tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82757078434780708332024-03-13T04:51:59.237+00:00Almost SenselessWhimsy from a confused mindVictoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-87735750640916338702015-06-02T18:58:00.001+01:002015-06-03T10:31:59.131+01:00Let them eat cake...Today was something of a first and a last for me. The first time I've been to a garden party and wandered aimlessly around Buckingham Palace gardens. And probably the last time I'll be allowed back. Not that I did anything naughty just that that's what most of my readers would presume...<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queue hats...</td></tr>
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Best laid plans of mice and harridans meant that I didn't actually leave my office until after 2pm for a 2pm start, which was nice. On the bright side it meant I was expecting queues from Buck House to the home counties. Wherever they are. The event was part of the celebration of the hundredth anniversary of the <a href="http://www.thewi.org.uk/">Women's Institute</a>.<br />
<br />
I wasn't disappointed, the queue from the main gate was along most of Constitution Hill, but fortunately it disappeared before I found my intended queue at Hyde Park Corner. I whiled away the time chatting with a lovely lady from Wiltshire - I think - who was looking for her mum as she knew she was there and wearing a hat...<br />
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Hats. There were a lot of them.<br />
<br />
I was definitely in the minority as I didn't have one as a) my head is slightly larger than <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phobos_%28moon%29">Phobo</a>s and b) it was a trifle windy and I'm actually not as daft as I look.<br />
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Fortunately the extremely well behaved queue moved quite quickly and after a quick look at my passport and a suppressed smirk from the policeman we were inside. I forgot to mention, we were warned clearly, everywhere, that no pictures were to be taken and phones should be switched off.<br />
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It seemed only I read that bit...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hats. And cranes.</td></tr>
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There were endless excited ladies of a certain age having their photo taken amongst Lizzy's shrubbery, I even took one for the nice lady from Wiltshire, though had to decline one of me as yes said phone was firmly switched off.<br />
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We meandered through the fabulous parkland with no idea of where we were going until we reached a frenzy of hats and heels. As near as I could gather this was waiting to meet a royal lady in a hat who also probably had heels. Sort of a cult thing was all I could thing.<br />
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At which point I fell in to conversation with a fabulous lady from Oxford. When I say conversation I really mean cackling, lets's just say we were kindred spirits and had an almost identical sense of the occasion...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nobody but me and a tree :-)</td></tr>
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Eventually she went off to attempt to get near the tea tent as I wandered off to have a snout round the garden. I didn't actually get massively far as I found a bench by the lake under a glorious tree where I sat and thought. Living in London you don't get much time in the open to yourself and there was something utterly magical about being so isolated with the sound of the wind in the trees drowning the traffic on Grosvenor Place and beyond.<br />
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A lady came to join me, I explained that I was simply enjoying the peace because normally in London I get so little, she made to go but I insisted she was welcome. It turns out she was from Norfolk so I naturally asked whereabouts, she launched in to a familiar explanation of "about 15 miles south of Norwich" when I interrupted her and said where my Norfolk house is. We chatted amiably for quite a while before we wandered back towards the tea tent as she explained she'd come down from Norfolk with friends and she'd mislaid them. Oops. Turned out that you will always find a Norfolk lass near food as they were all there when we wandered in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Band. Ladies. Hats.</td></tr>
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In the queue I began chatting with a lady from Northamptonshire, I think, she'd left at 7am to get there! I admitted I didn't leave until 2pm... She couldn't quite get that I was happy to have just one small slice of victoria sponge and a cup of tea. For me the joy was in simply being out and soaking up the atmosphere.<br />
<br />
As the day wore on I slowly wandered towards one of the two military bands that were entertaining the massed hats though I was slightly distracted by a tub of ice cream that a young man with a tray offered me. It would have been rude to say no...<br />
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After a few hours of being windswept I decided it was time to head home, I'd toyed with the idea of popping in to Duke's for a martini as I was so close, or maybe wandering up to Claridge's for similar, but as ever the feeling of not wanting to drink alone in a place won over so I scuttled to Green Park and the journey to Contrary Towers.<br />
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It was a pity I didn't bump in to any of the ladies I wanted to bump in to but it was also unsurprising and really didn't detract from what was a very pleasant afternoon.<br />
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<br />Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-3378600479533212252015-05-30T13:41:00.000+01:002015-05-30T13:41:12.425+01:00Doing nothing special...Yesterday afternoon I received a whatsapp message from our foreign correspondent asking:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i>Done anything fun this week?</i></b></blockquote>
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Initially I replied in the negative, probably because at the time I was metaphorically knee deep in trying to understand what was available in a new system. But then I realised I was talking out of my proverbial derrière. So since I last wrote...<br />
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Well firstly there was a <a href="http://londonwestendwi.blogspot.co.uk/">WI</a> meeting where we had people from Dragon's Hall to talk about tech to the ladies. I have to say it was probably one of the most successful evenings we've had an ages as almost everyone had looks of wonder on their faces as they tried the new toys.<br />
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And the best thing? Well as it's rather my day job I could just zone out and natter which was good as my batteries were beginning to fail after a very busy week!<br />
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Saturday morning heralded the arrival of the offspring who were dropped off for the weekend. I half expected the elder offspring to agree to join the littlest offspring and I on a trip to <a href="http://www.mudchute.org/">Mudchute Farm</a> which, as its name implies, is in Mudchute on the Isle of Dogs. Near Canary Wharf. Yes, there.<br />
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I've been meaning to go for ages and having a small boy in tow seemed the perfect excuse to have a nose around! And I'll say if you fancy a wander in a little bit of countryside in the big bad city I can't recommend it highly enough. Especially as the wildlife were so tame that when I squealed <b><i>squirrel</i></b> they<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Squirrel!</td></tr>
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didn't even flinch the teeniest bit.<br />
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And it was free. Which is always a win.<br />
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Back home in Contrary Towers I was persuaded to try flying the kite and as I couldn't really bring myself to wander to the park we went on the roof and flew one from there. If nothing else it's very windy...<br />
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Sunday brought the threat of a trip to the <b>Natural History Museum</b>. Now I live in London. Which means day to day I have to suffer a) tourists and b) the underground. Not necessarily in that order. So the idea of heading to one of the most tourist infested places in the capital on a bank holiday weekend wasn't exactly high on my list of things to make me sing with joy.<br />
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To paraphrase, I'd rather eat my foot with a spoon.<br />
<br />
But the littlest offspring wanted to go so I packed a small packed lunch to keep him going, threw the sun block in my go-bag and after confirming that the eldest was not going to be joining us we set off to the DLR as Mile End was utterly closed.<br />
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Of course it was.<br />
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The miracle though came when we arrived in South Kensington... There wasn't a queue at the entrance. THERE WASN'T A QUEUE. Crikey. So off we wandered and saw fossils, volcanoes and rode an earthquake simulator. And this kept us entertained for an hour or two until it was offspring refueling time.<br />
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Needless to say having stopped, eaten, had an ice cream and a general natter we decided not to go back in as the queue had appeared so after the call was made that somebody needed to go to the loo we headed to the V&A where I managed to persuade the littlest offspring to actually look at some displays...<br />
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Sunday evening brought a visit by my lovely friend <a href="https://twitter.com/princessofvp">Stef </a>to eat, drink and make merry. That and I needed some adult conversation.<br />
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Monday was... well let's not say too much about that. The big thing today was that the littlest offspring wanted to try flying the kite again. Which pretty much comes down to me running around, skirts flying trying to find a breath of air to make the thing take off. Which it did. For a bit. And then crashed down.<br />
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The trouble is this was the kite we found at the surfline of Scarborough beach last year. It was cheap, poorly made and after a life afloat was a little knackered. Also it had clearly flown away from its previous owner so is known to be uncooperative.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9BQp-TPKfFs/VWmd6V3Mw1I/AAAAAAAB0XY/QgxFvChSSaE/s1600/IMG_20150525_110644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9BQp-TPKfFs/VWmd6V3Mw1I/AAAAAAAB0XY/QgxFvChSSaE/s200/IMG_20150525_110644.jpg" width="200" /></a>But isn't there something magical about a serendipitous kite?<br />
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A few modifications were needed so it was out with my sewing machine to repair the seams, lock the structural rods in place and attach a longer tail which I fashioned from a length of wrapping ribbon.<br />
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But we never got to try it as their ride had turned up to take them back home. But not before we all scooted off to The Crown by Victoria Park for a spot of lunch with Stef followed by a brief promenade and ice-cream.<br />
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Needless to say I was quite squiffy so a several hour nap was in order...<br />
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The next day it was back to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fitzrovia">Fitzrovia</a> for that there work thing. Which was good as a lot of progress has been made recently on a major re-engineering project for the core <a href="http://www.energyhive.com/dashboard/demo">Energyhive</a> system. Now this went well until sometime in the afternoon when everybody appeared at my desk with cake, fizz and the HotPerm™ wearing a party hat.<br />
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The boss told me I wasn't to commit any further code that afternoon so in a rare moment of me actually doing what I'm told I didn't. And finished the bottle.<br />
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As you do.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Noisy sods.</td></tr>
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Wednesday brought the long awaited trip to the O2 to see <a href="http://www.fleetwoodmac.com/">Fleetwood Mac</a> with my lovely friends <a href="https://twitter.com/misanthropegirl">Clarissa</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/staresatsheep">Ryan</a>. The place was packed, the atmosphere electric and the music just wonderful. Having not been to the O2 before I had no idea how bad the crowds would be leaving so the planned Jubilee Line to Canary Wharf then 277 home wasn't going to happen. It would have been quicker swimming the Thames, though that's dangerous so don't try it kids.<br />
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Obligatory safety notice done.<br />
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Anyway. Home by just before midnight and as Ryan was going to crash here rather than attempting to find a passing charabanc to take him to Essex I broke out the Victoria sponge and made cake eating a compulsory entry requirement.<br />
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Next morning I awoke groggily and somehow made progress through the day before scuttling down to the Trafalgar Square Waterstones to meet Stef and hear a talk by <a href="https://twitter.com/lucyanneholmes">Lucy-Anne Holmes</a> of <a href="https://twitter.com/nomorepage3">No More Page Three</a> fame.<br />
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It was a fascinating talk and I sat next to Stephanie Davies from the campaign, I met her a couple of years ago when she came to talk to my <a href="http://londonwestendwi.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/november-meet-no-more-page-3-campaign.html">WI</a> about the campaign. There was plenty to take away but the thing I like the most was learning that the now infamous text layout was based on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frankie_Goes_to_Hollywood">Frankie</a> Says Relax t-shirts.<br />
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Needless to say after the event Stef and I retired to a local hostelry and test their chateau plonk and finish a lovely evening.<br />
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Friday night... Okay now this was an unexpected delight as I was invited to dinner by an old and dear friend. We met at <a href="http://www.tomskitchen.co.uk/">Tom<sup>s</sup> Kitchen</a> in St Katharine Docks and proceeded to enjoy the bubbly delights of champagne. Obviously I complained endlessly about the lack of actual plates to eat of, but the pie was really good so they are forgiven. And I was given a plate in the end...<br />
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For pudding I chose another special, it duly arrived and before I could take a bite I was told it was the wrong one as it was the old special the one on the board being for tomorrow. Err. Whatever. As it was it was delicious, which was a win. When I was almost finished another pudding arrived. The one I actually ordered as I think the staff felt bad.<br />
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So I ate that too.<br />
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Is it any wonder I'm the size I am? Anyway, it did mean the rather lovely and friendly waitress could ask my opinion and I'm afraid the first was definitely the best.<br />
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And this brings me to today. The big news is that the intrepid traveller has upped sticks and scuttled to Dubrovnik as she begins her long journey home. Hopefully very long as I've not finished tidying the house. Did I say finished? Started. Yes, that's the word.<br />
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Ooh, but I did receive a postcard which is exciting in itself and here's an image of it next to the invitation for next weeks excitement when I skip off to Buckingham Palace...<br /><br />But that will be another tale.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-44097933738704280322015-05-20T13:50:00.000+01:002015-05-20T13:50:33.902+01:00Blood, sweat and airheadednessI'm sure that's a real word. Owing to me slightly forgetting that I needed to set a doctor's appointment before my HRT ran out, well, yes, I had to scamper along to get an extra month as it will run out before the date I've booked.<br />
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*sighs*<br />
<br />
Anyway, I also asked for a blood test as I was supposed to have one after three months to check whether my oestrogen levels were still low and my stroppiness high. Oh, wait, no that was cholesterol being high. I was asked to wait so the doctor could sign my form then trotted off to 55 Wimpole Street where the Doctor's Laboratory is.<br />
<br />
Or, as it turned out, was.<br />
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I was so busy reading the form to check where I needed to add my address that I didn't notice the address change on the top of the form. But did see it on the door as I was about to go in. Oops.<br />
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Fine, whatever.<br />
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Fortunately the new place is on my way back to the office. Also fortunately they were as stunningly speedy as ever, I was in and out, bloods taken, in under ten minutes. Though I must say I don't like the decor of the new place. Fussy, I know. I also had a new phlebotomist which unsettled me. I've had the same Australian girl testing me over the last few years and whilst Simon was very efficient I didn't feel the friendly warmth that I used to get. It also meant my stress levels shot up and I had a hot flush. Great.<br />
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Oh well, I'll know for next time when I'm sure I'll be less off an airhead.<br />
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Honest.<br />
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<br />Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-68585236169628826692015-05-20T12:04:00.001+01:002015-05-20T12:04:26.171+01:00Meanwhile back at the ranch...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Healthiez</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Whilst the wanderer is out making like a walrus and eating fish, something like that, it's been very quiet in Contrary Towers. As it's midweek and I'm working not a great deal is happening other than me endlessly swearing at the underground on a morning and then tourists on the evening as I march to Embankment.<br />
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The big news though is that owing to me a) forgetting to buy any bread and b) not being in the mood to make any I've c) finally rekindled a taste for porridge. This is good, right? Healthy and everything!<br />
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Especially when laden with nananas and honey.<br />
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Okay so maybe I've not quite got this one right. But at least it gives me an excuse to use the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spurtle">spurtle</a>.<br />
<br />
Things will get a little busier at the weekend as I have the offspring visiting for the bank holiday, fortunate really seeing as there might be a rail strike that would have caused me a bit of an issue if I'd headed to Norfolk. But before that I will continue to dodge the rain, forget to do things, and have very early though invariably sleepless nights.<br />
<br />
I need a break.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-4894117805538229142015-05-18T12:46:00.001+01:002015-05-18T12:46:02.552+01:00Whilst the cat's away...Normally you'd expect this mouse to play, however this first week with just one Contrarian meant more sleepless nights and trying to make myself useful.<br />
<br />
Which I singularly failed to do on Saturday.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ol_PxGSVVBg/VVnJ7mpAVmI/AAAAAAABzrA/kx0OWWupps4/s1600/IMG_20150516_210852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ol_PxGSVVBg/VVnJ7mpAVmI/AAAAAAABzrA/kx0OWWupps4/s200/IMG_20150516_210852.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Victoria Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Instead I took myself up to Victoria Park to spend some time with my lovely friend <a href="https://twitter.com/princessofvp">Veep</a>. This mostly involved walking around the park for a while before having a natter over wine. I mean that's kind of productive, right? And the park was oh so pretty at dusk with happy groups of people sitting around after a day in the sun.<br />
<br />
And not napping as I had managed.<br />
<br />
Sunday involved a trip to the Fortnum and Mason of E14 which was a delight to behold and something everyone should aspire to do.<br />
<br />
If they are insane.<br />
<br />
I really don't know what I was thinking, the worst place to be on a Sunday is the Burdett Road Lidl as the entire populace has clearly forgotten that they needed food and must rush out to get it now. Which would be okay if they didn't bring their entire family with them to share the moment.<br />
<br />
After a soothing nanana milkshake (two nananas, remains of cornish ice cream, milk, blend, wince at ice cream headache) I tackled the uncharted territory of the downstairs loo. Now you have to understand that whilst we have this for guests we almost never use it as it's normally crammed with shoes, more shoes, bags, extra shoes, boots and a few more bags along with the evil vacuum cleaner, skittles, bits of artwork that have been forgotten about and my trusty zebra trolley bag.<br />
<br />
In short, it's not our finest moment. Though it's also not the worse place in Contrary Towers.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a9gBBQRCuXs/VVnJVzLIFXI/AAAAAAABzq0/PifRsOzw6rM/s1600/IMG_20150517_145354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a9gBBQRCuXs/VVnJVzLIFXI/AAAAAAABzq0/PifRsOzw6rM/s200/IMG_20150517_145354.jpg" width="147" /></a></div>
After fevered activity and supported by a glass of chateau plonk from a Chez Lidl bag-in-box - I know, all of the class - I managed to somehow beat the room in to shape and empty all the remnants out of various handbags before finally finding a new home for goodness knows how many pairs of boots.<br />
<br />
I imagine the room won't last long in this state...<br />
<br />
The next job was the scary one... As we will need somewhere to store various bits and pieces of Clare's when she buggers off for her big adventure next year I really needed to do something about the tumult of the useless store cupboard.<br />
<br />
Gulp.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d7F6hsk9e_I/VVnJ7lrKZoI/AAAAAAABzrA/f_01dDz7cZI/s1600/IMG_20150517_164513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d7F6hsk9e_I/VVnJ7lrKZoI/AAAAAAABzrA/f_01dDz7cZI/s200/IMG_20150517_164513.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">*shrieks*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You know the phrase <b><i>it will get worse before it gets better</i></b>? Yep, that. Just imagine chaos in cardboard. I wasn't totally mean though, I kept contacting the happy wanderer to see if she really wanted to keep X and then relocated whatever it was to the bins. Fortunately by this point Veep turned up and fortified by wine we made a number of trips to the recycling and waste bins to get rid of stuff, stuff and more stuff.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ESxYTQX7TI/VVnJ7iLSduI/AAAAAAABzrA/vHKgJI6OOZA/s1600/IMG_20150517_172445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ESxYTQX7TI/VVnJ7iLSduI/AAAAAAABzrA/vHKgJI6OOZA/s200/IMG_20150517_172445.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Ta da!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Very cathartic.<br />
<br />
So now the cupboard is clear, reorganised and I even managed to not throw out everything! It'll never catch on.<br />
<br />
So all in all an unexpectedly productive weekend. I even created a new dictionary definition for a word...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<b><i>Declare: to make your kitchen spotless whilst your f<span class="s1">latmate</span> is on holiday.</i></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Well it made me giggle...</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-25284881143265340592015-01-20T15:20:00.002+00:002015-01-20T15:20:38.716+00:00Pease Pudding in the Pot...As some of you know I'm quite northern. My days of parading around Newcastle in a short dress and heels as the snow lays deep and crisp and even may now be at an end, but some characteristics remain. I know, amazing.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The biggest is food. The sort of food that would leave the average southerner might gape at in heart attack inducing wonder. But, amazingly it's not all bad for you. Some even passes as healthy. Ish.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pease pudding.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I get a craving for this from time to time. What I really* want is a stottie cake, pease pudding and a saveloy dip, but sadly the nearest branch of <a href="http://www.midickson.com/">Dicksons</a> to me is about 270 miles away. I know that they do a <a href="http://www.midickson.com/product/saveloy-dip-kit/">saveloy dip kit</a>, but seriously, I want the real thing. There.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My Aunty Sheila still smuggles contraband saveloy dips in to Norfolk when she visits...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I was saying, I get cravings. The last time I couldn't find any yellow split peas in either Poplar's answer to <a href="http://www.lidl.co.uk/">Fortnum</a> or the <a href="http://www.tesco.com/store-locator/uk/?bID=6005">WORST TESCO IN THE WORLD</a>. Shocking.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fast forward a few months to me finding a huuuggggeeeee back of them in the Isle of Dogs Asda. So I could make pease pudding. And that always means... gammon!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You'll need:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>300g or so of yellow split peas</li>
<li>a chopped onion</li>
<li>a bay leaf</li>
<li>about a teaspoon of salt</li>
<li>half a teaspoon of grated nutmeg</li>
<li>half a teaspoon of dried thyme or a bit more if it's fresh</li>
<li>a beaten egg</li>
<li>ground black pepper</li>
<li>50g or so of butter</li>
</ul>
<div>
As the split peas are dried they need to be soaked first, there are two ways: Fast and slow...<br /><br />First rinse the split peas in a sieve under the cold tap.<br /><br /><b>Slow</b></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Put the peas in a pan, cover with cold water and leave overnight. Not recommended if you have just told your flatmate that pease pudding, gammon and mustard sauce are on the menu for that evening</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Fast</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Boil the kettle, put the peas in the pan and cover them with the boiling water. Put the lid on to trap the heat and wait about half and hour.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Done, good. Heat about half the butter in a frying pan, add the onion, thyme, and bay leaf to the pan and cook gently until the onions soften and are just starting to colour, maybe about 15 minutes. Keep stirring!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bdOusK0417Y/VL5pf9PolwI/AAAAAAABu68/CQ4wmxYj8Nk/s1600/IMG_20150110_152831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bdOusK0417Y/VL5pf9PolwI/AAAAAAABu68/CQ4wmxYj8Nk/s1600/IMG_20150110_152831.jpg" height="200" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drowned peas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Drain the peas and add in the stuff from the frying pan. Add about a litre of water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and simmer for about 45 minutes. Or longer if you start chatting with your flatmate.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or she's desperate for food and you want to torture her with the smell.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Torturing done and the water well reduced remove the bay leaf and use your trusty hand blender to, well, blend until you have a thick puree.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It can take a while.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Finally beat in the egg, nutmeg and whatever butter is left. Obviously adding salt and pepper to taste.<br /><br />Eat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As shown above this can be with saveloy, gammon and even works as a fine spread in a bacon sandwich.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I also found today that it works brilliantly with left over pasta arrabbiata. Lovely.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One note of warning. As you may be aware the nursery rhyme goes:</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Pease pudding hot, Pease pudding cold,<br />Pease pudding in the pot - nine days old.<br />Some like it hot, some like it cold,<br />Some like it in the pot - nine days old.</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
Nonsense, it won't last nine days. The first batch didn't even last until bedtime.</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-58002724589197389122014-12-13T06:52:00.001+00:002014-12-13T06:52:59.930+00:00Digging<p dir="ltr">It's been the week from hell.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Normally at this point I'd write about the myriad of things that have happened. However some of them must remain private and frankly I'm not emotionally strong enough to write about any of them.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm at my lowest ebb.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And I'm still digging.</p>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-4427529410807197972014-12-04T15:11:00.000+00:002014-12-04T15:12:15.923+00:00Ever increasing progress...Earlier today I was sitting in our lower office waiting for the kettle to boil as I was simply desperate for a cup of tea. Idly I glanced at the reference book shelves and one tome in particular caught my eye...<br />
<br />
Managing Gigabytes<br />
<br />
I chuckled, "<i>what, you mean like I have in my phone?</i>" I suggested to one of my colleagues (<i>not the hot perm</i>) that it must have dated from the 90's at worst maybe the early part of this century. But, being a lazy cow I couldn't quite bring myself to have a look.<br />
<br />
Until curiosity kicked in.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tKAhNOrtXgk/VIB1_4HVndI/AAAAAAABscA/RClWfTgV7yE/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-04%2Bat%2B14.36.54.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tKAhNOrtXgk/VIB1_4HVndI/AAAAAAABscA/RClWfTgV7yE/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-04%2Bat%2B14.36.54.png" height="121" width="200" /></a></div>
1999. To be fair it was the second edition, the original was 1994 when a gigabyte was quite a lot, I remember buying 105MB IBM disks for my company at the astonishing low price of £100 each, just a pound a megabyte! I even remember when in late 1995 at Millennium Interactive having a 1 Gigabyte disk sitting on my desk in a massive <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Micropolis_%28company%29">Micropolis</a> AV enclosure. More data than you can possibly ever imagine.<br />
<br />
My phone holds 32GB.<br />
<br />
The micro SD card I keep inside my purse for carrying big lumps of data and reference source code around is 64GB. It cost me about £20.<br />
<br />
I don't think I could have lifted 6 of those 1GB drives never mind holding 64. In my purse. Tucked in a corner.<br />
<br />
What struck me though was that in 1994 this book was described as being guidance for dealing with large-scale information systems. Or phones as we call them now.<br />
<br />
I know I shouldn't be surprised, my career has followed the wave from when 1K was considered powerful, through that first 10MB disk and on to the point where now I am responsible for ingesting and dealing with thousands of <a href="http://www.energyhive.com/">energy</a> readings a second. As I write we stand at 4,328,418,436 readings, in the time it took to write that we passed 4,328,424,158.<br />
<br />
Quite a lot then.<br />
<br />
Our ability to generate data has grown to match our ability to store it. I suppose you could argue that it's the other way around though I suspect that it would be a teensy bit inconvenient to have your storage being permanently full as you await the next technological burst.<br />
<br />
And the inevitable march of ever increasing progress.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-67294365087666101142014-12-02T15:41:00.002+00:002014-12-02T15:41:42.570+00:00What the actual PDFAt lunchtime I took a moment away from writing stuff that <a href="http://www.energyhive.com/">monitors energy</a> and did a little more of a Skunk Works private project that is making old <a href="http://londonwestendwi.blogspot.co.uk/">WI</a> documents available online.<br />
<br />
The trouble is a few of them were what can only be described as uncooperative. Or what we refer to in the trade as <b><i>bastards</i></b>.<br />
<br />
In a nutshell they were what look like Microsnot docx files that had PDF attachments. But I don't have Word. Awkward.<br />
<br />
Even more awkward because whilst Google Docs was vaguely aware it had an OLE in the docs it had no way to display it. And as for Open Office, well, <i>they know narrthing</i>. Blank pages. Grr.<br />
<br />
So: <b>Plan A</b>.<br />
<br />
Consult my local friendly librarian, aka my lovely <a href="http://renaissanceutterances.blogspot.co.uk/">flatmate</a>. I asked if I could email a file to see if she could get at the object and save it before finally sending it back. But then I had a moment of inspiration, I remembered that Microsnot had made Word available online, woo hoo go plan B!<br />
<br />
<b>Plan B</b>.<br />
<br />
After numerous attempts to remember by Microsnot Live password I admitted defeat and got them to reset it for me, scampered off to the online Word, eventually worked out how to upload a file in to their OneDrive and then looked at what I needed to look at...<br />
<br />
Oh FFS. Didn't work. Back to Plan A.<br />
<br />
<b>Plan A: reprised</b><br />
<br />
So my flatmate loaded up her Word, opened the file, saw the PDF and tried to get the file out. I bounced with glee when she said the file had been dragged to email, hurrah!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zpb6a483ITA/VH3aA5OMyjI/AAAAAAABsaY/8UCu4izje-s/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-02%2Bat%2B15.25.32.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zpb6a483ITA/VH3aA5OMyjI/AAAAAAABsaY/8UCu4izje-s/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-02%2Bat%2B15.25.32.png" /></a>The email turned up, I opened it, I got excited when I saw that I did indeed have what looked just like what I would expect...<br />
<br />
Until I clicked on the PINK.pdf and the iBastard preview tool showed me... The icon.<br />
<br />
Not the PDF.<br />
<br />
What the actual...<br />
<br />
I will laugh about this later. So I curtailed my lunchtime entertainment, and went back to feigning being clever and actually trying to work out what stuff I have available that can then be used to improve a client tool.<br />
<br />
And then there was <b>Plan C</b>...<br />
<br />
A little later I had a sudden recollection that a docx is actually a zip file. Oh.<br />
<br />
I skipped back to my terminal window and...<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>copied the file to p1.zip</li>
<li>opened the file in the iBastard finder</li>
<li>navigated to word/embeddings and saw that there was a big fat file called oleObject1.bin</li>
<li>I said ooh</li>
<li>And then renamed it to oleObject1.pdf and...</li>
<li>Opened the PDF!</li>
</ul>
<div>
Yes it's a bit of a faff but it did mean my archiving project can continue.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Phew.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q7iv958yXXs/VH3c-FScjPI/AAAAAAABsak/YzllW5nYq4g/s1600/poster1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q7iv958yXXs/VH3c-FScjPI/AAAAAAABsak/YzllW5nYq4g/s1600/poster1.png" height="640" width="436" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-90964181005684345182014-11-30T11:37:00.001+00:002014-11-30T11:40:10.191+00:00I don't believe it...I'm in grave danger of becoming a female parody of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Meldrew">Victor Meldrew</a>. This probably won't come as a shock to anyone that knows me.<br />
<br />
Take, well, everything. I know it's a London thing to be exasperated by:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>People stopping before the barriers on the underground</li>
<li>People stopping after the barriers on the underground</li>
<li>People that have to search their voluminous bags as it hadn't occurred to that they'd need their Oyster/Contactless/paper ticket before going through said barriers or getting on a bus.</li>
<li>People that stand and carefully read the line signs whilst blocking the crossover at Oxford Circus</li>
<li>Oxford Circus</li>
<li>Those that walk at less than 4MPH and insist that it's okay to stop and take pictures with no warning</li>
<li>Or better still with no warning and of their friends thus doubling the blockage</li>
<li>Let's face it: everything</li>
</ul>
<div>
But I'm becoming increasingly exasperated anyway, mostly about general rudeness, lack of consideration and generally acting as if only they are important in this increasingly crowded world. And then there's the really stupid things; becoming irritated by being told what to do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or even my recent exasperation that owing to me being mid changing of details I now have to try and prove that I exist so that I can add a legitimate vote to a future Tower Hamlets election. Mind you I was also exasperated by the fact that the <b><i>FINAL DEMAND</i></b> that told me I <b><i>MUST</i></b> do this by the 20th arrived... On the 22nd.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Right.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At least I've not started on service in shops, bars and restaurants.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Honestly I'm now considering no longer tweeting anything as somebody <b><i>always </i></b>comes back with some helpful advice that only they could have thought of. But here's the thing, well two things, firstly in a few words I have not conveyed everything about any given situation I am merely expressing my exasperation about whatever it is. Secondly, I'm actually quite clever contrary to my portrayed image of a PhDitz airhead that spends most of her time worrying about broken nails and... Well just broken nails.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it's not just Twitter. Being told what to do in such a way that implies that a) I couldn't possibly know or b) what I do know is wrong. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So yes, I can work this stuff out and I almost always have a plan B. Laptop dies? Use my tablet. Or phone. Internet goes off? Switch connection and tether from my phone, or dig out a dongle. Trains delayed? Find something to occupy myself. Totally screwed? Find a plan B. Pen runs out of ink? Use another pen. Or a pencil.<br />
<br />
I do this day in, day out. Most days it at least involves mentally re-routing through the underground network without once looking at a map or changing my pace. It's what I do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://raytownonline.com/the-sunday-funnies-reruns-23/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://raytownonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/harridan.jpg" height="200" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty much me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
So a blurt of exasperation is just that and more often than not I will turn it in to a general screech in the direction of an aspect of modern living. And then I feel better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As some of you know I will happily get in to an argument about something that has aggrieved me, but I don't want to keep doing this. It's bad enough that I find myself mentally mimicking Mr Meldrew but saying it outloud is making me sound like a cantankerous middle-aged harridan.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
More importantly I'm finding myself snapping some response that drips with the rancid gooeyness of bitter sarcasm. And I don't like this, it's certainly not what I'd planned to write about this morning. Unfortunately I am not sure how best to turn this around without simply disconnect me from the source of whatever it is that is causing the feeling to fester.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Watch this space.</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-57836108783351998732014-11-27T22:33:00.000+00:002014-11-27T22:40:07.964+00:00Do you fancy trying them?So this evening I decided to meet up with a friend for a natter and a quick drink. Or two. The location was carefully set as Tottenham Court Road as owing to me, a pair of wellies and a few thousand poppies I'm currently hobbling around W1 at 0.9 times the speed of a particularly clueless tourist.<br />
<br />
Not a sight one wants to see.<br />
<br />
Anyway, we agreed to meet by Tottenham Court Road as it sort of made sense and did rather avoid the tenth circle of Hell that Dante sensibly excluded from Divina Commedia: Oxford Circus.<br />
<br />
Except I'd forgotten that arranging to meet anyone at TCR is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack that's strapped to a racing car in a tornado. Just with more tourists about. At least the hoardings were down outside the Dominion Theatre.<br />
<br />
Two large gins in the Plough on Museum Street later we were walking back to TCR and vaguely ignored a young lady that was handing out something or other outside the Starbucks on New Oxford Street. My companion had to pop in to deal with a call of nature so we bid each other farewell and I continued on my way.<br />
<br />
At this point the young lady again tried to offer me whatever the free sample was. I peered closely but owing to being frightfully middle aged I couldn't actually read what it said, so she told me: Condoms.<br />
<br />
I thought I misheard her.<br />
<br />
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After all, I'm 47; I tend not to get offered condoms on the street any more. Well, if the truth be known I never was offered any and definitely not by very attractive young ladies. But I digress. After I burst out laughing a bizarre exchange occurred which lead to her deciding it might be best if I have more than one and I went on my way, still giggling as, if the truth be known, she was too.<br />
<br />
Within 5 yards a man started talking to me, he was, unsurprisingly perhaps, interested in the conversation and cackling that had just occurred. Being amused and gin merry I proceeded to explain that I'd just been given condoms with the hope that I'd get lucky and need them over the weekend.<br />
<br />
Unlikely, I must to clean my oven and sort the pan cupboard.<br />
<br />
I laughed along with me at the insanity of the suggestion before kindly making a suggestion that went something like this:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Him: so, err, do you fancy trying them out now<br />Me: I'm not sure I follow<br />Him: you know, we could go somewhere quiet.<br />Me: * *<br />Him: yeah, it'd be fun, so do you fancy it...</i></blockquote>
<br />
Now let me think...<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure that <b><i>no</i></b> about covers it. And then some.<br />
<br />
For added entertainment the conversation continued along those lines for what felt like an eternity before I wished him a good evening and disappeared down the stairs of Tottenham Court Road station with the plan that if he followed I was going to attach myself to the nearest PCSO, BTP or TFL staff member that happened to be there.<br />
<br />
So what is that? At what point does your innate politeness kick in and make sure that instead of you telling somebody to leave in no uncertain terms you keep on banging the polite drum knowing that you'll only use any serious sanctions if things get out of hand.<br />
<br />
On the plus side at least it wasn't like when I was coming back from the WI group thing and was semi-accosted in Oxford Circus whilst being less merry and more actually quite drunk. On the plus side I did get away with pushing the blokes involved away before making a run for it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it's left me once more feeling slightly perturbed but I'm sure I'll get over it. In the meantime I've some prophylactics that won't get used if anyone needs some which, according to the girl that gave me them, are the closest thing to wearing nothing.<br />
<br />
She was wearing an awful lot so I'm not sure she really meant it...Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-45075559388246394632014-11-21T23:46:00.001+00:002014-11-21T23:46:24.225+00:00It's a disgrace...I've heard a couple of women muttering "it's a disgrace" so many times this evening it's actually a miracle I didn't push them off the train. Well it's not as then I might have lost my seat.<br />
<br />
And that would never do.<br />
<br />
I knew something was up when I got to Kings Cross by the skin of my teeth and then waited. As the train filled to overflowing I told the boy that I was as ever grateful that I was in First Class and had a seat. Without, that is, somebody sticking their elbows in my side or leering at my cleavage.<br />
<br />
I was also glad I followed my usual habit of getting the train before the one I had to get as the delay meant there would be no wait at Cambridge for my connection.<br />
<br />
It was perfectly timed, I alighted, sauntered up to the last AMT outlet, the one by the waiting room that I'm endlessly berating the train company about, picked up my customary tea and shortbread before finally waltzing straight on to the newly arrived chuffa train and took my favourite seat.<br />
<br />
Perfect.<br />
<br />
Ish.<br />
<br />
I knew we'd be delayed as the following train wouldn't make the connection unless they waited. It mattered not; I had tea. And shortbread.<br />
<br />
Sure enough the hoardes arrived. And kept arriving. And then arrived some more.<br />
<br />
WTAF?<br />
<br />
I lost count of the of First Class ticket holders that stuck their head through the door before stalking off. Mrs ItsADisgrace made it all clear when she proclaimed loudly that:<br />
<br />
I booked a reserved First Class seat. It's a disgrace, there should be enough seats. Etc.<br />
<br />
She mentioned this a few times. But here's the thing: she clearly didn't have reserved seating on this train as doesn't have it. In the First Class compartment there are seven seats. Seven. She'd obviously been heading to Norwich from Liverpool Street on the Intercity where there are, I think, two coaches dedicated to First. It might be more.<br />
<br />
Not seven seats.<br />
<br />
At this point I sighed, put in my ear phones and ignored the droning complaints about this itsy bitsy little branch train.<br />
<br />
Even Jesus would have struggled to seat the five thousand.<br />
<br />
I never cease to be amazed by the way people can blissfully ignore the reality of a situation and instead bang on in such a way to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that they are quite stupid.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it was a first for me, I've never seen people sitting on the floor of First before but, if truth be told, it was still more civilised than the hell beyond the automatic doors.<br />
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<br />Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-68787106213064557612014-03-30T21:32:00.000+01:002014-03-30T21:40:59.550+01:00Contrary ExerciseOn March the 17th I did something I've <b><i>never</i></b> done before. Something so perverse as to be at the edge of my ability to comprehend why anyone could be so insane as to think this was a good idea.<br />
<br />
I bought exercise clothes.<br />
<br />
To be fair this wasn't a whim. In a moment of <i>actual</i> insanity I conceded that it would probably be a good idea to do some actual exskdjj. Exskdjhl. Exasdl;; Exe. R. Cise.<br />
<br />
See, I can even say the word!<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Exe. R. Cise clothes. Yes, mine!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now having not ever done this nonsense before I had no idea what to get, so off I toddled to Primarni to get something that was a) cheap as I would only wear it once because honestly I won't make the same mistake twice and b) vaguely suitable. Think Sporty Spice meets a kebab van. It took me about ten minutes to work my way to a corner of the Oxford Street branch in a place which had disturbingly lurid colours and excess lycra.<br />
<br />
Fortunately they had stuff suitable for geriatric size and I sauntered back to the office happy in the knowledge that at least one day I can tell my grandchildren that I'd <i>thought</i> about exercise. Once.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Kinky</td></tr>
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What I didn't realise is that Clare, being the enthusiastic (read: insane) type was also out shopping. She'd bought a) some things called <i>weights</i> which looked suspiciously like something from the kinkier corner of the sex shop on Goodge Street, b) two mats, one each, which would make exercise somewhat more comfortable and c) things called ankle weights which <i style="font-weight: bold;">definitely</i> must have come from said sex shop.<br />
<br />
So I tried them on.<br />
<br />
Okay maybe they are actually tags to track whether I'm exercising. I didn't at all feel silly wearing them. No sirreeeee. The plan was set at 7am we would head for the roof terrace and my date with destiny.<br />
<br />
I put the number of the paramedics on speed-dial.<br />
<br />
The very next day... Well <i style="font-weight: bold;">I</i> was up on time, whilst the Jane Fonda of E14 was a little late. Something about it being the middle of the night. At least that's what I think she said. The plan was simple, she'd chosen a <strike>torture regime</strike> exercise plan from <a href="http://micoach.adidas.com/">miCoach</a> in the my-flatmate-is-a-lazy-mare-who-refuses-to-exercise section of the site and synchronised that with her iTorture as it should now be known.<br />
<br />
Great.<br />
<br />
I think it's fair to say that if you get fit from laughing I will be taking Gold at the next Olympics in <b><i>everything</i></b>. Imagine a hippo at her first pilates-meets-ballet session and you won't be far wrong. In lycra. Obvs. But here was the strange thing. Whilst my body was telling me I'd been doing things I shouldn't be doing I actually felt fine. No. Better than fine.<br />
<br />
I actually felt good.<br />
<br />
Weird. With that in mind I showered, dressed and headed off to W1 for a day of tribulations. Disappointingly I was offered a seat at Mile End. On the Central Line. By a lady. Pfft. But on the bright side I'd fair bounced to the station. In my head I was thinking that wasn't too bad, but let's face it, hardly motivation.<br />
<br />
Later that evening I was off to the <a href="http://londonwestendwi.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/march-and-holistic-therapy.html">WI</a> where I knew I was going to have to do the introductions which may have influenced how tidy I was. Classical was how my look was described by one of the lovely ladies. It was a great evening with a really interesting speaker and all was well in the world...<br />
<br />
Until that is I was chatting with one of the other committee members towards the end of the evening when she dropped the napalm coated bombshell that was:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i>"Victoria, are you expecting?"</i></b></blockquote>
And there, in those four words lay my incentive. It was time I went down a dress size and never got offered a seat on the underground again! Ever. Well, maybe not ever, but just not because I look pregnant.<br />
<br />
The next morning at 0650 hours I was ready. And at 0700. And at 0710. I realised that maybe Clare wasn't going to get up so with my own plan loaded on miCoach I headed to the roof to exercise. On. My. Own.<br />
<br />
Me.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Cake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And it was fine. It might have taken my a bit longer as I had to look at the little videos to see what the hell I was supposed to do, but exercise I did. Triumphantly I wobbled back downstairs to cool off and scoff the cake I'd brought back from the WI the previous evening. Never has a piece of cake tasted so good! When I say piece I obviously mean two pieces.<br />
<br />
Originally I set the plan so that I would work out on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but obviously starting on the wrong day knocked things out so Saturday was the last day of my first week. Amazingly I again did it alone. More specifically I got up, made dough for bread, put the first load of washing in and then bounced up to the roof for exercise the third. Crikey.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Bonkers.</td></tr>
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Monday would be the first day of the new exercise week and also I thought would test my resolve... It was barely above freezing and frost was everywhere. Fortunately I am well insulated, northern and slightly bonkers.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Glorious!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a little fresh and I did make sure I was in a patch of sunlight to get some warmth. Plus the frost made things a little slippery, but oh the air was glorious. And I felt annoyingly good about myself as I desperately struggled to do what is actually quite a simple routine.<br />
<br />
I am after all still new to all of this insanity.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px; text-align: center;">Fog lifting...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The madness was setting in as by Wednesday I was looking forward to my morning torture, which it was. I was on a roll. Or would have been if come Friday morning I was truly struggling to get moving. This was not good. By some miracle I managed to force myself to get going even in spite of the fact that thick fog was enveloping E14 making the Spanish Inquisition look a more palatable prospect than twenty minutes of exertion.<br />
<br />
And yet...<br />
<br />
I did it. I actually did it. And I felt very good about the fact that I'd managed to against the odds of my years of sloth.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow. At 7am. I shall do it all again.<br />
<br />Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-77978976252707397402013-09-22T22:34:00.001+01:002013-09-23T12:49:07.000+01:00Another step<div dir="ltr">
I had time to think on Friday night.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting and thinking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By chance I'd caught the in between train so had half an hour sitting in Cambridge. And it was the perfect time to think. No fuckwitts or drunks. No bad weather. And even the loos weren't too awful.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Mostly what I thought about was talking. Specifically telling and explaining and how I would attempt to give a drama free explanation of what changes I'm going through and what they do and don't mean. The tricky bit was these would be my children and parents I had to talk with.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Yikes.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
So I felt a little bit lost in thought as my mind raged with turmoil. And then I slept on it.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I talked a little bit on the Saturday with my lovely friend Sarah about how to approach my eldest. All very sound advice and as it matched my thoughts I felt deeply reassured.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
It was simply a matter of timing.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Which I then lost. This morning I received a LinkedIn request. From my dad. Oh. I mean oh! It was time to talk.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Which scared me. I didn't know which way they would react and whilst I hoped all would be well I did have to mentally prepare for it not going so well.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Gulp.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Fortunately I had lots of time to think, I didn't want to do anything until I was safely home in <a href="http://contrarytowers.blogspot.co.uk/">Contrary Towers</a>, I needed to be somewhere I felt both safe and comfortable.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And then we talked. And talked. And talked. It seemed to go okay, as my flatmate predicted, and I just hope things stay this way.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
So not a terribly exciting post, but an important bridge to cross.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-35084559194293986592013-09-18T14:25:00.003+01:002013-09-18T14:32:12.951+01:00Magic in four colours.Art is a funny old thing. Not just the actual art, but the art scene. Lots of beautiful people (and me) wandering in to tedious white rooms, be proffered wine and then largely ignoring the thing that they are meant to be there for. Well, except for me. The thing is I lost faith, the first night scene was feeling more like a chuffing cocktail party than a chance to have an early glimpse at some art.<br />
<br />
Good for people watching though.<br />
<br />
Anyway, as I say, I lost faith and stopped attending openings as, frankly, they were usually full of people who think Damien Hirst is <i>actually</i> a good thing. Idiots. Fast forward some time. Lots of time. Well, maybe not that much but I <i>am</i> dealing with the single biggest upheaval of my life at the same time.<br />
<br />
Some months back I gained a new follower on twitter by the name of <a href="https://twitter.com/Matt_Forster">Matt Forster</a>. From time to time he'd tweet images of watercolours he'd been working on and I liked what I saw, they had a certain something, a simplicity with depth.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
Time passed a bit more and I saw that he had an exhibition about to start a little way from my office. Well that had to be a good thing. I at least knew I liked what I'd seen so far and was curious to see how it would measure up in reality. This was helped by the fact that the exhibition wasn't going to be in a white cube, but a coffee shop. In SW1. Crikey.<br />
<br />
It was going to be a memorable evening. And not completely in a good way.<br />
<br />
My plus one would be my <a href="https://twitter.com/princessofvp">bezzie</a>, oddly this is only the second time I've dragged her kicking and screaming to an evening of art. And last time it was erotica. A bit different.<br />
<br />
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We started the evening in the <a href="http://www.shepherdneame.co.uk/pubs/london/tom-cribb">Tom Cribb</a> on Panton Street so we could cover the important business of the evening, namely love interests, in my case non-existent, obvs. And maybe have a little wine. Before we had more wine. Look, it never does to turn up on time and I never do!<br />
<br />
Time passed...<br />
<br />
...And then we wobbled off to Charles II Street to the <a href="http://www.theboroughbarista.com/theboroughbarista.com/theboroughbarista.html">Borough Barista</a> which was to be the host for the evening reception and ensuing month long showing.<br />
<br />
The interesting thing about this place was it seems to be downstairs so as you walk down said stairs you actually get a quick chance to view all of the art at once. Which I liked. I also like what I saw, especially one piece lurking in the corner, but more of that later.<br />
<br />
As expected the beautiful people were out in force, which is quite tedious, but, unexpectedly, we were warmly greeted by Simon de Pinna of the <a href="http://www.thetownandcountrygallery.com/">Town and Country Gallery</a>. Now this was nice, genuinely and does mean you know who to collar if you see something you like. Smart.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vQH5Duqd9aw/UjIjIyFQRFI/AAAAAAABOBk/MIi8Y84p3Xs/s1600/2013-09-05+19.36.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vQH5Duqd9aw/UjIjIyFQRFI/AAAAAAABOBk/MIi8Y84p3Xs/s200/2013-09-05+19.36.34.jpg" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist holds head shocker...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, there was just enough time for Simon to introduce us to the artist and have a very quick, yet detailed, chat about what we were here to see before it was abruptly halted for the inevitable speeches. Yep, we were <i>that</i> late. What I hadn't realised was this was the first proper exhibition that Simon and the T&C had put on, he went on to explain that he wanted somewhere different, a place that would make people feel comfortable.<br />
<br />
It worked.<br />
<br />
I was getting a little tetchy though. As Matt was explaining his <a href="http://www.mjforster.com/about/the-watercolour-technique-of-mj-forster/">technique</a> and what it was that made his paintings so special the beautiful people were busy fannying about with their iBastards and not showing due interest.<br />
<br />
Honestly people, you were being fed and wined. *whines*<br />
<br />
After I may have said something quite rude about said beautiful people. We talked a bit more with Matt and worked our way along the wall of images until we reached the corner and the picture that had caught my eye on the way in.<br />
<br />
It didn't have an orange dot.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Deep breaths</i></b><br />
<br />
I made my excuses and went to look for Simon with the classic opening line, <i>we need to talk</i>. And we did.<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Lake Side</i></b> was mine. *cackles*<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8nL6bDpMumk/UjIjH5FGZ4I/AAAAAAABOBQ/dTh1nKgD2jU/s1600/2013-09-05+20.00.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8nL6bDpMumk/UjIjH5FGZ4I/AAAAAAABOBQ/dTh1nKgD2jU/s200/2013-09-05+20.00.15.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual sheepish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a short time secluded in the back room with nothing more than the gentle hum of a card machine to serenade me, we returned with the magic orange dot and marked the frame. Oh yes. The best thing was getting a brush by brush description of how Matt had carefully built up the image with just four colours and the order that he did it in. Utterly fascinating stuff, this is truly approaching magic in what is achieved. Needless to say the snippet of image above doesn't do it justice. Not even a little bit.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is I know the technique well, it's an approach we took in the 90s to give new effects in videogames, though I strongly suspect this was far more painstaking and will be around long after some dodgy games are thankfully forgotten. I hope.<br />
<br />
The pictures really do have a magical character and, which is a delight, the more you look at them the more you notice fabulous little nuances.<br />
<br />
I'm starting to sound like an insane art luvvy. I'll stop.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3k3XFjjN_lA/UjIjJ-iVRiI/AAAAAAABOBw/fW4GiqKCV-Q/s1600/2013-09-05+21.52.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3k3XFjjN_lA/UjIjJ-iVRiI/AAAAAAABOBw/fW4GiqKCV-Q/s200/2013-09-05+21.52.16.jpg" width="197" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northerners. Pub. Naturally.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As the evening drew to a close we skipped back to the Tom Cribb for more of <b><i>teh winez</i></b> eventually being joined by the artist as we'd mentioned we were going there afterwards. What followed can't really be recalled with clarity as, well, you can guess, but did involved talking about life, art and avoiding tourists. As you do. It was the fab end to the evening that anyone would want, just such a shame it all went horribly wrong a little later when some thieving toerag decided that my bag looked fetching. But that's another <a href="http://almostsenseless.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/history-burps.html">story</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
So, here I am, nearly two weeks later. A delightful latte in front of me, cool music playing in the background and a selection of business types holding meetings.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And my picture.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It's still glowering in the corner, the shadows giving a depth and intensity missing from the others. And you know what? Even given the trials and tribulations I suffered later that evening, I'm still overjoyed that I managed to secure such a lovely piece of art.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As for the Borough Barista, I can definitely say I like it, nicely quiet, easy on the eye staff who look like they give a monkeys and not too far from the office. I will definitely be back again soon.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The Matt Forster exhibition is showing at the Borough Barista until the 7th of October 2013, do go if you can. The coffee is pretty good too.</div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And don't forget to say hello to my picture!</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-17283123223272591572013-09-06T18:08:00.001+01:002013-09-06T18:08:17.433+01:00When you reach the end of your tether......and it doesn't snap.<br />
<br />
After my last posting I finally heard from the agent, though not without me prodding the company on Twitter first. Eventually after much mucking about they gave me a name and number so I reached for my pen to write it down...<br />
<br />
Actual heartbreak.<br />
<br />
Something as small and simple, insignificant even. But just too much. I feel sorry for my poor boss who walked in the room at that point to find me in full sobs and of course I couldn't explain what had happened because I couldn't talk properly and when I could it did sound a little on the stupidly irrational side.<br />
<br />
But then I am stupidly irrational so that's alright.<br />
<br />
Anway, within minutes of the exchange and just before I was to go and find a telephone to make a call the agent popped up and said I'd have to change the locks at my expense. Which is fair enough. But I haven't got a card at the moment. And no you can't have a contact number as I am without phone. You get the picture. More emails passed and eventually she relented, possibly because I really wanted to be able to actually go home and said a colleague would leave the management keys with the concierge at 2:30.<br />
<br />
Hurrah!<br />
<br />
I found a problem that had just cropped up at work and then made a mad dash for the door and home.<br />
<br />
Trouble was when I got there at 2:35... No keys. Instant panic. When I said though that the agent would be dropping them off the concierge realised the connection with the woman outside... So off I went.<br />
<br />
Poor woman she had to deal with a very emotional me. Really, this was getting ridiculous. I still didn't have an entry fob, but hey, I don't come and go that often so the concierge got to let me in. I am always grateful and happy to get home but this time it was all a bit much.<br />
<br />
The good news was that as I believed I'd managed to leave pennies in my old purse! I was actually grateful for being a ditz for once... Then I remembered I do have a spare phone which lives at the office so once my SIM arrives I will at least be back in the modern world.<br />
<br />
I also had to call the people at Oyster central to get them to transfer the stuff from my stolen card to the new one. This really did show how I had lost all sense of normality, after passing various details he said <i>"that's done for you"</i>, err, <i>"don't you want my old card number?"</i>... Of course he didn't. I'd sensibly registered the new card with my Norfolk address (same as the old one) and as there aren't that many people called Victoria Stamps it was an easy connection to make.<br />
<br />
I didn't at all feel slightly stupid. Uh-uh, no sirreee.<br />
<br />
Pfft.<br />
<br />
Anyway. The diamond geezer of a locksmith was fairly helpful and I'll get to see him sometime tomorrow afternoon. Though getting a replacement fob will be a pain and I suspect I will have to call them again on Monday as, well, maybe I wasn't talking with the sharpest tool in the box.<br />
<br />
So here I am, sitting looking out over the canal, in my home. I wasn't hurt, other than my pride and the biggest damage other than cost has been to my poor eyes that have been endlessly flowing. So now I just need to sit this out, wait for replacements and look at lessons learned. Whilst I did reach the end of my tether I didn't snap, which I guess is the point behind tears because they give such a release. I think that I can safely say...<br />
<br />
I don't want to do this again.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-11571995979182959022013-09-06T12:59:00.000+01:002013-09-06T12:59:06.919+01:00When the going gets tough......the tough burst in to tears.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm not proud of that, more in a bit. I barely slept last night, it was the little things that got to me. The pen I was given for my 21st by the nearly-ex, a little mirror I've had for maybe 15 years, the tiny diary I track mine and my flatmate's cycles with, lip balm, but the worst of all is something that didn't even belong to me, a simple hair clip.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel so bad about that, words can't even begin to describe it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fortunately this morning the first person I spoke to was a female friend, who forced a coffee on me and then listened as I blubbed and explained, at least that got things out of the system to an extent as I was still shaking like an actual shaky leaf. She also explained to the boss that there had been an unexpected arrival in the night...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Still, I had my brolly, Nexus and a hairbrush so I could at least go out, contact people and make myself look marginally less scary. And my friend leant me a top and offered the contents of her make up bag so I could at least distract people from the obvious crying-all-night look I'd adopted. Having disrupted the peace I headed off to work with said boss having already emailing my apartment agents and calling the nearly-ex's work to pass on an out-of-touch message...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...and then realised I didn't have a fan. I suffer with hot flushes, I need a hand-fan. Oh lordy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No email from the agent.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Feck.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I did a little work whilst also revoking app permissions and changing passwords for various things, so I have months of screaming at devices to come when I can't recall what I've set anything to. Also, fortunately, I have spare HRT pills and patches at the office, so I could stop my hormones spinning out of control.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or so I thought.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By now, after blowing £8.80 on a day travelcard, I was down to £8.50 which I knew I'd need to get a new Oyster. So, off to Oxford Circus I went...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...and stood in a queue with frightful colonials wanting to buy 4 one day travelcards and other such frippery. Now I must have misread that I could get this done at the ticket office but you *can't* get your stuff transferred to a new card there. I'm sure I did this once before after losing a card in Farringdon, but that was two years ago so I guess things have changed. Okay, so £5 and, I was disgusted to learn, I had to fill in a form... Could I borrow a pen? *blank face*. At this point I went in to the full my bag was stolen last night I have neither a Oyster, phone, purse, telephone or indeed a pen. He sort of through one at me, though I suspect it was more to make me run away than to loan the pen.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sheesh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Filling in the form was fun. Major shakes have settled in and, of course, my chuffing glasses were in the bag, so reading is a little tricky. Especially as my eyes were now filling again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I just about managed to hold it together in the queue and, fortunately, ended up with a different ticket person who had just opened his window. Really fortunate as it turned out. So he took the details, did the bits, I waved the £5 at him and...</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
How much do you want it topped up? Minimum is £5</blockquote>
<div>
I looked at him. I looked at the little plastic bag that was now my purse. I looked at him. I looked at the bag. I had £3.50</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I've only got £3.50, can't I just have it empty? </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No, sorry, against the rules. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But...</blockquote>
<div>
And I burst in to tears. FFS</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My bag was stolen last night, not only do I not have my Oyster I don't have a phone, purse, cards, nothing. This is literally all I have on me and I have no way of getting any cash, which means my £1216 travelcard will remain out of my reach until I can get some and even then I'll have to try and get around, I really can't do a ten mile walk every day. Look I have the card number and everything can't you do something?</blockquote>
<div>
For maximum effect imagine that being said without any spaces as tears roll down my face and I was getting increasingly hysterical. And then pleading.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not my finest moment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But serendipity struck a second time and it turns out Harry from TFL was a good sort and broke the rules. I really hope he doesn't get in to trouble and if he happens to read this and he does then I hope he gets in touch so I can give TFL a PR headache. I can't call the helpline until about 3pm to get the stuff transferred.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, with £3.50 left I shuffled out in to the rain to cry my way back to the office as things were rushing round my head once more.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hence now I'm trying to get the right number to call from the agents, I really would like some keys as, well, things are difficult without them. Really difficult.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On the bright side I did hear back from my knight in shining dinner suit, well, wasn't shining, it was really nicely cut. His reply:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>De Nada. The world isn't totally "dark"!</i></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Pass the tissues someone. </div>
</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-39238919161188894242013-09-06T04:58:00.001+01:002013-09-06T04:58:40.104+01:00History burps<p dir="ltr">A couple of years ago some thieving scrote stole my bank card using a Lebanese loop. It was very upsetting, a pain and a massive inconvenience. And then in the gap between my card being list and replaced I met somebody, fell in love and had my heart broken.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A week can be a long time anywhere.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Which isn't why tonight I'm in a strange bed, feeling tearful but also grateful for being saved. As it were.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'd been out, had a fabulous time with my bezzie and managed to be slightly irresponsible. Which is nice. Unfortunately at the end of the night I found my handbag... Gone.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yep.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The bag that held my keys, phone, purse, oyster, everything. Gone.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Fuck.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I mean really. Central London is not a cool place to be when you are suddenly without anything and have literally no place to go. My knight in shining armour was called Roy. A lovely chap who we'd invited to join our table. All I know of him is his email address and that he took £60 out of a cash machine so I could attempt to get somewhere to sleep.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yep, no Hailo either.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The first taxi driver stopped then pulled off. Then stopped again owing to lights. When challenged he said he wouldn't pick me up because I was drunk. No I was fucking upset. Not the same thing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The next was better. Lovely actually. Didn't mind that I sobbed for a couple of site miles before listing who I needed to call. Unfortunately I couldn't raise my first option, not totally surprising, but now £30 down. My options were limited, walk the streets or hail another cab and hope I could raise somebody at plan B.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And here I become tearfully grateful. Nobody wants to wake a friend at midnight, but having just been driven past my now inaccessible home I had no choice. Well, other than walking. A lot.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Fortunately I could remember the apartment number. Fortunately they answered the phone and fortunately they understood me through the unending tears.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So here I am. Grateful for being taken in.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I had fun on the phone to my bank (no, I don't have my sort code and account number my bag was stolen) and the phone company (no, my bag won't just turn up in an hour or two). Tomorrow I need to try and sort out some keys as I really am desperate to go home.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm also glad my mascara is waterproof.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It also means I have the joy of calling the nearly-ex to say I'm stranded. Again. That'll go well. Ironically their number was the only one I actually know, but pointless to call.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So when I head to W1, without my shiny oyster travelcard, I will look like I'm on a walk of shame. In yesterday's clothes.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm not.</p>
<p dir="ltr">History has not so much repeated itself as burped and brought up a little bile.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I am my dears, safe but beyond unhappy.</p>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-19739253314457911322013-08-12T22:57:00.001+01:002013-08-12T22:57:35.756+01:00Irrational<p>There is a blog post here that can never be written. Not even written but not published. Irrational? </p>
<p>Probably not.</p>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-76848901219348155472013-08-11T00:07:00.001+01:002013-08-11T05:13:54.474+01:00Impossible<p>When you've cried for an hour it's impossible to go back. When you reach three you realise nobody noticed anyway so it doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>The pain of loneliness is crippling, but you hide in the shadows to save embarassing people near with painful red eyes. But it doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>You scream inside as you despair for the help that will never come, the same help you would offer in an instant. But then it doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>And as you finally crawl in to bed fully clothed because you can't admit even to yourself how you've wasted more time as you've wasted so much before. Yet it doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>Then at four in the morning, it starts again, tears pool and fall with each pain driven rend. You fear of what's next, what twist of life's knife. And all you know is it just doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>I'll be fine.</p>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-8709771842338335392013-08-05T08:27:00.001+01:002013-08-05T09:12:45.028+01:00Shiny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TocK9HoV6E0/Uf9d2HHCQCI/AAAAAAABL8U/Aksdpb_m-OM/s1600/2013-08-04+15.08.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TocK9HoV6E0/Uf9d2HHCQCI/AAAAAAABL8U/Aksdpb_m-OM/s200/2013-08-04+15.08.30.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
As I'm in a constant search for distractions, any distractions I brought a carton of Oven Pride back with me. Yep, it was time to clean the oven. It really had reached the point of being embarrassing.<br />
<br />
So that's what I did on Sunday night and was the most fun I've had all weekend. But it gets better than that...<br />
<br />
I had to clean it off this morning...<br />
<br />
Anyway, must find another distraction, what with my phone switching itself off regularly and not wanting to go near Twitter for fear of (a) ranting and (b) seeing how smug people are.<br />
<br />
Not that I begrudge that, I just don't want to be reminded about how empty life is. And in the unlikely event that you read this and are offended that you chat with me regularly can I just point out that I'm fed up with talking with my finger.<br />
<br />
I'll not ask the question, I know it's too much to ask.<br />
<br />
At least I have five shiny days of work to distract and exhaust me.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-15528778614017477682013-08-04T22:16:00.001+01:002013-08-05T09:14:44.937+01:00DangerousIt's a dangerous place inside my head.<br />
<br />
The urge to self destruct is massive and there is no release. No safety valve. No distraction.<br />
<br />
Just relentless, interminable, growing hatred of myself. Hatred of mono-outcome decisions that lead to inevitable, crushing, loneliness. Hatred of how insular I'm becoming because I don't want to poison others. Hatred of the pain. Hatred of the unrequitable desire to touch and be held. Hatred of my inability to suppress the feelings and desires. Hatred of being unable to act.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It's a dangerous place inside my head.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVg8sEp7QjY/UdGSjUjmFtI/AAAAAAABJO0/bbalLceTwQM/s1600/2013-06-28+12.36.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVg8sEp7QjY/UdGSjUjmFtI/AAAAAAABJO0/bbalLceTwQM/s320/2013-06-28+12.36.00.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I need comfort food...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-85363616067814220532013-08-03T23:37:00.001+01:002013-08-03T23:37:26.732+01:00Moving forward<p>I've only truly been in love once. The trouble was it didn't appear until late in life and when it did I suddenly realised what an awful sham everything else had been.</p>
<p>Awkward.</p>
<p>Especially as (a) I was married to somebody that I couldn't think of a good reason to not be married to and (b) I was about to embark on a massive life change. It was a bit like the first time you hear a live performance and feel the music and know everything else was just a precursor at best.</p>
<p>So I put the change on hold as I knew that there was something more important.</p>
<p>Then there wasn't. The reality is I always knew this was never going to be more than just a glimpse of would could have been. I hoped, but was realistic.</p>
<p>And then, like Saint Elmo's fire, it was gone. It took time to adjust, to accept. A long time. And there was even one last moment of sublime humiliation before I could say...</p>
<p>It's time to change.</p>
<p>So I placed my heart in a box, tied memories with a ribbon and embraced my future. Whatever it would be.</p>
<p>I can't say it's ideal, I'm still in love for a start, but that's changed form, it's just deeply caring and hoping desperately for somebody else's happiness.</p>
<p>Surely that's the best way to be?</p>
<p>Ultimately I'm scared about my journey, but I also can't see a reason to go back.</p>
<p>Onwards.</p>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-29176836913068693792013-07-27T15:59:00.002+01:002013-07-27T15:59:41.591+01:00A cow is to CowleyMy dear friend <a href="https://twitter.com/staresatsheep">Ryan</a> has decided he'd like to learn a programming language. Now this has provoked much debate between the <a href="https://twitter.com/CliveEisen">#boss</a> and I. Actually, it's provoked no debate as both the languages initially on offer to the young chap are not the best place to start, though it's debatable what *is* the best place to start.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
He commented that he'd just heard some beardy types in sandals asking "<i>what's the difference, they've both got <b>Java</b> in?</i>". Let me explain...<br />
<br />
Firstly, as part of the day job I get to use both on occasions, Javascript for a little bit of front end work on webviews or webtools to offload some of the rendering from the server and, even more occasionally when working on applications for Android. I'm really not a fan, though I do like that I can keep things <i>off the wire</i> with Javascript. But the big differences are:<br />
<ul>
<li>There is *no* common root between the languages, the (possibly urban legend) story is that Netscape came up with the name to make people think they were related as Java was the Next Big Thing™ at the time.</li>
<li>Java uses an implicit <i><b>this</b></i> scope for non-static methods as well as an implicit class scope. Javascript has an implicit global scope. The implications of this are pretty wide ;-)</li>
<li>Java is statically typed whereas Java is dynamically typed and this can be abused at will</li>
<li>Java is also <b><i>strongly</i></b> typed...</li>
<li>Java uses block based scoping (yay!) but Javascript uses function based scoping (there be dragons)</li>
<li>Java is class based but Javascript is prototype based. Which means more opportunity for abuse as you casually add new prototypes for a giggle</li>
<li>Java has constructors that can <i>only</i> be called on construction, Javascript constructors are just normal functions and can be a bit rock and roll in appearance.</li>
<li>Java demands all non-block statements to have semicolons at the end, Javascript will play merry and add some for you in certain circumstances.</li>
<li>Java can only be variadic if specifically defined, Javascript lets you run merrily through the code chucking daisies and roses abound one day, but doing nothing the next.</li>
<li>Java doesn't have real closures, they have to be faked, but Javascript is quite grown up and has them.</li>
<li>Java is tied to its class and can't be redefined at runtime, Javascript isn't and can be redefined at will</li>
<li>Java is <i>usually</i> compiled to byte code before distribution (no peaking at the source), Javascript is <i>usually</i> distributed in source form and interpreted on the fly. Which is nice as you can see how things are done.</li>
</ul>
Finally, other popular comparisons:<br />
<ul>
<li>Java is to Javascript as a ham is to hamster</li>
<li>Java is to Javascript as a car is to carpet</li>
</ul>
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And my personal view... Java looks like fun at first but becomes a pain the the proverbial and never goes back to being nice. Javascript though looks like a badgers interpretation of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vincent_van_Gogh">Van Gogh</a> but you learn to love and appreciate it once you learn the tricks.</div>
Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8275707843478070833.post-91435857704536481252013-07-26T23:26:00.000+01:002013-07-27T15:19:54.372+01:00A stitch in time...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And so the contrary holiday rumbled on. Traditionally on holidays one is awake until late then has a lazy lay in before rushing down to the hotel breakfast at the last minute. Not in my book. At 6am I was watering the garden and by 7am I'd breakfasted and started to lay out the pattern pieces I'd prepared the night before. A bit like germans doing the towel thing by the pool.<br />
<br />
Only with scissors.<br />
<br />
That all went swimmingly well though it did remind me that I really ought to get another cutting board and rotary cutter as it makes life an awful lot easier. The day though went swiftly and remarkably efficiently, my only break being a trip to the best shop on the planet for evening winez and a pack of hand sewing needles. Honestly, I was on an actual roll with only one mishap involving scissors and the bodice. Oops. Oh well, I really wanted to re-cut pieces and make again.<br />
<br />
Or not.<br />
<br />
By 5:30pm I was finished all bar the zip, strap placement and final hemming. Oh yes.<br />
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Which was why I started making pasta dough as I had both my bezzie and the boss coming round for food and wine. Which would be great except for the fact that the living room had bred actual contrary chaos with little bits of cloth and threads everywhere.<br />
<br />
The vacuum cleaner has never been so busy so often!<br />
<br />
This is okay. As everyone knows, making dough for lasagna sheets means you have to leave at least 30 minutes for the dough to rest which was when I ran round like a woman posessed trying to clear up the chaos. I was finished with literally moments to spend as first the bezzie and then the boss managed to breach security at the front gate and were literally buzzing my buzzer...<br />
<br />
Any dreams of having at least started the ragu was completely lost. To make matters worse I also lost the garlic I was going to use.<br />
<br />
Oops. Again.<br />
<br />
See the trouble is I like to slow cook for intense flavour so it wasn't until around 8:15 that I was ready to roll the pasta sheets... Or come out with a stream of euphemisms and double-entendres to end all streams of euphemisms and double-entendres. You wouldn't think rolling pasta could be such a giggle.<br />
<br />
Or an excuse for pervy behaviour.<br />
<br />
Yep, the boss decided to video the process, or our cleavages and, being slightly tiddly, we might have done the whole Nigella thing. Shameless. Quite shameless.<br />
<br />
And then it got worse.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Pasta making with #boss<br />
picture by @PrincessOfVP</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The boss decided that he would also like to try his hand at turning the roller and stepped in. Of course he then also had to unbutton his shirt to show his own (lack of) cleavage.<br />
<br />
I don't think I'll be able to face him on Monday without giggling.<br />
<br />
Which reminds me, I must tell my flatmate that we froze some of the resulting lasagne in case she needed to eat on her return. 45 minutes after the giggling we were ready to eat, I'd magically removed all the removed al the remaining chaos on the table so we could actually eat and the evening rolled on until eventually even I had to stop eating.<br />
<br />
It really was a fab evening.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Contrary peas!</td></tr>
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This morning was another early start. The big news is that we have peas! I'd not really noticed them yesterday but once I saw one I realised there were loads, very exciting. I was amazed at how fast they went from flowering to actual pea pods showing. Quite stunning.<br />
<br />
The rest of the morning was almost a repeat of the day before, breakfast, sewing, looking at ducklings, but I did at least finish the second dress. Or at least finish for now as after wearing it for a couple of hours I decided I needed to shorten the straps a little to stop them falling off my shoulders (my hips hold the dress up) but for that I will get somebody, we'll call her my flatmate, to help by pinning them whilst I wear it.<br />
<br />
I'm sure that won't hurt.<br />
<br />
Finally though it was time for my little holiday to end so with a flurry of bin emptying and packing my<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">It fits!</td></tr>
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weekend bag I scampered off in the general direction of Kings Cross and a trip to Norfolk.<br />
<br />
But that's not quite where the story ends.<br />
<br />
On the train to Cambridge a lady sat opposite me, I blurted “I've met you before”, as I had, maybe four years ago on the Cambridge to Norwich train. I think she was slightly taken aback that I remembered she was a biologist studying fruit fly fertility for her PhD. You see, I might not be able to remember names or what day of the week it is, but I do remember the story and detail of most things.<br />
<br />
It was lovely to chat and catchup as the train roared its way to Cambridge and hence my journey beyond...<br />
<br />
Until next time.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459548281281231817noreply@blogger.com0