I haven't been writing.

Not just here. But at all. Not journals, not letters, not emails, not postcards, not scathing diatribes on scraps of office stationary, not even badly constructed beginnings of novels or names for my non-existent band. Not anything.

I am bereft of words.

Life is just not writeable somehow. Which is ironic, considering my career.

But it isn't. It's too much. And not enough. And doesn't fit. And promises and takes and starves and grows.

See? Even I know how retarded I sound. It just isn't a literal kind of thing. It's like the epicness of opera but the quietude of an indy Cannes flick. It's everything and nothing and a sara-centred world devoid of a central character.

Perhaps I should take up dance. Maybe then it would all make sense.

Triva Fun for the Day

Go to Wikipedia.

Type in the day and month of your birthday but not the year.

See all the exciting things and people who share your birthday.

19 February

Birthdays
1473 - Nicolaus Copernicus, Polish mathematician and astronomer (d. 1543)
1896 - André Breton, French poet (d. 1966)
1911 - Merle Oberon, British actress (d. 1979)
1930 - John Frankenheimer, American film director (d. 2002)
1934 - Carole Eastman, American screenwriter (d. 2004)
1940 - Smokey Robinson, American singer
1952 - Amy Tan, American novelist
1954 - Socrates, Brazilian footballer
1955 - Jeff Daniels, American actor
1957 - Falco, Austrian singer (d. 1998)
1957 - Ray Winstone, British actor
1958 - Helen Fielding, English writer
1960 - Andrew, Duke of York
1963 - Laurell K. Hamilton, American writer
1963 - Seal, English singer
1967 - Benicio del Toro, Puerto Rican actor

Events
197 - Roman Emperor Septimius Severus defeats usurper Clodius Albinus in the Battle of Lugdunum, the bloodiest battle between Roman armies.
1600 - The Peruvian stratovolcano Huaynaputina explodes in the most violent eruption in the recorded history of South America.
1674 - England and the Netherlands sign the Peace of Westminster, ending the Third Anglo-Dutch War. A provision of the agreement transfers the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam to England, and it is renamed New York.
1861 - Serfdom is abolished in Russia.
1878 - The phonograph is patented by Thomas Edison.
1881 - Kansas becomes the first U.S. state to prohibit all alcoholic beverages.
1915 - World War I: The Battle of Gallipoli begins.
1945 - World War II: Battle of Iwo Jima - about 30,000 United States Marines land on Iwo Jima.
1986 - The Soviet Union launches the Mir space station.
2002 - NASA's Mars Odyssey space probe begins to map the surface of Mars using its thermal emission imaging system.

Not a bad day, all in all

i saw you on facebook

When one is on the Tube counting every stop to the West End, rushing to catch your seats at the Lion King because your boyfriend's mother has bought the whole family tickets as a huge birthday excursion up from Kent, the last thing you expect to see is your german exchange student.

Well, actually, my germany-living hungarian exchange student's little brother (who subsequently visited my parents when I was in college) and mom (who still sends my parents christmas cards).

I thought it looked like them, but I'd not seen them in like a decade and figured I was being delirious (the new experience of pseudo-in-laws has done my head in).

until he facebooked me. we are like buddies now. long live the internet.

bring it on, you baby lover.

now, we all know i love a good quiz. trivia, reference, Cosmo or math - I just love ticking boxes to find out about my inner soul/IQ/celebrity look alike/death day.

and the internet has always been a playground of insurmountable joy. from the good old days of the Purity Test (still an annual birthday tradtion), to now my love of flixter in particular, billions of people it seems have the time and inclination to supply me with an endless stream of mindless fun.

however, this new fangled bait-the-hook method of quizzing i am adamantly hating with every fibre of my being.

how dare you tantalize me with 'how many 5 year olds could you kill in a death match?' health profile on my ninja skills and fat:muscle ratio and then insist i register for your fucking no-strings dating site to find my life affirming answer? blow me.

blow this hallmark holiday out your ass

some people used to think i'd never get a man. mostly this was because:

a, i didn't believe in 'getting' one
b, i didn't try hard enough
c, mr. darcy is ficticious and all men were worsened by comparison
d, i am a lesbian

any or all of these may still be true, to a greater or lesser extent.

but i think i can safely say i am in a committed, realistic relationship when my valentine is vitamin pills and tickets to Juno.

nothing says valentine's like teenage pregnancy. god i love him.

mom

she came.

she left.

in between a lot of inconsequential and a few very consequential things happened.

we giggled and cuddled.

she ranted about drugs and brains.

i cried. she cried. we both felt misunderstood and alone.

we danced on the beach. we had photo shoots in silly places. we slept in and took long walks and sighed like there was no tomorrow.

and now, i don't feel so alone. not because of her physical presence, but i think because i finally managed to say things i have thought and felt for years if not decades.

i feel freer. truer. more like myself (because tragically, the one place i am not is with them.)

and she is more human, more real and less blameable somehow in her truth - even if it doesn't match my own.

i think the only down side is now i miss my sister even more.

someday I'll tell you the story about how my mom called me a couple hours before she was supposed to come and save me from myself and had lost her passport and wasn't coming anymore. It's the really good bit when after I cried and cried and fought with Liam about it and then it turns out it was just a mistake and Dad saved the day like in the movies.

But it's not funny yet. And it's time to go pick her up at the airport.

I love my mother.

I also love my cosmopolitain, european, anti-establishment, decidedly naive life.

In exactly 22 hours I will begin the ultimate experiement by trying to combine these two things without anyone getting the short end of the stick.

But first I have to do something. Well, two things actually.

I have rented the downstairs neighbours flat for the week so mom can have her own space to call dad and go to bed early, and mostly not feel awkward when she would so obviously be in the house of an unmarried couple living in sin where we have breakfast in our bathrobes and I leave my pill on the bathroom counter every night so I don't forget to take it.

So firstly, I have to go get the keys from said neighbour.

And secondly, we have to surreptitiously test the accoustics.

Last night in the 'here is the thermostat, don't forget to put the towels in the bin' tour I realised their bed is directly below ours. And while it would be embarrasing to realise the neighbours have been able to hear us having sex for the past 6 months, it would be infinately worse not to know my mother can.


But in other news, I am v excited and cannot wait for a day of old movies and headpetting and cookies. No one does that like mom.

No matter how old you are, it can be immensely satisfying to play dress up.

At our local ritz and chandelier theatre, box seats are cheap - mostly because they have a slightly obstructed view of the stage corner below you. But then really, you get a fucking box with velvet curtains, your own usher to hang up your coat and actual chairs you can move as you please for as much leg room as a 19th century theatre can allow. It's fucking brilliant. So, on a Christmas whim, I bought us a box for The Glass Menagerie.

And while opera glassing the plebs below and sniggering at intermission is just one hell of a night out - it's infinitely better when wearing a Jacky O dress and sipping a g&t.

Children of the 80s

I have a ghastly confession.

Our office is broken essentially into three rooms each holding a handful of desks, and thus each nutures its own subculture and unique identity. While the front office is quite girly, very cheerful and often well informed on cultural matters - the box office is a more laid back group usually associated with the wry british humour and a lot of bitching.

And we are the back office. Consisting of the artsy programming ones (like me) combined the tech guys who make our dreamy work exist in a never ending list of spreadsheets and quantifyable realities. It is a world of opposites united by our griping, love of pringles, and an odd array of guilty pleasures.

And our new tradition (inpired by a truly outstanding office secret santa gift to my esteemed colleague) has taken root and will possibly change our lives.

Power Ballad Friday. Every friday from three.

Finish out the working week with Cher, Queen, Genesis including a lifetime of memories and naff hand motions.

And of course, moments of great edification. Below is a sample of our machinacinations

- pub quiz like betting on what year Mad Max 3: Beond Thunder Dome came out (obvbiously at the instigation of a certain Ms. Turner)

- thumbs up/thumbs down on if Amy Winehouse is more talented than Britney Spears (thumbs up) eventhough she's just been committed to an asylum of sorts (thumbs even considering Britney's comperable downward spiral)

- a meatloaf/ jack black-as-dewey finn compare and contrast

- the confession someone got broken up with during a power ballad that shall not be named

-an entire debate on the feasibilty of the plot of Mighty Ducks 3 (and the Junior Olympics face off with the nasty Russians) instigated at the opening lines of "We are the Champions" - which everyone knows is the turning point in the first film that makes their unbelieveable success on and off the ice possible.

I love it.

Sometimes the world scares me

Sentenced to death: Afghan who dared to read about women's rights

I am not a politicised person. Sometimes I think that is because those that are are fucking insane - no matter what platform they stand on. To date, I have found little evidence otherwise

My family is truly mad. I am pretty sure anyone who has ever met them knows this, but nonetheless. It is, on occasion, disconcerting.

It is also counterproductive to any sense of practicality one may unwittingly, or more appropriately, pitifully, try to impose.

And when trying to plan a schedule from 3,000 miles and in need of some assistance it is most exceedingly vexing.

le sigh.

torn

I am sick.

I hate being sick.

I hate feeling trapped in my own body, which is on a rampage of revolt and generally trying to exorcise my sanity.

Plus, on that day three, when things are slightly better, and you feel finally ready to maybe think about eating solid food, and maybe going back to work before the month is out, my brain wakes up long before the rest of me.

Still bedridden with paralyzingly numb limbs and slightly queasy everything else, I am tormented by worries about the gas bill, antsy about friday's now impossible deadlines, and riddled with guilt and sadness for everything from a hangnail to how I wish my family had communicated better over the last two decades. It's like being caught in a landslide of unbidden thought-loops that will slowly tear out any sanity not already destroyed by the delirium and cabin fever.

I so hate being sick. It's the only time I can't properly escape myself.

Hello gentle reader.

I feel I have not been myself lately, and I apologise.

I will heretofore endeavour to create a more amenable environment in my trivial updates and impart some small amount of useless knowledge for your edification.

Today:

- The national flower of Mexico is the Dahlia

- and here is a newspaper article (Being Unfaithful Keeps Me Happy) I find by turns deeply sad and hysterical.

Modernity is a joke. May I never be a Telegraph reader.

Tis the season...

8:00: Wake up

8:30: Get dressed in the dark. Misplace favourite bra.

9:00: Tie up wet hair, run out the door, laden with books. Still darkish out.

9:10: It's pissing it down. Dig hat out of bag and commence dismal walk.

9:20: Breakfast detour - run up 3 flights of steps to street level, try not to die.

9:25: Cleverly step on the dry bit of a half submurged flagstone - except that seesaws the stone on it's invisible fulcrum, sending the whole puddle crashing down into my shoe.

9:30: Coffee shop does not take cards. Proceed to unload all of bag onto counter in search for enough change for breakfast.

9:35: Failure. Opt for a cocoa on the pennies found, skip the pastries

9:40: Walk out the door - immediately be splashed a la Bridget Jones by traffic water. A girl passing tries not to laugh.

9:45: Arrive at work to chipper and chatty colleagues. Ignore them until they leave me in peace. Commence tidying tornadoed bookcases.

10:30: Unpack bag of finished books brought from home onto newly cleaned shelves. Discover they are soaked and wrinkly.

12:45: The guy next to me brings in fish pie for lunch, smelling up the whole building.

1:30: Lunch highlight: finding coupon for DangerMouse dvd in the local paper!

3:31: Dusk

Today is statisically the most depressing day of the year for good reason. My most promising thing yet is the dozen cookies I fortuitously bakes last night at home waiting for me.

year

So for some reason, the darkness this January has made me retrospective. More so than usual even. And I am struggling to fit it all together - as if there is some high meaning puzzle-guru somewhere. Which there isn't. But all the same, I find it soothing.


January
New Years in bed
Quit Blackwell
Begin Book Festival
Leaving Do
First real fight
Conquering the Schools Programme

February
Bleak
Birthday surprise
St. Andrews Mini-Break

March
Think about moving in together?
Alnwick day trip
Dvorak Symphony
Rain.

April

Switzerland Easter with Jennie and Chrissy
Bologna - the first corporate travel
Holiday from Hell in the Highlands:
mafia deer massacre
eerie valley, creepy town
out of gas!
to the sea!
our private castle island


(I had to get my diary at this point. The whole summer was a blur.)

May
Goodbye Uncle Richard
Eurovision scarred my retinas (and ear drums)
Flat hunting
Church weirdness

June
Certified First Aider
Taste of Edinburgh festival
First press conference - shaking
Parties in London, home on the sleeper train

July
Alice in Wonderland Party
Newcastle with Quentin Blake
Glasgow Decadent weekend
a month long period
Goodbye to Falcon Gardens

August
Meet Carol & Heidi
Anika and Justin visit
Anika & Edith Head Wear Red party
Festival
Festival
Alan Cumming
Festival
Festival
Festival
Festival
theatre to break your heart
Festival
Festival
Festival
Liam's Dissertation
Festival
post-Fest binge party.
Pack. Donate. Pack. Bin. Pack. Pack. Pack.


September
Move house
Panic.
Change.
Slick new phone
Excitment.
IKEA
Doubt
Faith
Contentment
Beautiful Bath
Mrs Bashore, not Johnny Depp
very very very sick

October
IKEA
Rolf's Birthday reunion
Sound of Music Party
London I
blobel
Mike visits
London II

November
Discover online groceries
Home!
Liam & the Gradys
Grady Thanksgiving
Wii
Kate's shower!
Anika
Mom.
The flight from hell
Deadline stress

December
Cookie Baking Fest
Our party!
Social office events
2 whole weeks of freedom!
Miso the kitten
no Gradys...
Christmas Eve meanders
Christmas calm
Dallas & Team Hooray
DVD heaven
New Year promises

And oddly enough, I highly doubt these events and holidays and parties are the things I will remember. That if I looked back on what I had written - or if I could fast forward, it's the momentous year I became part of a 'we'.

Which has changed nothing, but affected everything. And it's a damn weird thing to pin down. I couldn't even tell you when I fell in love. Or when i knew. Or when I decided. It just sort of happened. And it's here all the same.

Every couple of months, we have this ritual dinner.

Not on purpose even, it just kind of happens. It's mostly a comfort thing, when someone isn't feeling well. It's like being a little kid again. Like movies in bed and dad getting you lucky charms.

We have (well, I have - Liam has fish fingers) chicken dinosaurs - which are essentially giant chicken fingers about the size of my hand, shaped like t-rexes, stegasauri, triSARAtops etc etc. with oven chips (which are not as good as waffle fries or curly fries, but it is still nice) and frozen peas and corn. Just like out of a school cafeteria or your grandmother's deep freezer in the garage.

It is just kind of nice. He is actually out getting me ben and jerry's just now and we are going to watch a movie and cuddle in the dark, sharing the ketchup dipping pot.


I alo find it a little surprising today is also the day my first platinum credit card came in the post. Talk about a day of opposites.

I am exhausted.

Not tired from doing things. Not lethargic from not doing things. In fact, no matter what, all the time, I am tired, irritable, demanding and verging on a breakdown.

It's like what I ran out of was tolerance and faith, not just energy.

As always, our idyllic vacation was half perfection and half the bowels of hell.

A moonlit walk along the thames, kissing as Big Ben struck and it's shadow glimmered in the black water. Whispering and poking fun and the pretentious art in the Tate Modern. Holding hands under the table at the kitch tapas place. Disecting greek tragedy as an art form. It was a respite from real life and a minute of blissful togetherness.

But it was also truly horrid. I don't think we have ever gone anywhere and didn't fight about something stupid. It's ridiculous really. The angry logical discussions and selfish proclamations. It always hurts after to think we have been so stupid. And this time more so, for it's lack of novelty.

We're crawling out of the hole. It is never the end of the world. But I still feel bruised.

bleak

Some times life is just big. Things, for good or ill, feel significant. Heavy.

Liam and I are entering a whole new version of being together, which is a great joy - but if I am honest, also fucking scary. I have never been one for the touchy feely, the true confession of truth. the whole open honest reality of commitment is making my inner demons antsy. suddenly forever isn't just a word. and i am not sure i like it.

I am worried about my sister. I miss her so much. I so want someone to talk to.

My job is hard. I am contstantly being strained to the point of breaking and the idea of beginning another bout of battles makes me want to run instead of thrilling me with promise. It's truly sad to be admitting maybe now I have what I wanted, it isn't what i thought it would be.

Or maybe it's just the dolumpy stress of a wet frozen january in a place with no snow and an ever gray skyline. Perhaps when it is daylight as I walk to work my mood will lighten too - I can't hope to have it anything but the pitchest black at 4pm for months. And perhaps as I begin a new chapter (with a new festival, looking for a new house, and beginning a new year madly in love) it'll get easier. I'll get better at being me.

But, in other news, I am temporarily heartened by the joy of Enchanted- one of the stupidest, sweetest movies I have ever seen. I was skeptical, but ironic disney is truly better than I thougt it could be. And we have been humming and skipping about ever since. It's the perfect cure to the winter doldrums.

Fresh

The beginning of a new year is like a new outfit for the first day of school, the smell of fresh laundry and waking up from a luxurious nap all rolled into one. It holds such quiet promise, such a simple joy.

Right now, it's snowing. Big thick clumps of white gather on my windowsill.

I've not seen snow in Edinburgh in three years and it's the most beautiful sight in the world.

I hope I can hold onto this. That the rest of the year will carry this sense of wonder and delight. That it's not about achievement and deadlines, clouded with stress sorrow and doubt, but the grander things that make life worth living.

Christmas in a Nutshell

True to form, in a variety of lists:

The Best and Worst of Christmas 2007

Best Food:
1. pigeon & green onion starter at the rizty Christmas Eve romantic restaurant
2. Cheese Board from the cheesemonger for christmas eve lunch
3. Proper Nut Roast, not that pseudo-stuffing I made at Thanksgiving

Best Drink:
green & blacks cocoa in my P&P mug

Best Card:
Jennie's retro trees are tied with mom's enigmatic and sentimental note
The 12 days of Christmas as sung by Dirty Bertie get an honorable mention

Most Disappointing:
1. Ruining the wreath cookies
2. Midnight Mass was confusing and long and none of the joyousness celebrating with a thousand people together is supposed to be. It was chaotic, in latin, and sad.

Most surprising:
The presents from Liam's mom (wind up racing snails, lotsa liquor and a whole load of junk food)

Most simply gratifying:
Singing carols as we made our first christmas dinner together

Most nostalgia inducing:
Teaching Liam to play gin rummy on the tiny cards he won in his christmas cracker.

Most homesick moment:
reading tom's letter

Most manic:
The christmas kitten.
I keep wanting to up load a photo of our holiday house guest, Miso the kitten - but she is hideous and wild and wont sit still long enough. She has already broken a lamp, thrown potted plants around - and oh yes, went into heat on Christmas Eve for three excruciating days of mewling and really pitiful displays of discomfort. I think we need to have a chat with her owners.

Most beautiful:
1. The moon on christmas eve
2. our golden tree
3. the little german nativity i bought at market

Best Presents I got:
1. Liam is going to buy me a satchel/briefcase for work - we are going to the fancy tanners to pick one out next week
2. jennie's octopus:


3. black and silver dessert plates from Anna

Best presents I gave:
1. team hooray apparel
2. real dinosaur tooth
3. spongebob candy canes with decals

Best presents I witnessed:
1. Tom gave Liam Rome Total War
2. Liam gave Heidi a kit for growing shitake mushrooms from a block in your cupboard
3. Lisa screened Julie a T-shirt of Cagney and Lacy.


Itineray thus Far

23rd:
Sleep all day
See Darjeeling Limited
Feed poor sick liam
Go to Carol Service at St Giles Cathedral (the cool gothic venue, the rubbish carols)
Watch the Thomas Crown Affair


Christmas Eve:
Have a fight about the loud annoying horny cat
Have a cry (aforementioned)
Have cheeseboard lunch
Have a cuddle
Go to fancy pants dinner
Go for moonlit stroll
Go to weird-ass midnight mass with all of Polish Edinburgh (O Little Town of Bethlehem and It Came Upon a Midnight Clear have different tunes, and we actually sing In the Bleak Midwinter. )


Christmas Day:
Sleep in and canoodle
Blueberry & Chocolate Chip Pancakes
Presents!
Roundrobin phone with Liam's family
Watch Finding Nemo
Get dressed
Make christmas feast (sans roast goose)
Gorge
Play gin
Talk to mi familia on corporate speaker phone
Watch the Family Guy Christmas Special

Boxing Day:
Sleep in (this is a requisite on all my holidays)
Eat scrumptious leftovers and watch worst James Bond film ever (Moonraker. Fucking Roger Moore)
Play with manic kitty
Do mountains of dishes from Xmas Feast
Make wreath cookies (badly)
Watch School of Rock

Today:
Sleep in
Wreath Cookie Breakfast
Buy survival groceries
Tidy
Go see Golden Compass

and there is still a whole week left before I go back to work including the Wii party, new years eve and watching my Planet Earth dvds. joy!

Christmas Calm

As always, I get over things sooner than I think I will. What felt huge and unendurable before, is now at best a dull ache fading to distant memory.

It doesn't hurt that the calm emptiness of this holiday left space - maybe one I was scared of trying to fill - but space to just be in. That Christmas Eve, after dinner we could pause in an empty street and really notice the full moon and how it had that rare ring of light surrounding it. That walking along the glistening cobbles we could hear nothing but the echo of our footsteps in the night. That Christmas held no obligations or bustle or worry or rules or traditions to maintain. That we didnt have to be at anyone's house by three, I didn't even have to get dressed. So instead of plans and party-time, it played host to the simple joys of cuddling with a kitten, watching a favourite movie, sipping cocoa and goofing off. And absolutely nothing else.

Yeah, I missed Grady Christmas. a lot. Yeah, I wish I had had a stocking or someone else did the dishes. I wish I could see my family's faces as they opened their gifts and joke about the day in a constant running commentary. Mostly I just miss being all together and the thought we won't be until september makes me miss the times it was everyone always.

But in all honesty, it was just lovely to make our own little day. And it definitely wasn't 'the worst christmas ever'. Score.

blue stars

i just had a big cry.

i don't know why the holidays still make me emotional. and emotional in that completely incoherent and ridiculous 'i am so wronged. is this all there is to life?' way that is like being 15 again.

maybe its the stress.

i know i shouldn't. i know it's nothing, and no matter what, the things that matter dont change. That no matter what, cuddling on my sofa and even making a travesty of the traditional dinner in my first attempt, will be heartwarming and wonderful. But when things are just right - the moment happens - it is so good, i spend an inordinant amount of time trying to make it happen when i know in my heart it just doesnt work that way.

so i have spent a good week trying to make myself a christmas. one i want to live. one to be proud of. and mostly one that will take my mind off of texas.

now, i can safely say, a holiday in a hot, dry, huge, place like texas is about the least joyous i'll ever know. and a christmas without liam gives me a pang.

but a grady congregation without me always makes me sad. and homesick.

and yes, often annoyed no one calls me back or my parent's don't even send a present. like they are too busy having fun to remember me.

so sometimes it feels like they don't even notice i am gone.

and as ludicrous as i know that is, from far away on my own i can almost convince myself its true and it makes me hurt a little.

so, cue the waterworks and bit of a bridget jones moment. at least it gets it out of my system.

and now, i am cuddled under my aunt monica quilt with our Christmas Cat (more on her later), with hot cocoa, emailing my cousin stephanie and holding on to the important things.

because what really matters is we are safe, we are sound. we are whole and we are well. we are not bleeding, we are not broken. not bumped or bruised. we don't need a doctor and we don't need a hospital. we are all okay, wherever we are. and my heart is full to bursting.

the v is for vapid?

Seeing as I am heading to my first Literature & Education Forum (as in the national coallition of arts organisations, I'm not going to be on the board of any old rubbish now am I?) today, I thought I ought to look appropriately sharp. Pinstipe skirt, black leather boots and a killer red sweater.

And as I go to adjust the casual perfection of my cowelneck while in the loo, I notice a slight tarnish to my otherwise dapper appearance.

I have a massive hickey on my neck.

If that doesn't say 20-something professional, what does?

getting there

I am coming to realise growing up has nothing whatever to do with making sense of the world like I thought, but almost completely to do with making sense of myself.

Of knowing how I am, what I am like and how that effects things can, I am sure, cut down on half my arguments, all of my meaningless frustrations and pretty much all minor troubles such as indegestion/sleeplessness/cranky-spots.

For instance. It is not Liam's fault I come home from the movies and go into a whirlwind of tidying. Nor is it unfathomable he'd be annoyed I am moving all of his stuff. And it would have saved an entire evening discussion if I'd realised I am doing EXACTLY the false cleaning (e.g. stacking up papers in the cornder and shoving mess in a drawer) my dad always did because of my nazi-ish dependency on having a clean kitchen table to come home to.

And if I just knew that was what I was doing and either:
a, talked myself out of it or
b, told him it bothered me and found a way around it,
I could have still had time to watch Rushmore before bed.

The world would be a better place if I was self-aware. Maybe I should get threapy.

mourning the v

As the year comes to a close, we are inevitably thrown into a retrospective of trends, objects and headlines of the year past. And in a moment of self-reflexsive meditation, it occurs to me, my long earned title of V is not so relevent to my postings.

Can you remember the days where I had sex on park benches and hooked up with the crush of my best friend? The time I sort of slept with phil or the topless sleepover with hot scot? Or any the other freak manifestations of my libido really. It's shocking! I have gone from playboy tease to domestic dull-o.

After extensive rumination (read: 30 seconds), I have several excuses to make.

1, most sadly: Now I am in a relatively high profile job - it is not everyone who is on Norwegian television and the BBC Breaking Dawn programme after all - I am more and more hesitent to record in public my personal life and opinions. Especially once I found out it is common practice to google/facebook/friendster/myspace someone before a job interview to suss the candidate here. Can you imagine me ever getting a job with my track record of co-workers, classmates and scandal the last couple of years?

2, even lamer: Frankly (and I already know you don't want to hear this), my sex life is no less interesting now it is monogamous. It is slightly more sober and cogent, which I find leads to much less disappointment when i wake up next to his face and not some retard i don't know their name, but I am straying from my point. Because seeing as there is a distinct possibility you will meet him even if you haven't already, I pretty much don't want to scar anyone's psyche's with outrageous stories. Mostly, i just don't want visions upside-down-sofa-sex on your mind when i introduce you.

okay, two excuses. the only possible third is that my life just is actually boringly full of kittens and christmas cookies (which it is, but it's not boring. really. i promise.)

I am a complete sad-o. (just so you know, it took me a long time to choose a spelling that would not imply an abbreviation for sadomasochist. see? I am trying to be a consciencous blogger.) jesus fucking christ.

Tra la la!

So the party was adorable.

Of course everyone was late so we slow danced to the crooner's christmas album in the candlelight and glow of the tree in the quiet before the storm. I've never felt so cozy.

Then a whole random mix of people poured through the door - and one of those serendipitous random mixes where everyone gets on okay and we all have a lovely time eating far too much (christmas oranges, mince pies and pumpkin cake - oh British) and playing Articulate until the middle of the night.

It makes me feel all fuzzy, and its not just the mulled wine going to my head. I love Christmas. Take away the mountains of presents and the networking parties and the stress and the shopping. The garish and gruesome of obligations and rules and its just downright lovely.

I cannot wait til our Christmas Day of cozy, quiet, sombre celebration for all that there is to be grateful for.

a month ago Roland, the guy who sits across from me at work, announced his wife is pregnant.

today Oisin, the guy next to me, says the same.

in an office of 5, i have severe concerns about my chances of being the next one with an announcement in this epidemic.

contageous childbirth is the modern plague.

christmas bells are ringing...

Christmas is in the air ridiculously early.

Last weekend we went and picked up our Charlie Brown-esque tree from the british equivelent of Home Depot. And then had an arguement about how big a stand we needed and walked it the three miles home through the park singing carols and drinking starbucks gingerbread lattes on the way.

Two nights ago, I had to put on my leather gloves to string the lights because as beautiful as Norwegian Spruce's are, they hurt like a bitch. I was bleeding in places.

Last night, I made the traditional grammy's recipe cookie dough to sit overnight in the fridge. Now my only dilema is do i make the standard version, or cut holes in the middle and put in jolly ranchers to make little stained glass window cookies like i saw in the marks and spencer catalogue?

Can you risk messing with tradition just for the sake of martha stewart craftiness? It worked with the fashioning of a garland from the tree branches we trimmed off (to fit the tiny base we bought), but this may be a step too far.

Tomorrow is wreath cookies and present wrapping because sunday is our 'welcome to the holiday season' party which I am sure will be utterly memorable in a plethora of ways. Not only because i have never mulled wine before.

And I know it's early, but I am excited. And I am secretly hoping all this running about now, means i can spend the next month basking in the glow of my gold beribboned tree and doing jack shit for the holiday season except drinking port and wishing bing crosby was on tv.

I can't believe I've been home and back in a week. It was such a whirlwind I didn't get anything done, am more tired than when I left.

But how can I be anything but happy? I was with my family - my whole family - for the first time in ages. And I had my Liam with me too. And although it was not a slice of cake (what with the sleepless and slightly akward in places), it was by far and away better than it was worse and got easier and nicer every day. (Besides, it may or may not be his residential guest status that managed to keep all of the grady women out of tears and mom not throwing things for an entire week too....)

But anyway, it was really nice to be home and see everyone. And everything went okay. And Liam likes my family and my family likes him and he has now set his sights on moving to america and becoming an international antiques tycoon. And he wants a Wii. And a bigger house. My parents are perhaps a bad influence.

Me, I just can't wait til we'll be home again in 10 months. This time for something even better.

Thanks be to Jesus

So it's 7pm.

We are leaving for America in 12 hours.

I am not only thankful I have such an amazing guy to come with me on an adventure which guarantees to rival a christmas season family feel good film probably starring diane keaton or susan sarandon who dying of cancer/having a baby/starts a food fight with some other vaguely related minion and then they all cry and hug it out.

But also because he understands (and somewhere deep down condones) my nazified OCD need to have a clean house before leaving . I have never seen a sexier man than one in his robe scrubbing the bathtub and hoovering, just because I asked.

I totally win.

In one week we will be waking up in my parents house. This could be on twin beds in the basement or a proper queen in my room. This could involve dogs jumping on the bed, or drifting to consciousness at the smell of a proper breakfast. This could be magnificent or completely stressful and mad.

The things is, we just can't know. My bets are on both somehow simultaneously, as gradys never do anything by halves.

escapades in londinium

Okay, I'm not in such a mood anymore.

And seeing as it's Halloween and I am stuck in hotel room, I think I'll synopsise some things.

So, came back from London, had lots of 'I missed you' sex, slept all weekend, worked all week, and friday Liam's brother came.

He is just like tom if tom wasn't add, ocd or in anyway bothered about anything ever. he is the sweetest nicest funnest most laid back non commital person I have ever met (and if you know my friends and family, that's saying something). We spent the weekend going to the movies, wandering through graveyards and generally bumming around.

Then tuesday at dawn, I got on the train to London. Or rather, at 6:24am I woke up when the taxi company called to say my car was outside my house. My alarm didnt go off as planned and thus ensued a rather raucous scramble for the 7am train and a rather flightly and stressful morning (topped off by forgetting my contacts and having to constantly scrunch up my nose as my glasses slip down all week)

Had a couple of meetings on arrival - and kate you'll never guess who might be coming to my festival - and also made lingered eye contact with a remarkably hansome and quite short guy in soho and then wondered why suddenly, pointedly he looked down as we passed, until I realised he was Joseph Finnes and probably thought I was an oogling fan who was about to make a scene. poor guy.

then wandered about the British Museum as the last crowds filtered out. I couldn't get into the Last Emperor exhibition (that army of terra cotta soldiers and all manner of bad ass things), but the Rosetta Stone is always inspiring and the floor mosaics from roman britain are just fucking ace.

Then an evening of spreadsheets, emails and general maintence from the comfort of my totally lush suite with kitchenette topped off by a phone call to my dad.

Today woke up on time and even managed to get to my meeting in Covent Garden, but with half an hour to kill after, what was there to do but accidentally have an adventure?

So orla kiely (orlakiely.co.uk) is the must have of london. or was 3 years ago, and now is almost barely affordable. so, i popped in to have a look as I noticed it nestled between boutiques. being in a cheerful mood and loving the coin purse in the window, I greet the conspicuous, ridiculously cool 3 staff members standing behind the bar. They ask how I am, and general shop talk I disregard and pleasantly reply, thinking nothing of it.

Then they ask me to sign in, and thinking this is some mailing list perk or bet yet prize draw, i don't hesitate.

My pen hesitates only slightly as I skim the list that all say Mary Corontini, Marie Claire and Sophie Davies, Elle wondering if I need to fill in my job, so I put the book festival and wonder if the girl will say anything and starting to wonder what I am doing.

She doesn't though, and a nice young gentleman appears with a goodybag for me to take home and guides me to the showroom. I go down the stairs and it begins to dawn on me this isn't a store at all, but a premiere show for next summer's colletion for the fashion journalist elite. I see some lovely things, turn down the absolutely towering confectionary on every table, and breathe a sigh of relief when there is an exit out the third show room so I don't have to go back and face them. The girl at the door hopes I have a nice say and I mumble some apology for having to rush through like this and dash away before they take back my brilliant gifts.

And by then, it's time for another meeting so I get on with my day.

Which other than half a dozen meetings, also consits of going to a cool book award ceremony over the thames where it's actually given by teenagers (so I obviously chat to them instead of network and convince myself this is intensive groundwork research into my audience), get slightly tipsy and just barely make it to my last appointment.

Then it's a wander through covent garden market, nab a quiet corner in a pub for a steak pie and a good relishing of my new novel, follwed by a quick nap and off to a brilliant lecture on the future of picture books by the childrens laureate.

And now it's 9 pm, I'm back to the spreadsheets and going to do it all over again tomorrow (except the blatant theivery of designer goods part, though i can't promise i won't do something equally preposterous at the mummy museum book launch tomorrow night).

"I hope my children aren't nerds. I want them to be sporty and fun!" (small air punching cheerleader gesture)

I actually heard this fall from an obnoxious american girls mouth on Great Russell Street today.

Granted my sudden rage at this exclamation maybe needs some context. My business trips to London are rather quiet, floating affairs - seeing as I am completely on my own all day everyday just wandering about (think Lost in Translation in english with less hating it), so I generally, on the whole without, decernable emotion. Other than cheerfully glancing at a beautiful pair of shoes or being slightly irked my steak pie turned out to be a chicken pie, it's a relatevely calm almost hollow existance.

And to walk down a sunset street, with the great wonders of western discovery on my right (The British Museum), one of the great feats of quirky modern design under my arm (an orla keily bag), and a wonderful epic historical novel in my hand (the blue flame), I couldn't have been less disappointed in the flippant lack of scope and sanity in college girls. May I never speak to one again.

So, here I am. Riding first class back home after a week in London. The beauty of first class is free tea, coffee and wifi. Plus, no one sits next to you. It's brilliant. even if the old lady in front of me smells of fish and they have run out of pasta lunches.

Mostly London was just meetings and rubbish take away curries in my hotel room to be honest. A very real look at the boring hollow existence of corporate travel. But it did have some highlights.

Met up with old college friend blobel and wrangled him into a illustration exhibition where we possibly got him a job, got v drunk, and met john howe of lotr fame whose illustrated beowulf is outstanding.

Also saw Glengarry/Glenross with Jonathan Pryce in the west end, and one should always see Mamet on your own in an akward vintage theatre. It totally helps.

Plus, watching crap late night tv, caught the life-changing 'the girls guide to 21st century sex' which was far more graphic and weird than you can possibly imagine. Not only including porn star re-enactments, she had an internernal camera inplanted so we could witness all the build up and action (*addendum: and by we all I mean completely and totally me. As 1, I wouldn't be caught dead watching this with real people and 2, I was probably the only person in the country who tuned in to such pseudo-science rubbish). It was oustandingly weird. The hollywood counsellors on velvet sofas added an air of glamour, and then a whole segment on the 30 Lorraina Bobbett incidents a year in Thailand.

I think i need to repeat that. About 30 women a year mutilate and or cut off their husbands dicks in Thailand - and most of the men can look forward to a completely normal life after reattachement up to 15 hours later. It turns out cocks are like starfish legs or newts tails or something. And the beauty of it is, many of the couples stay together - forgive and forget genital multilation I guess. Jesus.

Then waiting in Kings Cross this afternoon, I came across a copy of Diva with Shane from the L word on the front, who is admittedly quite sexy in a flat-chested sort of way. And the cover story was about lesbian authors. Being a woman who loves her some Carol Ann Duffy and has been meaning to read Tipping the Velvet for several years, regardless of my or the authors orientation, I was interested. And I was shocked and appalled at my own hesitation to pick up a lesbian magazine in the crowded bookshop. It was quite surreal actually having the flashes of violence, insolence and general social awareness of prejudice in my head - and sizing up the trucker on my left and the goth on the right to see if it would actually be risky if I was seen picking it up.

So of course I immediately did - freaked out by my own stupidity and being obstenent. Because, really what are the chances they are on my train much less psychotic enough to rape and/or maim me in a lashing out of misguided homophobia? how fucked up.

So yeah, it's been an odd few days.

ps - I hope this post comes out okay, because for some reason the wireless has linked into the swedish version of blogger and i can't read any of the buttons. go figure.

Julie

It's not everyday you celebrate someone's 30th birthday. And Julie being Julie, we had to do it in style (bearing in mind last year she organised an ice skating outting in which I slipped in a monumental moment of slapstick inspiration and busted my tailbone leaving me bedridden for almost a week. Hilarity ensued for almost everyone involved, or so I hear).

And of course Julie being Julie, she is obsessed with the Sound of Music.

Work obligations prevented us actually going to Austria (the original plan), so we had to make do with Edinburgh.

A lunch of schnitzel with noodles (which is actually quite nice) and the soundtrack wafting through the house, followed by a photoshoot in the gardens (some evidence of which is on facebook). Pinafores, a guitar, a little too much giddy singing and my piece de resistance - insisting everyone re-enact the cuckcoo song by popping out from behind her back in sequence as she strummed tunelessly and giggled like she won the lottery.

Then home for warm apple strudel and the film (and a few brown paper packages tied up with string).

There is something so wholesome about good old childish play and a musical birthday party. If only I had the guts to turn my russet drapes with the golden phesants on them (oh yes, they are mine) into leiderhosen I think she could have died happy that day.

So how's life? I am completely devoid of one at the minute. Let's take my yesterday as the perfect example.

Get up, crawl out of bed hungover from publishing dinner with this really amazing American author, throw on whatever is sitting on my chair. (Let it be noted here, it may be wining, dining and general glitz, but it is also hard fucking work chatting and niceness and cajoling the right people and not letting the conversation die. Socialite behaviour is a cultivated skill of gross professionalism.)

Go to morning meeting tiptoeing around an arts partnership that while incredibly promising for the profile has no discernable pricetag attached and I can't get Judy Blume to come for free.

Spend the rest of the day color coding my London visit. The city map behind my desk is covered with post it arrows like a battle plan. The spreadsheet of meetings is color coded by availability and area. Spend a large chunk of time researching appropriately trendy and relaxed cafes in which to set up meetings where they won't mind me sitting with endless cups of tea as a revolving door of publicists joins me for up to 5 hours at a stretch.

Leave work late, do the grocery shopping.

Schlep home and begin unpacking the boxroom, hanging pictures, folding laundry until I realise it's 7:15 and I haven't started the risotto.

Mushroom and wine risotto is fucking excellent (espcially with ceasar salad and crusty bread), but it takes almost an hour and a half to get the rice sufficiently creamy. My self-inflicted domesticity is becoming draining.

Spend an hour standing at the stove, book in one hand, ladle in the other.

Liam comes home, we have dinner, it's 9:30 somehow.

He runs me a lavender bath, then goes to do the dishes while I relax in the steamy foam.

And then i am so tuckered out from the warm fuzzy goodness in my muscles, we get only halfway through the 'what are we doing for christmas' coversation before I conk out.


Okay, maybe I exaggerate. Proper night out, productive day planning first class business trip, culinary delights and a cuddly bath and bedtime.

Life could be much worse, but it could do with a little more excitment at the minute. I want a carpe diem of running through leaves and new riding boots and a train journey to the shore. Not another trip to fucking IKEA and anything remotely resembling microsoft excel.

I cannot wait until thanksgiving. I so need to get a car while I'm in america and escape for awhile.

things are just right.

i keep using the word perfect, but it's not really accurate.

what i mean, is things are perfect for me. if i knew what it was i'd like to think I would have arrived here years ago, but all I know is it suddenly fits.

A lot of it is Liam. Is us. How we fit so easily and are so seamlessly well, together. No matter what. Not in an every minute of everyday sort of way. But in a connected, comfortable sort of way. Because as he says, this is a sort of always and forever scenario. Not that we can ever know that for sure, but you know, as much as a romantic pessimist can believe. and god do i want to believe.

I used to think this sort of calm meant stasis. Somehow more boring or lame because it meant routine and settling and boredom. Meant doing things differently or changing what i do because I'd do couply things and be eaten by this entity known as 'us'.

But really it just means we are having adventures together. Same silly shit, same rough edges, but somehow completely and utterly new and better than ever because we are sharing it.

And part of me appreciates this now since we have settled into our new flat with its accompanying routine for two. And partly because we are on a romantic vacation in Bath, the city of Austen, walking down cobbled lanes and picnicking in the park.

And a lotly because we are going to meet the family soon. Not me going home, but us. being with them. for the first time.

I have never brought anyone home to meet my parents before. Not that I ever seriously dated, and not that any of them would have been worth the trouble, but still. It's a hurdle I am approaching rather late in the game, and I don't think it's to my advantage. My parents still act like this is some fling. Some nice boy I go on dates with and am using as a step in the growing up process. I think my being away has left them a little behind in the sara-development scale.

And I worry. That he'll be anxious. That I'll forget to tell Grammy he's a vegetarian and it'll be aweful. That my parents will be either that weird overly friendly 'aren't we young and cool' thing with the swearing and the bodily functions chat or the overbearing nun routine with grilling him and their weird embarassment about intimacy and the palava over who sleeps where. That what should be a joyous occasion (and frankly not primarily about us anyway) will be riddled with akward on all sides.

But I hope more than anything I can share how happy I am, and share how wonderful he is with my family and it's not weird.

Because I have never been happier. I could burst with joy and beam so much it almost hurts. And better than anything that has happened, is looking forward to the rest of it yet to come.

It's about the marriage, not the wedding as they say (no I don't remember who, I read it somewhere. shut up.)

The constant bulletins and newsletters circulated in the world of arts professionals are usually quite sweet and sometimes pithy.

A youth orchestra in venezuela's new initiative to bring classical music to urban slums.

An award for an environmentally conscious theatre production done suspended from tree branches.

The obituary of Pavarotti and Jude Law's risky Hamlet make for in depth reading while the statistic pop and rock stars are twice as likely to die and early death than other people is cocktail party conversation in the making.

But today, pulp fiction is at the forefront with my current favourite idiot:

From an article in ArtsProfessional:

A Polish pulp fiction writer was sentenced to 25 years in jail last week for his role in the abduction, torture and murder of a love rival, a crime that he then used for the plot of a bestselling thriller. Writer Krystian Bala was found guilty of orchestrating the murder seven years ago of businessman Dariusz Janiszewski, in a crime of passion brought on by the suspicion that the victim was sleeping with his ex-wife. Janiszewski’s murder had detectives baffled for years until, that is, they read Bala’s – clearly ill-advised – novel, in which the villain gets away with kidnapping, mutilating and murdering a young woman. No such luck for the bad guy in real life as Bala was sentenced to life imprisonment, at the end of a case that has gripped Poland for months.


Lordy.

I'd just like to state for the record (as it seems this was news to me last night):

1, I don't like sambuca.
2, I am too old for shots
3, work nights out are brilliant, 1 & 2 aside
4, except when one is chairing a meeting at 9 the next morning on the plan for the forthcoming year to the entire staff

I think it has been so long since I have gone out I forgot how to do it.

But in other news, blobel has moved to london. what a random exciting bit of news.

ps - if anyone has an idea if my parents will be decending on my life next week I'd love to know. More importantly, I think Liam will need some preparation No one should be indoctrinated (and possibly adopted) by the Gradys as a surprise weekend excursion.

hello again world.

it's been awhile since I was cogent.

The festival is behind me, the move is in progress and life is grand in a remarkably sunny scotland.

Our new flat is beyond perfect (or will be when i hang the chandelier and sort out the slipcovers) and it's been a such a treat to take time off for the move and settle in properly. Last night I watched the sunset with a glass of wine while I listened to Liam half heartedly hum as he did the dishes. in our beautiful kitchen. There is a perfect sort of calm in this house, we both feel like we have finally come home.

Which is surreal when you think about it. Feeling more at home in this strange new little place than I ever have before. And yes, it's fucking terrifying. This is not ever a life I imagined - namely the living in sin with the british partner and having a jet setter job - it's fucking weird.

But then, having the dream of a quaint little corner of the world to call my own with someone I love has always been the goal, so I am not so far off really. Just refocused maybe. Things are never quite what I expect and yet some how they always turn out for the best. Go figure.

I guess what I mean is I have spent a great portion of my life waiting for it to start. For the dating and courtship and weddings and babies I always thought I was supposed to do because that's how it works. Mostly because I thought that was the gauntlet one went through to find the perfect life in which to forsake it all, and then settle down.

And slowly I have come to understand that the traditional path to the traditional forever isn't really for me. I hate dating, I don't like coddling, and I have never really wanted my own wedding as much as I love attending other peoples. And frankly, I don't see settling down as a change in path but just a readjustment based on new variables. (If and when sara, if and when.). It's all just so different when I think of what I want, not what I think is supposed to be happening. And it's sad that is a revelation.

Once again I have to admit to myself there are no shoulds in this life the way I thought there were. The manual I wrote for myself out of movie scripts and novels was far from accurate and I should stop behaving like a tourist in this world and just live.

Luckily my life went ahead and started without me, or perhaps (as I secretly hypothosise) I work best on autopilot. And now I have managed to get the perfect happy ending without even meaning to.

It's fucking ridiculous. And I have never been happier.

Today was a world first.

I helped concoct and hosted the first skype linked episode of who wants to be a cosmic billionaire (it's cooler than it sounds).

Lucy Hawking did her first ever event for her book George's Secret Key to the Universe which she co-wrote with her dad, Stephen Hawking. She is lovely and amazing and she even brought the action figure of him based on his Simpson's appearnce as her pocket-sized dad since he couldn't come.

Then we called Stephen Hawking live from the Book Festival and asked him the kids best voted science questions (such as 'how far from the sun could you be and get incinerated?', kids never fail to please). Finally his digitised dulcet sounds came through loud and clear and I almost lept with joy and bringing the greatest mind alive in contact with the doe eyed youngsters.

Obviously any event that gets kids excited about science and makes books cool is ace by me (and vaildates my entire being), but one where the author shouts 'you're caught in an asteroid belt!' and pelts kids with space rocks (literally specially commissioned peppermints that say space rocks on them) is obviously the work of a family of geniuses (or geni as I will now refer to them).

that festival feeling

It's day 14 of 18.

It's sunny and sparkling. The school kids are all away to their buses, my floaty grace kelly cobalt blue dress is a hit all over town, and I've an evening of champagne and a picnic with my lover planned.

The garden is glorious (aside from it's boggy odour from the drying up swamps in the corners), the public is happy and all is well. I even got flowers from an appreciative publicist and managed to sound not-retarded on national television. It's manic and chaotic, frustrating and complicated. But I love it.

Things are remarkably good considering I've not slept in days, I'm not nearly finished and things are far from perfect.

I have never been too tired to have sex before. It's a new level of fatigue I could do without repeating. And the fact my schmancy online grocery order never came due to a server error at the store is a bit rubbish as I am eating complete garbage these days (today? stale bagel, 2 cans of coke, bruised apple and chocolate cookie).

But still, I haven't lost hope. And with the end in sight, I'm even more excited for the next one, which will be better planned, better organised and easier all way round.

I thought I'd take this minute (while my graphic novel masterclass begins and before my first aiding responsibilities commence for the night) to update you.

It's rough. I'm not going to lie. It's sneaking around in the darkness at 7am while huffy flatmates queue for the toilet to get ready. It's waiting on a jam packed commuter bus to reach a soggy muddy puddle of a garden for a day of standing around with demanding unapreicative artists, their sycophantic hangers on and gently coddling and foraying into the general uptight over zealous public.

It's fucking hard.

But everyday, almost every hour, something spectacualr happens. Whether it's seeing a whole bunch of grumpy goths literally light up at the sight of the master of horror, or the little pink clad tinies prancing about in their fairy wings, I have spent a lot of time and effort and tears on making this a place of joy, sancutary and comfort for thousands of people. No matter how old they are, no matter how much they make it can be inspiring. and fun. and exciting. the things that make life worth living.

and for all the 14 hours days. and all the back aches from carrying the endless spreadsheets on a clipboards, and the earaches from constantly wearing a wireless headset. and lack of sleep and decent food and recognition and assistance I crave - nothing in the world compares to the glow in my heart when I've created something people can care about and enjoy.

When it is possible, for one minute, to make a difference.

Bacchic Banter and Bumph

Last night I did a dash from work (literally unplugged the headset, ran to my desk, threw on a fab dress and grabbed a taxi in the pouring rain) to the Kings Theatre.

I had booked tickets for us to The Bacchae. Classic greek tragedy with a camp Alan Cumming - it sounded exactly our cup of tea (or mixed cocktail as such).

And as the gold lame kilted queen decended from the ceiling I had high hopes for a drama of decadence and retribution to be swift, sharp and slick.

But as the gospel choir of vegas showgirls glittered through the sloppy choreography and Alan was little more than panto tongue-in-cheek with little investment and less sympathy, I wondered exactly what Euripedes had to do with this.

When the bloody violence of act three rolls around, the raging, guilt ridden angst of grief and pain fell flat against a minimalist set and feather boaed crowd. And I must say, most of the audience was sniggering at the out of place melodrama in the otherwise flippant glitzy show that could have been good fun, if only they'd chosen another script.

A good laugh, a decent spectacle, but at the end of the day it wasn't much of a performance. I was a bit disappointed, but that said, we had a lovely evening out (beautiful dress, hansome partner, post-show mind blowing sex) and I'm happy.

the first day, saturday

6:45 - creep out of bed
7:28 - get the bus to work

8:00 - make the list of all the unfinished work (loose nails on the walkway, buggy park wall falling off, lock missing on storage shed, wireless radio battery dead)
8:30- staff meeting

9:00 - double check site. pre-set venues f0r first events
9:30 - soweto gospel choir sing as gates open, manage onslaught of stampeding teenage girls
9:45 - meet 3 authors for three events, introduce to three chairs, get them off to their events

10:00 - first three events start, go back and get the 2 10:30s

continue through morning

11:00 - take slight break to go to office as am soaked through and muddy. discover squelching from hole in my shoe, borrow flipflops from co-worker.
11:48 - radio call for missing storyteller for noon storytelling, source last minute replacement

12:15 - chat with publisher panicking on undersold event
12:30 - fetch coffees for lunchtime musicians
12:45 - commence afternoon events

1:50 - take "lunch break" to gulp a can of coke
2:00 - calm panicking author on empty event
2:30 - help storyteller unload 6 garbage bags of craft materials in my storage shed for tomorrow

3:00 - 2 more events take off
3:20 - clean workshop of glue and gitter for artist masterclass with famous illustrator
3:30 - get illustrator off the ground
3:40 - prep charlie & lola party

4:00 - get two more events off the ground
4:10 - furiously radio to find out where the refugee children attending are refugees from
4:30 - check email and do maintence for tomorrow

rain finally lets up

5:30 - 3events finish, man their signings
6:30 - last signing ends, start packing up events
6:45 - finish storing last of supplies

7:00 - call Liam
7:15 - eat left over burger and beging typing this

then:

7:40 - dress for opening party
8:00 - set up opening party
8:45 - guests arrive
9:05 - speeches
9:30 - band plays
10:00 - finish first aid duty, commence drinking
11:30 - taxi home
12:15 set the alarm for 6:30, go to bed,

sleep once, and repeat. for the next 18 days straight.

i have been on my period for a month.

not just spot bleeding. not just patches. full on clots and cramps and illness.

how can the doctor insist i am fine?

how can i be on the same perscription (refilled in britian, but the same chemical make up) and suddenly it doesn't work?

why does no one believe me?

now is not the time to be battling hormones.

as if there was a good time to feel this rubbish.

holy mother of insanity

jesus fucking christ.

i just need a fucking break from all this fucking shit and the dickhead retard cunts i seem required to interact with on a daily fucking basis.



i do feel a bit better now. thanks.

i don't want your dirty dishes in my sink. i don't want you calling me every five minutes with inane questions. i don't want belated impossible requests far too late in the game. i don't want your overflow piled on my desk. i don't want guff at the checkout counter. i don't want your skepticism tainting my shit. just fucking stuff it and let me get on with my own life.

there is a point at which one cannot be kind and tactful anymore. a point at which a spade is a spade, you are just wrong, it is a problem and i can't smile at incompetence or laziness anymore.

it's a real shame that point is still 8 days before the festival where all of the above tolerance, kindness and tranquility will be required of me 18 hours a day, 7 days a week.

i need a beer and a nap pronto.

i have a homemade pumpkin cheesecake in the oven.

today julie and i did a crossword puzzle from the paper and had cheese and oatcake lunches.

now i am puttering about with my glass of white burgundy while liam does the dishes before we watch the lady vanishes on dvd.

saturday's are ace.

the high life (and no, not MGD)

so friday afternoon is certainly an odd time to remenisce about last weekend. but it hasn't been done yet, my network is being weird and i could do with a break from spreadsheets (i may be too busy for a lunch break but no one can brgrudge me a minutes peace).

so, last friday:
finish work, walk home in the sunshine with homemade peanutbutter cookies with chocolate blobs on top. yum. my baking has improved exponentially.

6:32,surreptitiously liaise with my hook up. namely, trade said cookies for an early copy of Harry Potter from Jamie*. In fact get two, as part of the bargain is I deliver the other to a mutual friend on the dot of midnight as a surprise.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

6:34 begin reading.
7:20 Liam comes home. He surmises the situation and drifts away to make dinner.
8:02 Liam brings me dinner in my room and I give it up for the rest of the night as it is just stupid to think I can't wait another second. Spend the rest of the evening goofing off as per usual.

saturday morning
sneakily wake up before 7am alarm as Liam must be up for work in a couple of hours. quickly dress and wait by the window for cab to arrive.

am whisked to new station for pottermania live radio interview.

other than in my sleepy haze calling the completely wrong person on arrival (instead of station, call a picture book author friend of mine who gets v confused and eventually says 'sara. i have no idea what you are talking about. what's going on?' where i realise i've called the wrong person, have to explain the faux pas then cut short as am late for interview now!)

sit in a red felt booth the small enough you could touch all the walls, fitted with headphone and microphone and clock. am fired questions from some bodiless voice frmo glasgow in front of god knows how many weekend insomniacs on live radio. (said author friend listened in after this and reassures me i did just fine). it's harder than it sounds, radio.

taxi home to cuddle up with the book again for a few hours.

saturday afternoon
bundle and pack as liam and i are away for the weekend when he finishes work. i couldn't afford to take time off for a week in brussles like we hoped, so we are going to blow my holiday stash on a decadent mini-break with only an hour's travel time.

the important question of what does one pack for a weekend where you don't intend remove the supplied fluffy bathrobe or eat anything but room service takes up a good portion of the afternoon.

after, trek to town and realise i think i should buy something nice for our little excursion. suffice to say this becomes a detour to the weird leather & lace sex shop for some ace kama sutra massage oil and a surreal conversation with the comic-book-guy like employee about lube with a easy access squirt handle.

saturday evening
pick up liam, hop the train, sit together eating blueberries while i read Deathly Hallows and he reads Azkaban with regualr interruptions where he asks for the current death toll.

arrive One Devonshire Gardens (where the likes of George Clooney, Justin Timberlake and the rest of the visiting pazparrazzi-ites go as it's the poshest one in the city, and Glasgow is the poshest city in Scotland). Men in kilts take our bags, ply us with whiskey in the opulent living room and I sign away my life savings.

get the tour of our Classic King Suite (with full on four poster with massive draped, bay window bigger than an SUV overlooking the garden and a black marble bathroom.) and try to have the 'should we tip' conversation with only our eyes behind the consierge's back.

when we're alone obviously we immediately put on the fluffy robe (and matching slippers), play a bit of putt putt with the specially engraved putter supplied with every room and check out the minibar (full mostly of champagne and imported chocolate)

I order the room service while Liam runs the bath. There are candles and bubbles and it's deep enough water comes up to my shoulders. It's spectacular.

Then all pink and glowing (and still in robes), we sit down to a multi-course dinner on silver platters at the little table in our room like real celebrities. We even got a visit from the sommelier and our own waiter (who we wouldn't let stay while we ate because that is just fucking weird, so he went to get the next course).

If you care, I had a beautiful salad and steak. Not that it mattered by then.

Before crawling under the canopy for for a relaxing massage, we hang our breakfast order on the door and then retire in the decadent silence of the high life.

sunday morning
wake up just before breakfast is delivered at 11 on a massive tray. though, with liam still in bed i insist on taking it at the door.

we peek open the drapes and have a leasurely breakfasting the sitting room. pastry, fruit salad and a pot of fresh tea. sigh.

sunday afternoon
after a nap, a shower and the final few pages of harry potter, we wander about the west end. things are deteriorating quickly. He is mad and I am upset and everything is rubbish. we have a bit of a scuffle. snippy, tired, crabby and ridiculous we try and scrounge a picnic as I have booked for Shakespeare in the park.

we head to the botanics for what should be a wonderful production of othello and a sumptuous feast only to find it's folding chairs in a greenhouse. crowded, humid and incapable of spreading out the snacks, i break down. i was so looking forward to this as the highlight of our trip and suddenly it looks like a holt high school production I'll have to suffer through for 3 hours

we decide to ditch the play, hedge our bets and have a picnic in the last rays of sunlight in the garden. we are better than mediocre shakespeare anyway, with our fancy seed humous and dried blueberries.

of course, we bought lots of the provisions in a kroger-a-like, so when we had a bag of crisps left over, we had to hide them walking into the hotel. who could flash their wal-bob roots in front of bloomingdales? only the tell-tale crinkle under liam's eggplant coloured velvet blazer could give us away.

monday morning
we are resolved to get out of bed before 4 this time, and have breakfast in bed and read about the flooding in the downs in the paper.

we then head to some tiny little second hand bookshops where i buy a lovely book of errudite poetry and a beautiful edition of vanity fair.

monday afternoon
lunch in a fancy french cafe yields decadent cheese boards (ooh. appenzeller with chilli chutnney on saffron crackers...)

then have raspberry cheesecake in the sunny gardens before wandering through a spectacular museum of Hunter (one of the first medical detectives - babies in jars, skulls with syphillitic groths, it was ace) and then exploring Glasgow's unbelievably beautiful university. It's like if all of Oxford's colleges were combined into one, up on a hill with spiral staircases and a glorious cathedral.

monday evening
then a train ride home and a giddy evening of holiday hangover and calm.

potter publicity

this morning the bbc sent a car for me. i was whisked away to the studio to be interviewed about pottermania and it's aftermath. i don't really remember what i said as 8am radio is just not the best idea when one has been reading most of the night.though i must say, sometimes it is quite cool being the resident expert on kids books.

last night, after a long day and a rather unremarkable homemade lasagne, liam took me for ice cream.

we meandered through my green and chirpy neighbourhood to the local homemade parlour. it's called Lucas and a family run little place with an upstairs for kiddie parties and penny candies strung from the counter. it's so cute.

and i even got to splurge on a praline parfait with hot fudge. it was in a little plastic stem cup like an old school diner sundae and i was so excited. long handled spoon, holding hands in the sunshine. there is nothing better.

until, holding this stem cup from the bottom, the base and the body proceede to seperate in my hands (like those shitty champagne flutes in college) and the ice cream, hot fudge, nuts and whipped cream spun - literally spun- through the air and directly into a muddy puddle in the middle of a construction site.

we both laughed (but mine were covering tears). and poor liam went and got me another one, which was obviously even better.

and then we went to sit on a garden bench in a tiny hidden green around the corner and smell the honeysuckle.

sometimes it's like a fairytale, just with more comedy value.

death be not proud

In an effort to set a good exmaple for the thousands of wee ones going to walk through my gates soon to make tiger masks, fairy wings and all manner of glue laden paraphanalia (not to mention I get self affirming glow of do gooderyness and a decent reputation) I am trying to make our workshops as eco-friendly as possible.

The pots to hold crayons are made from potato starch and are biodegradable in just 180 days. The scissors are made from 100% recycled stainless steel. The pencils were once plastic cups. It's a beautiful thing.

Plus, the recycled craft warehouse I joined to get second hand tissue paper, buttons and corks from an arts council development project was possibly the funnest morning I've had in ages. And of course all their staff are work placement training for people with learning disabilities. It's one big happy family of tree huggers and life affirming community development.

But in my extensive research into available reused recycled, biodegradable, nontoxic and renewable resourced supplies, I have stumbled on some scary things.

Like say, 100% recycled coffins.

scottish cliches

thirdly (and lastly), my life here in scotland is complete. i have seen the media incarnate of this nation in the flesh as any true tourist could only dream of.

sitting in one of the posh alfresco bars of george street for an afternoon meeting over martinis (raspberry stoli, pomegrante juice, champagne, some floating rasperries and a twist of lime), we were looking out the window as the world went by, and who should hobble along using his yellow striped umbrella as a cane with a miniature blonde on his arm but sean fucking connery.

seriously. the scotsman of scotsmen. the icon of generations. the man who has signed a headshot in every restaurant in town meandered past my window.

i openly stared obviously, to make sure he was real.

and he paused, looked directly at me for a minute, nodded a little (either in acknowledgement or a simple gesture of 'yeah i'm him, leave me alone" I don't know) and continued on his merry way.

sadly, i have no major news to report, though the rest of the evening i had Queen's Highlander anthem in my head and wished he did a better spanish accent for the good of mankind.

the horror!

also, i thought i would share a parting photo thought. taken months ago in Bologna, this almost ruined my childhood forever.

i don't know if you can imagine walking arounda fair completely dedicated to kids books with not a kid in sight. it's already a surreal experience. but when one happends across dearly beloved old friends and their masticated and demented offspring, it's truly horrific.





...one of these things is not like the others
one of these things just doesn't belong
can you tell which thing is not like the others
by the time i finish this song...

isn't it freakish?

this is seasame street unlimited. selling the licence for the show, books, dvds, whatever around the world. instilling everyone with the belief they too can be happy in a nondsecript new york suburb.

but due to cultural differences, media squabbles and the opportunity to adapt the best seller to the home market, new characters have been developed in a country near you.

Witness the glorious twisted appeal Abelordo from Latin America and below, Googli from India!

some things i've been meaning to mention

not that anyone is regularly disappointed in my unexplained silences, but i feel as though I should run through some highlights montage style.

firstly: the big news, kate is engaged.

other than the she will now be called mrs. kate cadenas and her children may well be called things like hood and harper cadenas, i couldn't possibly be a single ounce happier.

secondly: the lesser big news, liam and i are moving in together. which i know isn't really news to anyone who has been paying attention, but it feels rather more serious all of a sudden. we went on our sunny sunday afternoon to see the place one last time. taking pictures, drawing floorplans (i am officially my mother, carring a tapemeasure in my purse), discussing what bed we will buy.

i think it irked him i felt buying a bed was a bigger committment than moving in together, but i said ' i can always move out, but investing in furniture is for life. i mean, who would get the fourposter?'. i am not sure he appreciated the wit in the way i had hoped. that or he secretly hates mahogony.

in other news in no apparent order:
- I went to the poshest two parties of my life in London. One was an exclusive hire of the Tate Modern with London's 400 best literatti on the gallery's uppermost floor- a bar with floor to ceiling windows across the whole room affording panoramas of both sides of the river. Followed by a roof top terrace press launch and celebration of the children's book award of children's book awards atop the British Library. Who even knew the British Library had a private rooftop garden which seemed like a green haven in Bloomsbury?

- I also watched wimbeldon, which is slowly winning me over every year. the legacy. the whiteness. the crisp british grass and that john mcenroe still commentates. sigh.

- attending a mad hatters tea party certainly ranks. everything you imagine was there, and more. even the catepillar's hookah.

- i have been drunk off of pomegranate and raspberry martinis on a working lunch and picnicked in the sunshine with my lover.

okay, i am waxing a little poetic. all of these things have actually happened, but they are essentially the highlights of the last 6 weeks which mostly consisted of working on spreadsheets of crayons, buying dinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner, washing up and going to bed tired, sore, crabbby and uninspired.

but that said, i have recently made:
- mushroom and thyme risotto
- steamed asparagus with balsalmic vinegar and parmasean
- honey oatmeal cookies so dense they are like scones
- strawberry shortcake with whipped cream
(*small aside: so there is no cool whip in britain. even the aresol reddi-whip is scarce. instead, you buy approximately a yogurtsize tub of 'whipping cream' then proceed to beat it vigorously by hand for like 15 minutes. it is the most labour intensive cooking i have ever done. but god is it good.)
- homemade smoothie and pancake breakfasts
- i could go on, but i am getting hungry.

and now ive found a recipe for blue cheese and rocket penne plus a fantastico looking flatbread which are totally on my agenda now.

and yes. i try not to worry about my patty duke like domesticity. i kind of like it. (so long as he alwsys does the dishes and at least half of the shopping.) so i am resolved to be happy this has replaced my general addiction to cathardic baking of lard filled baked goods, as sometimes my cooking even involved vegtables. it's healthy stress relief! what a comfort.

it's just such a shame nice ingredients like good balsalmic vinegar or my new penchant for rapeseed oil are so fucking expensive.

there are so many more important things to tell.

but life is moving too fast for me to keep up.

in the stead of real life, here: http://www.theherald.co.uk/misc/print.php?artid=1473853. I'm famous. well, a little.

the man

so my job is simultaneously the best thing that ever happened to me and the most frustrating and debilitating curse of my life.

as liam so eloquently put it last night "your job promises to be ultimately rewarding yet at every turn you meet with prejudice and difficulty. you pour your soul into it and are still continually trodden on". well, something to that effect. I was too busy tearing up at his ranting on my behalf after the past week.

We launched the programme you see.

And it was fantastic. Terrifying and weird, and full of fancy receptions and press conferences and I was even on tv! And had to have my portrait taken for the papers and lots of ritzy things. But it doesn't mean it's easy or fun or even effective.

I guess what sums it up best is the features editor (not the children's supplemental, not the books editor) from the national newspaper came up to me after my 5 minute rant about the importance of childrens literature and our seminal position as a valuable experience for young readers and said "I'm X from Y. Normally we don't cover the children's programme but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?".

And yes, it's wonderful we'll finally get coverage. Yes, it's fantastic one person heard and believed me. But I can't fight this war one ignorant journalist at a time. And I shouldn't have to.

And now, my baby, our programme, you can download a copy from the website, but therein lies the problem.

For all the work, and all pride I have in pouring my heart and soul into the damn thing, I still hate it sometimes.

It's hideous. It's ineffective. It's a hopeless document meant to inform the few and ignore if not completely shut out everyone else. And for a job that I truly believe is about sharing stories, loving literature and helping young minds grow, I constantly am disappointed and appalled at the snobbish, shallow litterati and their ignorance and dismissal of anything but the alan bennets and joyce carol oates of the world.

not that their work isn't magnificent. but it is not the only work that matters. or if it is, then just admit this is a middle class british institution to celebrate itself and don't pretend we are openminded and encouraing new audiences and believe in the power of words to unite people.

because you use my truth as a lie and it is slowly killing me.

etiquette isn't dead after all

walking down the road one often passes scruffy homeless people. more often than not they ask you for money. but never in all my homeless transactions have i been referred to as milady before.

Sark-y Comment

and also, I'd soliloqize about some idiot burning down the Cutty Sark, but I probably know more about the Edmund Fitzgerald (admit it, the song is totally in your head now too) than the fast clipper ever sailed.

besides, who names their ship 'little shirt'? in scots no less. my country of residence shames me.

may I just admit before you all I was heretofore unaware of the Golden Age of Bulgarian Culture.

I will argue until the end of time Sunday afternoons in bed con laptop are essential to my mental edification and sense of wellbeing.

it's the calm before the storm.

this week is insanely busy. then next week it's june. mother fucking press conferences and london speeches june. and then it's go time, with just under a month to see to every minutae of the summer's madness. like hiring my staff and making sure there are enough marker pens for the kiddies at the peter rabbit birthday party.

and august will be an utter and total blur. on site by 8 to give the staff a briefing, authors arrive at 9, gates open 9:30, first show at 10, last show at 7 sometimes 8. in between manage the interviews and photo calls and books, ignings and madness and try not to nip into the bar too often. then prepare for the next day, clear up the madness, and head home (if not required to make an appearance at a sponsors do, publishers dinner or reception for the politician of the day) do it all over again. 7 days a week, all month.

and of course, three days after i close the gates, we're moving. i am moving in with my boyfriend. not a gesture to really be tacked on at the end like that if i had my d'ruthers. and by then it's midseptember.

oh, and did i mention his mom and anika and her beau are coming to visit for the first time in august too? ace.

i seriously will have no life for the next 4 months. but then, when it's private bashes at the british library then catching the sleeper train home and dinners at restaurants you have to book a year ahead for, no life is better than some lives.

i just wish there was more time for me.

my sister is better than you.

I'd just like to state for the record, the Entertainment Weekly Must List (a top ten of things you must do/see/own for the week) recently placed my sister's dvd at number 5.

Better than Tyra Banks and just shy of Casino Royale.

In the top half of things all of hollywood wannabes and pop culture savvy peoples should know about is her work.

She is so better than you.

impersonating the insane

Today I thought the perfect sunday afternoon would be a stroll to the stationers to splurge some lovely paper. you know me and my addiction to crisp stationary, and using my fancy fountain pen set doesn't have the same effect on notebook paper that still has the sprial-fringy bits attached. But sadly, I wandered down to bruntsfield only to find both the little shops I adore closed on sundays. alas alas.

So on my meander home in the sunshine, I was surpised to find a new custom stationary place right near my house - and it was full of people. The woman inside the door smiled and I thought this was serendipitous indeed.

As I walked in the door, there was harpist in the corner and champagne on offer. Total score, I thought, this must be an opening gala of some sort. The nice welcome-girl handed me a bag of goodies and I was all smiles. "help yourself to the magazines, and there are some other vendors displaying in the back".

I of course look at the massive stack of glossy mags at her feet entitled "Scottish Bride" and "Real Life Weddings" and realize exactly what I have done. My smile faulters but I figure dashing for the door would be unsavoury, chicken shit and no free cake. So what can it hurt to be nice?

I swan about looking at their sample invitations, watch the atrocious mini-make-overs, sample the fantastic cake and mostly feel so completely out of place I wonder if some is going to scream and point "intruduer!" they don't though. everyone is so full of bubbly cheer and sychophantic kindness they don't see me breaking out into a rash.

I ended up perusing the beautiful fancy papers for ages and ages. The guy who owns the place came to help but I wisked him away - "oh, i am just browsing for inspiration" with my best fake-bride-to-be smile. But managed to slip in I was intersted in buying some test samples before commiting to a whole invitation batch (sneaky sneaky). "we don't have sales facilities today, but if it's just a couple of samples you're after, go ahead and take them with my compliments". I swear he almost winked . If there had been consortial nudging, I would have died I think.

But still. Free handmade paper! I spent the next half an hour co-ordinating paper weights and subtle shimmer. I kept slipping in some weddingy looking ones (like the handmade rosepetal monstrosity) just in case anyone caught a glance of my sensible chocolate browns and linen weaves was suspicious.

And yes, I must confess although I did end up with a tasteful set of papers (and coordinating envelope!), it did flicker through my mind what I would do if I ever needed wedding invitations. The second that thought it my psyche though, I headed for the door. Just in case they were contagious.

So now I am at home, reading inspiring accounts of Aileen's Big Day and eating the free handmade choclates I found in my goody bag. My only regret is I didn't have the guts to milk it for more.

Is it evil to impersonate a bride just for the nuptual freebies? I hope not.

anonymous is obnoxious

i have way more important things to be writing about, but my griveance for today must be aired.

classmates.com

it's one of those pre-facebook/myspace/beebo/(remember friendster?) registeries which promised to keep you informed of important goings on i.e. high school reuions and not much else as far as i am aware.

and of course, being 4 months out of high school and lonely and scared and facing the entire world and my entire lack of identity, i registered thinking for a brief moment i could at least connect that was the semi-hell of high school. it may have been shit, but at least i was the mad yiddish woman or the ap chem lab partner or somebody. anybody really.

and of course somewhere in college i probably thought to write something pithy and a little bit edgy in my profile to prove i'd moved beyond the high school wallflower prep which would almost definately be really embarassing and sad if i read it now. i am pretty sure the phrase "drink like a fish" is in it somewhere if i remember correctly.

but now they have taken to emailing curtsey updates notifying me someone has posted on my profile's messageboard - and i can see who it's from and read their highly promising Say Anything confessions - for only an upgraded gold membership of five dollars a day for the rest of my life!

what a bargin to find out one of my pseudo-friends from spanish (aka the cool kids who were also in remeidal languages and only deigned to speak to me because i was more interesting than senora valencia) or possibly the kid who cheated off me in algebra 3 think we should have a reunion bonfire somewhere in east lansing this summer and drink pbr and bitch about okemos. my life is complete.

i don't know what would possess me to subscribe, and i pray to god i never cave, i will so regret it.

but that promise of the unknown is fucking hard to ignore.

unimportant but vaguely amusing things about today (so far - the japanese tea ceremony at this rural castle on the shore this afternoon promises frolicking and weirdness):

- my flatmate is reading a book called "in the swil of the waves: the life of otters".

- we found a flat. we won't move in for awhile yet but it's fantastic (and you can see the castle from the bathroom window, which incidentally has toile wallpaper)

- while discussing said flat i bear witness to the declaration "we can spend a whole weekend decorating and make it our own.". le sigh.

- i have packet of cookies next to my bed for emergencies. usually this just means i procrastinate with the breakfast getting and then am so starving i need a cookie boost just to stand up.

- yesterday morning (well, noon) i woke up to mail! not only that, but it said i had a package waiting for me at the post office (oh the beaurocracy, i tell you.) - but it was only open for q5 more minutes. so i dashed down and got a schamncy box from my sister! woohoo!

i wouldn't let myself open it until i tidied my room though, which took ages. and inside was every good thing like cookies and trashy magazines and the best of all - animation stills from Carmen Sandiego, that sort lived noirish cartoon based on the best gameshow for kids (and as we've established, the sexiest villain) of all time.

she is the bestest.

en route to the japanese tea blossom festival at lauriston castle gardens, i am so buying a phone card. joy!