sticky I surveyed my work. A pile the size of your traditional EU wine lake of mouldy grapes, vicious vines and unknowable tendrils adorned not only my precious slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture, but the exterior of the shed, the rest of the garden and most of the outskirts of Cardiff.
‘Ha!’ I declared to the French escapee. ‘That showed you!’ The pile grinned knowingly. It had started raining again. The elements had taken on a new vigour. A vigour that only elements can achieve when they discover that not only that they can enter a woman’s shed through previous cracks and orifices, but that now, due to the lack of most of the crops of middle France, the cracks and orifices were larger and more welcoming than they were before I had started welding my trusty loppers.
‘Ha!’ declared the conspiratorial elements. ‘Fucking Sorted.’
Friday, 14 September 2007
How Not to Save Oneself from Pecuniary Disadvantage
The ‘Just Fucking Sort It September’ story continues. Because I’m still sorting. Or trying to sort. I’m certainly not, much to my profound disappointment, fucking. And according to various reliable sources (the internet, the small thingy on the bottom of my computer screen, and the feeling in my bones, spleen and unsightly spot on my forehead just below the hairline that luckily I can cover it up) it is still September.
There are some things that are easier to sort than others. For example I have just completed a large and appealingly categorised database of all the authors in the Leaf Anthologies for our spanking new website (not literally spanking obviously, and not up yet so don’t rush to go and look). Should I so desire, at the click of a button I can make the authors all fall into alphabetical order. This is not painful for them and yet strangely pleasing for me. If only all of life were so easy. And obliging. And lacking in pain. And in neat little boxes that line themselves up and can be turned into lots of colours.
But, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I am obliged to tackle heftier tasks than spreadsheets. So, undaunted, back to the shed I go.
This is what happened:
Before I even managed to enter the shed I was arrested by a thought. The thought in question, was ‘The outside shed is very full.’
I was then arrested by a follow-on thought. ‘What the fuck am I going to do with all this stuff?’
I was then arrested by a follow-on follow-on thought. ‘I might need it.’
This double follow-on thought was of great significance. Because, you see, previously, when the outdoor shed was first invented by the Beloved, and a canny thought it was too, we were rich. And so the contents (is that the right word for a collection of articles that is bounded by no more than fresh air?) was junk.
Now, however I am about to be poor. Life has been cunningly redefined. Thus junk is now redefined. As useful stuff. As valuable goods. As items that could be cleverly dismantled into their constituent parts of mdf, nails, screws, small unknowable metal things and little plastic contraptions to stop doors slamming and sold on ebay for what I hope will be a small fortune. I have unwittingly come across the solution to single motherhood poverty.
I look at the skies. I think it might rain. I heft the contents of the outdoor shed back into the indoor shed to protect my valuable assets from the dangers of corrosion, rust and bird-shit.
Just Fucking Sorted.
Beginning to suspect that this may take more than September. Perhaps October as well. But since ‘Just Fucking Sort It October’ doesn’t have the same ring about it I may have to consider ‘Just Fucking Organise it October’. Still, always nice to have something to look forward to, that’s what I say.
There are some things that are easier to sort than others. For example I have just completed a large and appealingly categorised database of all the authors in the Leaf Anthologies for our spanking new website (not literally spanking obviously, and not up yet so don’t rush to go and look). Should I so desire, at the click of a button I can make the authors all fall into alphabetical order. This is not painful for them and yet strangely pleasing for me. If only all of life were so easy. And obliging. And lacking in pain. And in neat little boxes that line themselves up and can be turned into lots of colours.
But, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I am obliged to tackle heftier tasks than spreadsheets. So, undaunted, back to the shed I go.
This is what happened:
Before I even managed to enter the shed I was arrested by a thought. The thought in question, was ‘The outside shed is very full.’
I was then arrested by a follow-on thought. ‘What the fuck am I going to do with all this stuff?’
I was then arrested by a follow-on follow-on thought. ‘I might need it.’
This double follow-on thought was of great significance. Because, you see, previously, when the outdoor shed was first invented by the Beloved, and a canny thought it was too, we were rich. And so the contents (is that the right word for a collection of articles that is bounded by no more than fresh air?) was junk.
Now, however I am about to be poor. Life has been cunningly redefined. Thus junk is now redefined. As useful stuff. As valuable goods. As items that could be cleverly dismantled into their constituent parts of mdf, nails, screws, small unknowable metal things and little plastic contraptions to stop doors slamming and sold on ebay for what I hope will be a small fortune. I have unwittingly come across the solution to single motherhood poverty.
I look at the skies. I think it might rain. I heft the contents of the outdoor shed back into the indoor shed to protect my valuable assets from the dangers of corrosion, rust and bird-shit.
Just Fucking Sorted.
Beginning to suspect that this may take more than September. Perhaps October as well. But since ‘Just Fucking Sort It October’ doesn’t have the same ring about it I may have to consider ‘Just Fucking Organise it October’. Still, always nice to have something to look forward to, that’s what I say.
Monday, 10 September 2007
How Not to File
You know filing? That thing we mostly hate that involves having to put bits of unknown and difficult to understand paper into some form of paper-shaped receptacle. Cardboard is often involved. And sometimes paperclips. And always a great deal of mess, piles of paper on the floor and that gesture where one grabs one’s hair and attempts to pull oneself into another dimension by unsuspecting follicles whilst scrunching one’s features like a strange and expensive dog.
Filers deserve respect. It isn’t an easy job. A lot of thinking and reading and categorising is involved. The categorising is the worst part. This is because sometimes things just refuse out of sheer bloody-mindedness to fall into just one category. Take, for example, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. You have a peanut butter and jam sandwich. You have three files – peanut butter, jam, and bread. But what you really want to do is file it under butter. The only thing left to do is eat the sandwich thus obviating the need for any filing at all. It works with food, but after eating one’s fifteenth piece of paper, despite the variety of flavours, such as bank statement, receipt from the unicycle repair shop, gas company final demand (which is quite nice because it’s red) and (my personal favourite) yet another letter from the endowment company telling you that you have fuck all chance of ever paying off your mortgage even if you are stupid enough to pay them more money after they have already spent all your money by investing it in peanut butter companies with shit filing systems, you start to feel quite sick.
Anyway, filing. This is what happened:
I needed to find a piece of paper. And important piece of paper. Which told me just how much money we still owe to mortgage company. Mostly because if we could somehow magic away the mortgage then the Beloved could go live in a swanky flat with bells and whistles and peace and quiet (aside from the whistles) and no Lawyers and Physicists and lunatic blog writers. The thing about magicing things away, I always find, is that you have to know what it is you have to magic away. Thus my search.
The particular paper-shaped receptacle I was searching through was one of those concertina-style filing thingys you buy especially for filing those piles of paper that accumulate with the relentlessness of an oncoming migraine in piles on the kitchen dresser. It (the filing thingy) has handy categories already printed in it. Things like ‘bills’, ‘receipts’ and (oh good, I thought when I saw this one) ‘mortgage’. I looked in the slot entitled ‘mortgage’ in the naive hope of finding my important piece of paper. No. I looked in some more slots. No. Eventually I realised. The papers had not so much been filed as dealt. Playing card-style. After having been shuffled with the expertise of a croupier on crack.
Still, much to my delight I found a peanut butter and jam sandwich handily filed under ‘butter’.
Tomorrow I am looking forward to the Alliance and Leicester helpline. Just praying that their filing system is better than ours.
Filers deserve respect. It isn’t an easy job. A lot of thinking and reading and categorising is involved. The categorising is the worst part. This is because sometimes things just refuse out of sheer bloody-mindedness to fall into just one category. Take, for example, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. You have a peanut butter and jam sandwich. You have three files – peanut butter, jam, and bread. But what you really want to do is file it under butter. The only thing left to do is eat the sandwich thus obviating the need for any filing at all. It works with food, but after eating one’s fifteenth piece of paper, despite the variety of flavours, such as bank statement, receipt from the unicycle repair shop, gas company final demand (which is quite nice because it’s red) and (my personal favourite) yet another letter from the endowment company telling you that you have fuck all chance of ever paying off your mortgage even if you are stupid enough to pay them more money after they have already spent all your money by investing it in peanut butter companies with shit filing systems, you start to feel quite sick.
Anyway, filing. This is what happened:
I needed to find a piece of paper. And important piece of paper. Which told me just how much money we still owe to mortgage company. Mostly because if we could somehow magic away the mortgage then the Beloved could go live in a swanky flat with bells and whistles and peace and quiet (aside from the whistles) and no Lawyers and Physicists and lunatic blog writers. The thing about magicing things away, I always find, is that you have to know what it is you have to magic away. Thus my search.
The particular paper-shaped receptacle I was searching through was one of those concertina-style filing thingys you buy especially for filing those piles of paper that accumulate with the relentlessness of an oncoming migraine in piles on the kitchen dresser. It (the filing thingy) has handy categories already printed in it. Things like ‘bills’, ‘receipts’ and (oh good, I thought when I saw this one) ‘mortgage’. I looked in the slot entitled ‘mortgage’ in the naive hope of finding my important piece of paper. No. I looked in some more slots. No. Eventually I realised. The papers had not so much been filed as dealt. Playing card-style. After having been shuffled with the expertise of a croupier on crack.
Still, much to my delight I found a peanut butter and jam sandwich handily filed under ‘butter’.
Tomorrow I am looking forward to the Alliance and Leicester helpline. Just praying that their filing system is better than ours.
Saturday, 8 September 2007
How Not to Sort Out Your Life
The Beloved has a plan. To sort everything out. Or not.
The thing about plans is that sometimes they are great, think of lunar landings, recipes by Nigella Lawson and inventing chocolate. And oft as not, they are ill-conceived, think Apollo 13, recipes by Dr Crippen, World War I.
On the scale of plans the Beloved’s is somewhere between The Charge of the Light Brigade and The Millennium Dome. Sort of not quite rounded and rather chaotic. This is what happened:
Beloved: I have a plan.
Me: Good, that’s nice dear.
Beloved: Sign this piece of paper
Me: Good, that’s nice dear
Beloved hands me pen. I inspect piece of paper, as my father always told me not to sign anything without reading it first. This can be tricky when it comes to crowds wanting autographs in a hurry but since that situation is yet to arise I decide to read the piece of paper.
It is not so much a piece of paper as a form. Entitled ‘How to remove yourself from your life, home and not-marriage.’
The essence of the form is fairly straightforward. The usual gubbins, boxes, words, nicely shaded areas that indicate you don’t have to do anything in nicely shaded areas and that a designer has been hard at work choosing just that shade of pukey green to put in the nicely shaded areas.
The gist of the form is ‘Please sign away any rights to the last quarter of a century of your life, including any Physicists, Lawyers, decorative but slightly decrepit houses and decorative but slightly decrepit Beloveds.’
I fiddle with the pen. I think. Hard. This is a hard decision on par with very hard decisions one has known. Worse than deciding on what colour to paint the sitting room, what to name the cat or even how many dining room chairs we might need should we ever invite someone to dinner. I think some more. I fiddle with the pen some more. I look across the table at the beloved. He morphs strangely into one of those evil baddies from a 1950s horror movie. I can hear a strange ‘Ha ha ha ha’ in ever descending tones.
‘I’ll get back to you on this one.’ I say handing him the pen.
I think I handled the whole situation quite well. I always was rather good at forms.
The thing about plans is that sometimes they are great, think of lunar landings, recipes by Nigella Lawson and inventing chocolate. And oft as not, they are ill-conceived, think Apollo 13, recipes by Dr Crippen, World War I.
On the scale of plans the Beloved’s is somewhere between The Charge of the Light Brigade and The Millennium Dome. Sort of not quite rounded and rather chaotic. This is what happened:
Beloved: I have a plan.
Me: Good, that’s nice dear.
Beloved: Sign this piece of paper
Me: Good, that’s nice dear
Beloved hands me pen. I inspect piece of paper, as my father always told me not to sign anything without reading it first. This can be tricky when it comes to crowds wanting autographs in a hurry but since that situation is yet to arise I decide to read the piece of paper.
It is not so much a piece of paper as a form. Entitled ‘How to remove yourself from your life, home and not-marriage.’
The essence of the form is fairly straightforward. The usual gubbins, boxes, words, nicely shaded areas that indicate you don’t have to do anything in nicely shaded areas and that a designer has been hard at work choosing just that shade of pukey green to put in the nicely shaded areas.
The gist of the form is ‘Please sign away any rights to the last quarter of a century of your life, including any Physicists, Lawyers, decorative but slightly decrepit houses and decorative but slightly decrepit Beloveds.’
I fiddle with the pen. I think. Hard. This is a hard decision on par with very hard decisions one has known. Worse than deciding on what colour to paint the sitting room, what to name the cat or even how many dining room chairs we might need should we ever invite someone to dinner. I think some more. I fiddle with the pen some more. I look across the table at the beloved. He morphs strangely into one of those evil baddies from a 1950s horror movie. I can hear a strange ‘Ha ha ha ha’ in ever descending tones.
‘I’ll get back to you on this one.’ I say handing him the pen.
I think I handled the whole situation quite well. I always was rather good at forms.
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