Given that I am the world's most efficient person, it should come as little surprise to anyone that I decided to organise a New Year party on 2nd January, to start five hours after my plane was due to land. I'd had a delivery of food and Cava before I left for Prague, and miraculously, everything happened on time - the pate was made to schedule, the olives were baked, the chorizo was chopped, the wine was cooled - the only thing I had neglected to factor in was people being absolute wusses and deciding they were too tired to come. My eventual stats for the evening were something like:
Invited: 79
Expected to attend: around 15-20
Responded: 68
Ignored altogether: 11
Refused point blank: 47
Accepted: 12
Maybes: 8
Cancelled on the day: 6
Gatecrashed: 4
Attended: 14
Bedtime: 4am
It was really fun. Really, really fun. Possibly too much fun for Leo, who I had to send home with a bottle of mostly-drunk whiskey as he had disgraced himself somewhat. But everyone else was excellent, the pub quiz went well, the charades were raucous, I LOVE the addition of the sabotage option, only one drop of red wine was spilled and was hastily removed with my beloved power laser carpet shampoo miracle product (thank you OxyKIC), my flat looked lovely and candlelit and I had a groovy time.
On Sunday I got butterflies when I realised I was going to buy a new camera, and I went to Jessops and did, and it's amazing amazing. And then I went to see Tokyo Story at the BFI, which I absolutely loved. God I want to go to Japan. I am drawn there like a freezing cold moth on a icy night to a roaring log fire surrounded by halogen lamps. Blame Murakami. And Hello Kitty. And my conviction that I'll take, like, the best photos ever. And write brilliant things that have never been thought before, let alone written out loud.
On Sunday evening I met up with Em at the BFI bar and we caught up after weeks apart - she'd been at my party the night before but we hadn't really spoken - and we giggled helplessly over my favourites on Texts From Last Night (still funny, not a passing fad).
Monday was my first day back and I felt so rank and exhausted but I dragged myself to the gym and then went at 5pm and Kazu, a gorgeous Japanese man at the hairdresser next door to my office, gave me the best haircut, not just of my life, but of anyone's life, and I literally can't stop looking at myself in the mirror. It couldn't be cooler. I look like I should be wearing a Seventies ski suit with a white polo-neck jumper. Best of all, even BEFORE he'd cut my hair, Kazu asked me if I'd ever MODELLED! Can you imagine?! I laughed in his face. Too hilarious. But then after he cut it, I suddenly thought maybe I might be in line for Kate Moss' throne. Maybe if I swap fun size Crunchies for heroin, it'll work out. I'll keep you posted.
Yesterday was Tuesday and, even after one trip to the gym, I felt like a new woman, convinced I could see the beginnings of a six pack. It's absurd how quickly I expect to see results. Enthused, I went again in the afternoon, and panted my way through a forty minute stint on the treadmill. And I will go again shortly. I would be feeling absurdly pleased with myself were it not for the fact that I ate approx. three times my own bodyweight in leftover Christmas/party chocolate last night, including, in fact, an entire bag of M&S chocolate-covered raisins that I'd bought yesterday evening because they were reduced to 50p, even though I knew full well that, back at my flat, there was enough chocolate to fill a large skip. I'm putting it down to hormones.
Now I'm grumpy because, although it is snowing heavily, I live and work in a frustratingly warm microclimate, and while many of my colleagues have been unable to get to work due to thick snowfall, I woke up to a feint dusting of white, like a meagre sprinkling of icing sugar on a cake, and was able to travel into work on the underground without incident. I had been dreaming of a snow day, snuggled under a blanket with the heating on Permanent, watching bad movies and live Celebrity Big Brother, and possibly having a little snooze around now. Instead, I am drinking green tea, struggling to stay awake and delaying my gym trip. Nothing more motivating than the idea of me in too-tight salopettes, though. Ick.
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Monday, 23 July 2007
Rain:sun ratio unacceptable
Today I’m happy because I received some really good news via email. I can’t tell you what it is. I know that’s annoying but you’ll just have to trust me: it’s good news and I’m happy.
On top of being happy, I am also a selection of the following adjectives: starving, overweight, overpaid, underworked, right (always), liberal, sweet-smelling, pessimistic, big-boned, short-sighted and astigmatic, punctual, reliable, immovable and kissable.
Most of the UK seems to be underwater. And with the reservoirs flooded, the tap water in many areas has been contaminated. Hundreds, maybe thousands of families are being left with no supply, having to rely on bottled water to bathe and hydrate themselves. It’s not good. Add this miserable picture to the fact that it’s 23 July and we still haven’t had even a suggestion of summer since our freakish Antiguan burst in April and suddenly, global warming is looking a lot closer and more annoying than we’d anticipated.
The Live Earth concerts on 7 July raised awareness of the little things we can all do to make a difference – washing clothes at ten degrees less, turning all appliances off rather than leaving them on standby etc. – but I find it hard to keep up the good work when all around me, Joe Public seems to be more wasteful than ever. There are few sights more disheartening than my office, where computers and lights are left on for weeks at a time, 90% of paper waste is not recycled and flights are taken frequently and without guilt. Or the skin-crawling moment each morning when I pass hoards of commuters picking up their free copy of Metro and boarding a train filled with countless discarded copies of the same paper – while a dejected Underground employee wearing a day-glo vest walks through the carriages, picking up hundreds of still-pristine Metro leftovers with his litter-picker and shoving them into his clear plastic bag along with the other rubbish. Why risk germ-perpetuation reading a stranger’s second-hand copy when the distribution bins are full of spotless new editions? The blatant waste is painful.
I’m not sure how things are going to change but I live near the Thames and assuming the rain continues, my home is at risk. Come on people – forget everyone else, this is about me now. Don’t make me shower under room temp Evian – even temporarily. Make sure my home isn’t flooded by dramatically altering your way of life immediately. If you must read Metro (and really, I advise against it – it’s a terrible right-wing rag enjoyed almost exclusively by illiterates), make sure you pick up a second hand copy. Wash your clothes in your bathwater. Read by candlelight instead of watching TV. Walk to work. Grow all your own food and make your own wine. And don’t fly anywhere ever again. If all of you do this, I’ll feel a lot less guilty about my holiday to Lanzarote in September. Let me know how you get on.
On top of being happy, I am also a selection of the following adjectives: starving, overweight, overpaid, underworked, right (always), liberal, sweet-smelling, pessimistic, big-boned, short-sighted and astigmatic, punctual, reliable, immovable and kissable.
Most of the UK seems to be underwater. And with the reservoirs flooded, the tap water in many areas has been contaminated. Hundreds, maybe thousands of families are being left with no supply, having to rely on bottled water to bathe and hydrate themselves. It’s not good. Add this miserable picture to the fact that it’s 23 July and we still haven’t had even a suggestion of summer since our freakish Antiguan burst in April and suddenly, global warming is looking a lot closer and more annoying than we’d anticipated.
The Live Earth concerts on 7 July raised awareness of the little things we can all do to make a difference – washing clothes at ten degrees less, turning all appliances off rather than leaving them on standby etc. – but I find it hard to keep up the good work when all around me, Joe Public seems to be more wasteful than ever. There are few sights more disheartening than my office, where computers and lights are left on for weeks at a time, 90% of paper waste is not recycled and flights are taken frequently and without guilt. Or the skin-crawling moment each morning when I pass hoards of commuters picking up their free copy of Metro and boarding a train filled with countless discarded copies of the same paper – while a dejected Underground employee wearing a day-glo vest walks through the carriages, picking up hundreds of still-pristine Metro leftovers with his litter-picker and shoving them into his clear plastic bag along with the other rubbish. Why risk germ-perpetuation reading a stranger’s second-hand copy when the distribution bins are full of spotless new editions? The blatant waste is painful.I’m not sure how things are going to change but I live near the Thames and assuming the rain continues, my home is at risk. Come on people – forget everyone else, this is about me now. Don’t make me shower under room temp Evian – even temporarily. Make sure my home isn’t flooded by dramatically altering your way of life immediately. If you must read Metro (and really, I advise against it – it’s a terrible right-wing rag enjoyed almost exclusively by illiterates), make sure you pick up a second hand copy. Wash your clothes in your bathwater. Read by candlelight instead of watching TV. Walk to work. Grow all your own food and make your own wine. And don’t fly anywhere ever again. If all of you do this, I’ll feel a lot less guilty about my holiday to Lanzarote in September. Let me know how you get on.
Monday, 28 May 2007
Fading fast...
The weather god giveth, and the weather god taketh away... After several blissful days of heat and refreshing breezes, the past 48 hours have been oppressive, cloud-filled and, today, saturating. The torrential carwash through which we drove this afternoon would have any normal person battening down the hatches and settling in for the long haul with a good book, but following a cabin-fever induced downturn in my mental state of late (not helped by yesterday's power cut which rendered the DVD player useless in the middle of our Sunday afternoon screening of Guys and Dolls), we knew not just our relationship, but possibly our lives depended on us vacating our apartment today.
Thus it was that we drove approximately 130 kilometres (we're in Europe now, baby - it's got to be metric) - perhaps not immediately impressive as distances go, but given the downpour and the terrain, our circular route took us around five hours, past ancient towns marooned at the end of causeways, through cities destroyed countless times by wars and earthquakes, over a grey lake through which swims the Montenegrin/Albanian border - and back down to our village nestled in the hills of Kotor Bay, via a steep and many-cornered road that I might have described as driving down a small intestine would it not have followed that our destination and humble abode were thus a metaphorical anus.
The scenery throughout our tour was straight out of a/the Bond film: cloud-scraping mountains and lush meadows, hair-raising bends tight against jagged rock faces which suddenly open out onto a weather-beaten Adriatic and a misty horizon. And of course, as in all good Bonds, the driving was tense. Our guidebook warns that Montenegrins "drive fearlessly and with verve. It is best not to call their bluff." Tempted though I was to put our rented Fiesta through its paces, I had to consider my passenger, and instead rarely left second gear.
Tonight we're all dressed up and in Kotor Old Town for a night on the Unesco-protected tiles. Hopefully the sun will get its act together for tomorrow - we've only got two more full days left and there's a distinct possibility that we will return to London the same pale grey shade of two weeks ago. Somehow I doubt my travel insurance covers 'lack of tan'.
Thus it was that we drove approximately 130 kilometres (we're in Europe now, baby - it's got to be metric) - perhaps not immediately impressive as distances go, but given the downpour and the terrain, our circular route took us around five hours, past ancient towns marooned at the end of causeways, through cities destroyed countless times by wars and earthquakes, over a grey lake through which swims the Montenegrin/Albanian border - and back down to our village nestled in the hills of Kotor Bay, via a steep and many-cornered road that I might have described as driving down a small intestine would it not have followed that our destination and humble abode were thus a metaphorical anus.
The scenery throughout our tour was straight out of a/the Bond film: cloud-scraping mountains and lush meadows, hair-raising bends tight against jagged rock faces which suddenly open out onto a weather-beaten Adriatic and a misty horizon. And of course, as in all good Bonds, the driving was tense. Our guidebook warns that Montenegrins "drive fearlessly and with verve. It is best not to call their bluff." Tempted though I was to put our rented Fiesta through its paces, I had to consider my passenger, and instead rarely left second gear.
Tonight we're all dressed up and in Kotor Old Town for a night on the Unesco-protected tiles. Hopefully the sun will get its act together for tomorrow - we've only got two more full days left and there's a distinct possibility that we will return to London the same pale grey shade of two weeks ago. Somehow I doubt my travel insurance covers 'lack of tan'.
Tuesday, 23 January 2007
In Cold House
Having complained non-stop for the past week about how freakishly mild the weather has been for mid-January, a gripe propelled by an An-Inconvenient-Truth-inspired panic about global warming and drowning polar bears, it is with some hypocrisy that I must now moan about how insufferably cold it has suddenly become in the past 48 hours. The temperature has dropped to a point where I am unable to prevent audible and embarrassing brrrr noises escaping from my mouth when I walk outside - and although there is no external evidence to prove I have frostbite on my fingers after this afternoon's scooter ride to South Ken, I would argue vehemently with any medical professional who denied that I was exhibiting symptoms.
Although the heating at home is more than adequate, I was unable to warm up this evening, and resolved to have a piping hot bath the moment Celebrity Big Brother was over. Thus, at 10pm, I walked upstairs, turned on the taps, and continued up to my room to check my emails. Too many minutes later, I resurfaced from the internet vortex and realised with a shock that my bath could well be overflowing. I scampered gracelessly downstairs, dreading the sheet of water pouring over the edge - but what I found was, I eventually realised, far worse.
The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.
It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.
Although the heating at home is more than adequate, I was unable to warm up this evening, and resolved to have a piping hot bath the moment Celebrity Big Brother was over. Thus, at 10pm, I walked upstairs, turned on the taps, and continued up to my room to check my emails. Too many minutes later, I resurfaced from the internet vortex and realised with a shock that my bath could well be overflowing. I scampered gracelessly downstairs, dreading the sheet of water pouring over the edge - but what I found was, I eventually realised, far worse.The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.
It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.
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