Back to the grind

Apologies to the Foreign Faithful, but here in the UK, yesterday was a Bank Holiday and I didn't get around to writing. Not that I was out gallivanting, you understand. In fact, I spent most of the day in a fug of confused efficiency, careering from one urgent project to the next in a manner that was both uncharacteristically chaotic and rather liberating. The impetus for said efficiency was the impending arrival of a new temporary flatmate, a young Berliner who will stay in my spare room for a maximum of ten nights a month in exchange for some money. I had to make space in his cupboard for his possessions, and became embarrassed anew at the fact that my clothes will not fit in the two large wardrobes in my double bedroom, even with the addition of a substantial chest of drawers, and that, shortly after moving into the flat last March, my clothing overflowed into the spare room closet, which is now completely full in the way that means that you need both arms and substantial bicep strength to insert a new item into the denseness.

So, with difficulty, I cleared a space in the cupboard, which then meant I had a surplus of items on my bed. I got rid of my second yoga mat, my old Ikea laundry basket and a large bag of old shoes via Freecycle, and was feeling very virtuous when, at approximately 5pm, Emily told me about Music Magpie. I then spent the following six hours typing in the barcodes of around 450 of my CDs, and quickly burning any I hadn't previously copied onto my hard drive. And so it came to pass that, after nearly three decades of jealously hoarding vinyl and then cassettes and finally compact discs, the age of tangible music formats has come to a close for me. It feels unbelievably sad and very wrong, but I simply never listen to them, I haven't bought a CD for years, and... well, it's done. And if the ones I am sending off make the grade, the money I get will pay for my flights to the Impending Summer Holiday Destination. Woo.

Today I feel exhausted in that way that you get when you have more wine to drink on Saturday than you can remember ever drinking before, on what was pretty much an entirely empty stomach, at your lovely friends' wedding, and then spend Sunday and Monday trying - and failing - to rehydrate. I am still very, very thirsty. And my recollection of Saturday is hazy at best, but I can say that all my memories are extremely happy. Apparently I went up to Lucy at a lateish stage in the evening and briefly danced in her vicinity before announcing that I was completely sober and that I was unable to dance due to feeling too self-conscious. This was a massive, massive untruth. At the end of the wedding, I am informed that I went into cheeky mode (which, despite hundreds of examples to the contrary, I always naively believe I can get away with), and took two gargantuan hunks of cheese and a large basket of crackers from the marquee and ran back to the outside table where a group of us were sitting, despite our host's clear desire that we would stand up, leave the cheese and go home. Later I went back to the bar, found three half full bottles thereon, collected them and took them back outside. When someone in a position of responsibility appeared to spot me, apparently I broke into a trot and said 'I'm not here, I'm not here...' accompanied by gales of giggling. Pathetic. I have no defence, I am sure it must be true - but I remember it not much. The next morning, I was feeling substantially less hilarious, and thanked my lucky stars that Justin was also at breakfast at our B&B, as our host decided that it was the time to talk about property prices and the credit crunch. I didn't really engage in the conversation, although Justin later said that I managed to disagree with pretty much everything he said, just barking 'That's not true,' at all his suggestions. Apparently it was like having breakfast with Paxman.

Now I'm back at work and struggling to get through a very busy day at work, as I think I am still recovering from my efficiency yesterday and the gallons on Saturday - but I did find five seconds to scan the papers online and must admit that I chuckled a fair bit on finding that the supermarket, Morrisson's, has been selling a spelling toy containing the word Yatch. Yacht has always been a really rubbish Y letter anyway, impossible to spell and both elitist and seaist. I think we should get rid of it. In America, I think it's more commonly Y is for Yak, although perhaps Kentucky Cous can confirm this. How about Y is for Yucca as a substitute? Or we could do a bit of subliminal healthy living stuff and do Y is for Yakult? Alternatively, we could advertise the recent buddy movie, Y is for You, Me and Dupree, although that might be a bit premature... Oooh, how about Y is for Young offender, with a cartoon of a youth behind bars as a preventative measure to deter the baby from carrying out aggressive behaviour in the future? I think it's a winning plan. Right. Must go to gym and burn off several thousand wine calories. Sigh.