Monday, January 30, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Moving
Despite some cheering words last night, 'Arthur's Hill? Ya movin to Arthur's Hill from Gosforth? Ya mad. I'm homeless me right, they've offered us places in Arthur's Hill, I wouldn't tek them,' I am really looking forward to moving house!
It's going to be exciting living in a bijoux pad with Becca. I got a text from her the other day detailing some items she can offer to the household inventory: "creme brulee pots, flan dish, fondue set, rice cooker, espresso pot." So, that's all the essentials covered then.
Although I am thrilled to be moving to the late nineteen-eighties (I stole that joke from someone else so if you laughed send half of the royalties to John), I will miss a few things about Gosforth. Stuff like not worrying for my life if I want to nip to the shops after dark. Just kidding... I hope. I'll miss things like trying to avoid speaking to Gerry (Jerry?) from across the street. He's one of those people you wish you'd never got chatting to because you're never going to be actual friends and now you're stuck in stilted 'oh, just getting in from work are you?' chat. A friend who works at the same place as Gerry informs me that Gerry is now officially a verb as well as a noun: 'where've you been?' 'sorry, I got Gerried on the stairs, I thought I'd never get away!' There was a while when I didn't see Gerry for ages and when I next saw him he accused me of ignoring him. I had actually seen a man about whom I had thought 'oh, he looks like Gerry, but sort of crippled'. It turned out Gerry had had an operation. When I first arrived in the street I met Gerry on my way home from the Metro late one night. I gather I called out to him 'Don't worry, I'm not following you! I live in this street!' (he was glancing backwards with enormous amounts of paranoia, mind). Anyway, I drunkenly responded to his neighbourly chat by saying that yes, it was a nice place to live but that, no, I had not found it a particularly friendly spot. He said I should give it a chance and that there were a lot of friendly people on the street. I subsequently had two weeks of amnesia regarding this conversation. So, a week later when Gerry stopped clipping his roses and grinned at me I thought, 'what are you smiling at, you freak?' and sped off without a backward glance. Yes, I'll miss Gerry.
It's going to be exciting living in a bijoux pad with Becca. I got a text from her the other day detailing some items she can offer to the household inventory: "creme brulee pots, flan dish, fondue set, rice cooker, espresso pot." So, that's all the essentials covered then.
Although I am thrilled to be moving to the late nineteen-eighties (I stole that joke from someone else so if you laughed send half of the royalties to John), I will miss a few things about Gosforth. Stuff like not worrying for my life if I want to nip to the shops after dark. Just kidding... I hope. I'll miss things like trying to avoid speaking to Gerry (Jerry?) from across the street. He's one of those people you wish you'd never got chatting to because you're never going to be actual friends and now you're stuck in stilted 'oh, just getting in from work are you?' chat. A friend who works at the same place as Gerry informs me that Gerry is now officially a verb as well as a noun: 'where've you been?' 'sorry, I got Gerried on the stairs, I thought I'd never get away!' There was a while when I didn't see Gerry for ages and when I next saw him he accused me of ignoring him. I had actually seen a man about whom I had thought 'oh, he looks like Gerry, but sort of crippled'. It turned out Gerry had had an operation. When I first arrived in the street I met Gerry on my way home from the Metro late one night. I gather I called out to him 'Don't worry, I'm not following you! I live in this street!' (he was glancing backwards with enormous amounts of paranoia, mind). Anyway, I drunkenly responded to his neighbourly chat by saying that yes, it was a nice place to live but that, no, I had not found it a particularly friendly spot. He said I should give it a chance and that there were a lot of friendly people on the street. I subsequently had two weeks of amnesia regarding this conversation. So, a week later when Gerry stopped clipping his roses and grinned at me I thought, 'what are you smiling at, you freak?' and sped off without a backward glance. Yes, I'll miss Gerry.
Friday, January 20, 2006
I don't really believe in blogging a link
However, I am so taken with Dooce's pictures of her dog being nonchalant in the face of utter humiliation that I am going to say 'look here!'
Kids these days!
How very odd. I was walking home along my street today and a mob (yes! a mob! the way they were stomping and shouting in unison would force even their loving parents to concede that they were a mob, just in case you were thinking of accusing me of going all Daily Mail) of middle school boys was heading towards me. They were all singing something and, despite having an average age of eleven, they seemed sort of scary. Scary, that is, until I realised that the music they were so, um, aggressively and hormonally pumping out was none other than Listen to Your Heart by Roxette.
Listen to your heartHow very, very odd.
when he's calling for you.
Listen to your heart
there's nothing else you can do.
I don't know where you're going
and I don't know why,
but listen to your heart
before you tell him goodbye.
Overheard in the bank
"Why can't Dean just text us and tell me that he loves me? That's all I want!"
I wish that's all I wanted.
I want to be free from financial debts.
I want a dog who tilts its head to the side when I am addressing it.
I want my boyfriend to live in the same city as me.
I want to have half an hour free every day to lie on my bed, with my legs up against the wall and to think about nothing much in particular.
I want to open a packet of liquorice allsorts and, just once, find that there aren't any of the brown, cheap chocolate flavoured ones.
I want to actually be able to play the guitar that I bought.
I want to be nicer to my patients, even on my ninth consecutive day at work.
I want to be brilliant.
I want to stop worrying.
I want to be bothered.
I want to find that I am pre-disposed to sing in an unusual key and am not, in fact, tone-deaf at all.
Am I being greedy?
I wish that's all I wanted.
I want to be free from financial debts.
I want a dog who tilts its head to the side when I am addressing it.
I want my boyfriend to live in the same city as me.
I want to have half an hour free every day to lie on my bed, with my legs up against the wall and to think about nothing much in particular.
I want to open a packet of liquorice allsorts and, just once, find that there aren't any of the brown, cheap chocolate flavoured ones.
I want to actually be able to play the guitar that I bought.
I want to be nicer to my patients, even on my ninth consecutive day at work.
I want to be brilliant.
I want to stop worrying.
I want to be bothered.
I want to find that I am pre-disposed to sing in an unusual key and am not, in fact, tone-deaf at all.
Am I being greedy?
Monday, January 16, 2006
Friday, January 13, 2006
Getting away with it
Since I am unable to keep any of my business to myself, there are few people of my acquaintance who do not know that I have this blog. One person who doesn't, though, is my flat-mate Sarah.
I was thinking about Sarah when I came in from work. Specifically I was wondering if she engages, or is planning to engage, in sexual congress with the man who just dribbled wee on our toilet seat and bathroom floor. While I was approaching the house I heard him say 'I think I'm at the right place' into his phone while standing on the doorstep. So, he weed on the floor on his very first visit? Ever? That doesn't seem a very good sign. Maybe I should tell her, I thought.
While musing on this I went to get something out of the fridge and noticed that where they were previously four chocolate mousse things there were now only two. Does this happen now? Inter-flat-mate food stealing? How terribly 1997. I was so disbelieving that such an act had taken place that I looked around everywhere for the others and wondered if they had in fact come in a smaller pack than I imagined. But no, I'm not wrong. How dare she? I don't mean that I am outraged, I'm just curious. I simply wonder how she dare steal something in discrete quantities. Filch a bit of cheese from a block, certainly you might get away with that. Take a glass of orange juice from a carton - it might be obvious but who could prove it? But two chocolate mousse things are indisputably two less chocolate mousse things than four chocolate mousse things were. How could she think she'd get away with it? She'd never get away with it. Still full of righteous fury, I encountered her on the stairs. 'Hi Sarah', 'Hi Helen'.
I was thinking about Sarah when I came in from work. Specifically I was wondering if she engages, or is planning to engage, in sexual congress with the man who just dribbled wee on our toilet seat and bathroom floor. While I was approaching the house I heard him say 'I think I'm at the right place' into his phone while standing on the doorstep. So, he weed on the floor on his very first visit? Ever? That doesn't seem a very good sign. Maybe I should tell her, I thought.
While musing on this I went to get something out of the fridge and noticed that where they were previously four chocolate mousse things there were now only two. Does this happen now? Inter-flat-mate food stealing? How terribly 1997. I was so disbelieving that such an act had taken place that I looked around everywhere for the others and wondered if they had in fact come in a smaller pack than I imagined. But no, I'm not wrong. How dare she? I don't mean that I am outraged, I'm just curious. I simply wonder how she dare steal something in discrete quantities. Filch a bit of cheese from a block, certainly you might get away with that. Take a glass of orange juice from a carton - it might be obvious but who could prove it? But two chocolate mousse things are indisputably two less chocolate mousse things than four chocolate mousse things were. How could she think she'd get away with it? She'd never get away with it. Still full of righteous fury, I encountered her on the stairs. 'Hi Sarah', 'Hi Helen'.
Brokeback Mountain II
At the end of the film there was low level sniffling all around the cinema.
Man in seat next-but-one to his filmgoing companion: How has this happened? We're British!
Man in seat next-but-one to his filmgoing companion: How has this happened? We're British!
Monday, January 09, 2006
Brokeback Mountain
What a lovely film. Well, perhaps lovely's not the word. Stirring.
After only ten minutes I was already itching for the film to be over so I could discuss how lovely, er, stirring, it was with my filmgoing companion, write about it on the internet, and maybe so I could ditch my life here and run away to be a cowgirl. There seem to me to be two types of great film (plus all the other types that will become apparent to me before I've finished chewing this cashew nut, of course). One that focuses on, or reveals, things completely alien to you and captures your interest that way, the other that nudges you about things within yourself. I thought this was one of the latter. If time on Brokeback Mountain represents a precious time in life to look back on or to yearn for, then it was hard to watch the film and not think about the times you've been to Brokeback Mountain, and the times you've felt so far from there, and the times you've wondered if you'll ever get back there at all. Sigh. Plus, there was loads of hot boy-on-boy action!
After only ten minutes I was already itching for the film to be over so I could discuss how lovely, er, stirring, it was with my filmgoing companion, write about it on the internet, and maybe so I could ditch my life here and run away to be a cowgirl. There seem to me to be two types of great film (plus all the other types that will become apparent to me before I've finished chewing this cashew nut, of course). One that focuses on, or reveals, things completely alien to you and captures your interest that way, the other that nudges you about things within yourself. I thought this was one of the latter. If time on Brokeback Mountain represents a precious time in life to look back on or to yearn for, then it was hard to watch the film and not think about the times you've been to Brokeback Mountain, and the times you've felt so far from there, and the times you've wondered if you'll ever get back there at all. Sigh. Plus, there was loads of hot boy-on-boy action!
Friday, January 06, 2006
Hmm, bit political...
I've been thinking a lot about getting old recently. Well, ever since my twenty-ninth birthday really. The world sort of prepares you to notice yourself getting physically older - expecting wrinkles and white hairs and the like (oh, yes, and ya boo sucks to all that, cause Asda lady asked me for I.D. last week!), but I feel less prepared for getting older mentally. Specifically, I felt unprepared to be standing in the Head of Steam, watching a band singing some angry songs variously about Condoleeza Rice and, erm, moneymen, and thinking, 'Hmm, bit political...'
'Hmm, bit political...' is a long way from how I would have reacted to that ten years ago. Not only would I have thought 'yeah, right on!' I would have felt really moved, rather than slightly embarrassed.
It makes me feel a little bit sad to feel so far away from my teenage self. The junior Helen would have been furious to see me scrunching my nose up at the smell of patchouli oil and my eyes rolling a little at the political sentiment.
Fetch us another cup of tea while I worry about getting old.
'Hmm, bit political...' is a long way from how I would have reacted to that ten years ago. Not only would I have thought 'yeah, right on!' I would have felt really moved, rather than slightly embarrassed.
It makes me feel a little bit sad to feel so far away from my teenage self. The junior Helen would have been furious to see me scrunching my nose up at the smell of patchouli oil and my eyes rolling a little at the political sentiment.
Fetch us another cup of tea while I worry about getting old.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Top euphemism of 2006
"Back doors slammed and banged while you watch and wax your carrot." So, spam's not all bad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
