Wow. A month's silence. Sorry for being so inexcusably slack. I've actually had more time than usual for blogging, given that the last 2 weeks have been spent on jury service. That means a little bit of sleeping in (love those 10:15am starts), a little bit more exercise (walking to court), cultural lunchtimes (Tate Modern), and plenty of opportunities to read books while waiting to be herded into the court for a cattle, sorry, jury call. The first week I managed three books, the second week was a little less literary owing to actually being in court for most of it.
I found it a welcome change from the tedium of my everyday life. But I feel dreadfully sorry for the people on the jury for the Diana inquest. There's only so much monotony I can take.
So this Christmas, the Buckwell and I have decided to go all out with a bit of culture shock. We're off to Japan.
However, there is a nasty threat looming over the trip. The Buckwell has been suffering a nasty bout of MAN FLU this week, which had him bedridden, feverish and coughing. So my mission is rather obvious - to avoid his flu at all costs. As I am a woman, it should not be too hard. However, just to be on the safe side, I am planning to liberally lace onight's dinner with garlic and chilli....
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Mission 020 - To bye or not to bye
First up, sorry for the really bad pun. It's somewhat indicative of my desperate state of mind as this week, as I wrestle with my latest mission - to resist the temptation to resign. It could be quite a good idea for you to adopt this mission too, to avoid you joining dole queues and getting far too familiar with daytime telly.
Here are a few reasons why you should resist the urge to resign:
- At your latest dinner party, someone tells you that you're an excellent cook and should open a cafe. Although this may sound like a valid reason, remind yourself that although your duck and couscous was undoubtedly extremely tasty, you can't guarantee that every patron at your cafe will be just as drunk and rambling.
- You have a mortgage/rent that needs to be paid regularly. And you are not talented at busking.
- Your husband likes to spend money on bike parts, and you like to spend money on shoes. And the money has to come from somewhere. Especially for the shoes. (I know it's a cliche, but that's the way it is.)
- The grass is not always greener on the other side. in fact, sometimes it's astroturf.
- The current job is building character. (I just don't know what kind.)
Hmm. I'm not doing a very good job of convincing myself. I'm going to watch some telly.
Here are a few reasons why you should resist the urge to resign:
- At your latest dinner party, someone tells you that you're an excellent cook and should open a cafe. Although this may sound like a valid reason, remind yourself that although your duck and couscous was undoubtedly extremely tasty, you can't guarantee that every patron at your cafe will be just as drunk and rambling.
- You have a mortgage/rent that needs to be paid regularly. And you are not talented at busking.
- Your husband likes to spend money on bike parts, and you like to spend money on shoes. And the money has to come from somewhere. Especially for the shoes. (I know it's a cliche, but that's the way it is.)
- The grass is not always greener on the other side. in fact, sometimes it's astroturf.
- The current job is building character. (I just don't know what kind.)
Hmm. I'm not doing a very good job of convincing myself. I'm going to watch some telly.
Monday, 5 November 2007
Mission 019 - A spot of mending
Buttons. They were bound to come up sooner or later.
Last Monday or Tuesday I had a button come off a jacket. It's still off, and I have been wearing the jacket sans button, regardless. What a lazy slob.
Now, I think there's a fairly good chance that, like me, you've got something tucked away in a drawer that needs a spot of mending to make it wearable again. Maybe you're even wearing it. My jacket is just a hint of a vast mending pile that includes:
Pair of dress shorts with split seam
Dress with ironing mark (awaiting customisation and transformation into new dress)
Trousers that need hemming
Top with unravelled shoulder seam
Half-made cushion (just needs one side of the zip doing)
Trousers with missing button.
No wonder I have nothing to wear.
So my latest mission for me, and you, is this: Make a start on the mending. Even if you just sew on a button. It'll take you all of five minutes (and most of that will be spent finding the needles and thread) and you'll wonder why on earth you've been putting it off.
Last Monday or Tuesday I had a button come off a jacket. It's still off, and I have been wearing the jacket sans button, regardless. What a lazy slob.
Now, I think there's a fairly good chance that, like me, you've got something tucked away in a drawer that needs a spot of mending to make it wearable again. Maybe you're even wearing it. My jacket is just a hint of a vast mending pile that includes:
Pair of dress shorts with split seam
Dress with ironing mark (awaiting customisation and transformation into new dress)
Trousers that need hemming
Top with unravelled shoulder seam
Half-made cushion (just needs one side of the zip doing)
Trousers with missing button.
No wonder I have nothing to wear.
So my latest mission for me, and you, is this: Make a start on the mending. Even if you just sew on a button. It'll take you all of five minutes (and most of that will be spent finding the needles and thread) and you'll wonder why on earth you've been putting it off.
Friday, 2 November 2007
Pet update
As of this evening, the pet mission is back on. Our first set of critters are going home to their owner, as she's now out of hospital. Someone from the cat charity is coming to pick them up tonight.
The funny thing is, that only this morning I had the fleeting thought that i would quite like to see the back of them. If only for the reason that last night one of them missed the litter tray and deposited a large poo and a puddle on the floor of the bathroom instead. Then they shredded the newspaper surrounding the tray to create a poo, piss and paper installation of impressive proportions. It was a really great way to start my morning.
So from tonight, we are once again sans pets. There might be more arriving Sunday. Hopefully they will be better acquainted with their litter box. I'll let you know.
The funny thing is, that only this morning I had the fleeting thought that i would quite like to see the back of them. If only for the reason that last night one of them missed the litter tray and deposited a large poo and a puddle on the floor of the bathroom instead. Then they shredded the newspaper surrounding the tray to create a poo, piss and paper installation of impressive proportions. It was a really great way to start my morning.
So from tonight, we are once again sans pets. There might be more arriving Sunday. Hopefully they will be better acquainted with their litter box. I'll let you know.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Mission 018 - The only way is up.
As soon as I wrote this title, I was reminded of that grating track by Yazz that sat atop the NZ singles chart for several weeks in 1988. Not a great start. But please hang about a couple more minutes. This post gets better.
My blog is rated by Technorati at 4,446,976= in popularity. (This is out of 110.4 million blogs, so is either quite good, or quite bad, depending on how you look at it.) But this is not good enough for me. So my new mission is to bump my rank up. I don't expect to reach the 100 top blogs, or even the top 100,000. The top 1,000,0000 will do, for now.
Then of course, there's the Google ranking. And although you can find me if you type in Susanonamission with no spaces, you won't find me on Google any other way. (Google Susan Wills and you'll get an American pro-life activist, a ceramic artist, a lawyer and a winery owner.) There are, unfortunately, many people with my name out there. All American, I think. So I've been doing lots of research about how I can improve the ranking of my blog. Problogger is an especially good source, although ironically, in a recent post, he says 'Forget about page rank and concentrate on good content'.
So first, please help me by going to Technorati, here , where you can create an account. Then search for my page Susanonamssion and choose it as one of your favourites. Thank you. Another thing you can do is link to my page if you have a blog and would like to recommend my blog to others. Either of these things would be great.
And here's what I've decided to do about the blog content.
Given that my blog is quite self-absorbed, I've decided to open my missions up to everyone. Now you can share in my achievements, surpass me, or fall behind as you choose. Of course, some missions will be more achievable for you then others. Mission 015, Chips, for example, will be quite easy for you, as you don't work near the cafe downstairs (unless you are one of my colleagues reading this). Feel free to take on this mission as your own. Just in case you need a reminder, here it is again: ' Increase the ranking of Susan's blog'.
Again on the content note, for more waffly posts that don't fit here so well, I have also started a new blog, Four Zebras in the Road. This one is more for me to waffle at will about all sorts of things that don't fit into my/our missions and is still being refined a bit, although I have high hopes for it. The main pic is one I took in Namibia in September. I think it's rather attractive. Do you?
My blog is rated by Technorati at 4,446,976= in popularity. (This is out of 110.4 million blogs, so is either quite good, or quite bad, depending on how you look at it.) But this is not good enough for me. So my new mission is to bump my rank up. I don't expect to reach the 100 top blogs, or even the top 100,000. The top 1,000,0000 will do, for now.
Then of course, there's the Google ranking. And although you can find me if you type in Susanonamission with no spaces, you won't find me on Google any other way. (Google Susan Wills and you'll get an American pro-life activist, a ceramic artist, a lawyer and a winery owner.) There are, unfortunately, many people with my name out there. All American, I think. So I've been doing lots of research about how I can improve the ranking of my blog. Problogger is an especially good source, although ironically, in a recent post, he says 'Forget about page rank and concentrate on good content'.
So first, please help me by going to Technorati, here , where you can create an account. Then search for my page Susanonamssion and choose it as one of your favourites. Thank you. Another thing you can do is link to my page if you have a blog and would like to recommend my blog to others. Either of these things would be great.
And here's what I've decided to do about the blog content.
Given that my blog is quite self-absorbed, I've decided to open my missions up to everyone. Now you can share in my achievements, surpass me, or fall behind as you choose. Of course, some missions will be more achievable for you then others. Mission 015, Chips, for example, will be quite easy for you, as you don't work near the cafe downstairs (unless you are one of my colleagues reading this). Feel free to take on this mission as your own. Just in case you need a reminder, here it is again: ' Increase the ranking of Susan's blog'.
Again on the content note, for more waffly posts that don't fit here so well, I have also started a new blog, Four Zebras in the Road. This one is more for me to waffle at will about all sorts of things that don't fit into my/our missions and is still being refined a bit, although I have high hopes for it. The main pic is one I took in Namibia in September. I think it's rather attractive. Do you?
Mission 017 - 50,000 words
I've spent much of the day researching blogs. Partly for work (might be doing a work blog), partly to see what else is out there. One link led to another and eventually I ended up at NaNoWriMo, the site for National Novel Writing Month. I actually joined this last year (or was it the year before?), and didn't write a word. This year, I seem to have ended up there the very day before it all kicks off, which seems like quite a nice piece of serendipity. So I joined. Again. And my new mission flowered into being: to write 50,000 words before the end of November 2007.
I know NaNoWrMo isn't the way to instantly produce a work of prize-winning quality. But it's a way to produce A Work. Which is a start. It means writing around 1700 words a day, and no, I can't cobble together the 30,000 I've already written on Untitled Novel 1. They have to be all fresh – quite a steep challenge if you're in full-time work. But not necessarily if you work as an in-house copywriter and seem to be hitting a quiet patch...
We'll see.
I know NaNoWrMo isn't the way to instantly produce a work of prize-winning quality. But it's a way to produce A Work. Which is a start. It means writing around 1700 words a day, and no, I can't cobble together the 30,000 I've already written on Untitled Novel 1. They have to be all fresh – quite a steep challenge if you're in full-time work. But not necessarily if you work as an in-house copywriter and seem to be hitting a quiet patch...
We'll see.
Saturday, 27 October 2007
Mission success! We have pets!
May I introduce Bobby and Suzie, our new foster cats. Finally, after several long months, we had a cat charity drop off these two beasties for our care and attention. The volunteer told the Buckwell and I that Bobby was the thinner one (on the right in this picture), and Suzie was the fat one (on the left). However Suzie is so massive and manly that we are sure she is actually Bobby, while Bobby is quite petite and jittery - although smoochy when you win him/her over – so we think he's actually Suzie. Neither of them answer to either name, of course, which doesn't help. Anyway, we have taken to calling them Blobby (the fat one, obviously), and Schmoozie (other one). Perhaps we are confusing the poor creatures. Maybe we should just call them non-gender specific names like Sam and Robin/Robyn, which don’t bear any phonetic resemblance to their real names.
Blobby and Schmoozie spend most of their time sitting underneath the sofa, or trying to get into the bedroom to get underneath the bed, although in the last two days they've discovered the windowsills. (The ones offering a good view of the birds in the tree outside.) Unfortunately we are having trouble getting them to eat, although they will deign to lick tuna off a spoon or eat luxury kitten treats from the palm of your hand. Um, it's all getting a bit tedious.
And I am also unbearably allergic to them.
They have quite bad cat dandruff/dander, so I had to go and buy some anti-allergy pet wipes, which you wipe over the cat as if patting it. I think the cat thinks someone's giving it a big lick - it certainly ends up quite damp. Meanwhile all the dander goes onto the wipe, supposedly. The cat's skin allegedly benefits too, thanks to the aloe vera in the wipe (if it's good enough for humans' toilet paper, it's good enough for cats). And voila, less sneezing. I'm not sure if it's working, though. Maybe yesterday I sneezed 347 times, compared to 351 the day before. As time goes by, I'm sure I will develop a resistance to them, though.
So yes, this fostering lark ain't the constant sunshine and cuddles thing I had in mind. Although I know of course it takes time. I think it’s just confirmed the fact that I am mostly a dog person (I’m not allergic to them, either - woo-hoo). Or a cat person, as long as the cat keeps its fur mostly to itself.
Friday, 19 October 2007
Mission 016 - no more chips
Why do I do it to myself?
I feel unwell. I have been eating chips from the office cafe downstairs, and they are just about the direst they have ever been.
Most of them are pale, limp and sickly, instead of proudly bearing a crisp outer coating. They are shiny with oil and clinging to each other in a sort of bad chip porn way. Two are green. Several tasted the way a rubbish bin smells after liquid in the bag has escaped and pooled in the bottom, festering for a few days. (I spat those ones out, and they are now huddled in a semi-mash on the other side of the container.) I should have taken them all back.
I've occasionally had good chips from the cafe downstairs. Generally though, the following conditions need to be present:
- It should be a Monday, when the oil is (probably) fresh
- I witness the chips being taken from the fryer to the serving area
- The server shakes the excess oil from the chips before transferral
- The server leaves them in the oil long enough for them to attain a colour similar to that of a South London luvvie who's been in Magaluf for 2 weeks
I like food. I love good food. I'm not sure why I keep subjecting myself to this. Well, apart from the £1 cost. After all, everything else is so unappetising there that it seems to make more sense to spend £1 on chips than £2.50 on a panini (never toasted enough) with too much pesto (from a jar, too acidic), and hardly any cheese (rubbery fake mozzarella, applied only to the outer edges of the panini, so it all leaks out when the panini is toasted). I've also tried the soup (once) and it tastes worse than an ancient cup-a-soup, but with less salt, more overcooked broccoli flavour.
Of course, I could do it much better myself, but I'm not about to go and start up a cafe.
Instead, my mission is simply to NEVER have any more chips from the office cafe downstairs again*.
When: From now to eternity
Terms and Conditions
*Eating someone else's chips allowed
I feel unwell. I have been eating chips from the office cafe downstairs, and they are just about the direst they have ever been.
Most of them are pale, limp and sickly, instead of proudly bearing a crisp outer coating. They are shiny with oil and clinging to each other in a sort of bad chip porn way. Two are green. Several tasted the way a rubbish bin smells after liquid in the bag has escaped and pooled in the bottom, festering for a few days. (I spat those ones out, and they are now huddled in a semi-mash on the other side of the container.) I should have taken them all back.
I've occasionally had good chips from the cafe downstairs. Generally though, the following conditions need to be present:
- It should be a Monday, when the oil is (probably) fresh
- I witness the chips being taken from the fryer to the serving area
- The server shakes the excess oil from the chips before transferral
- The server leaves them in the oil long enough for them to attain a colour similar to that of a South London luvvie who's been in Magaluf for 2 weeks
I like food. I love good food. I'm not sure why I keep subjecting myself to this. Well, apart from the £1 cost. After all, everything else is so unappetising there that it seems to make more sense to spend £1 on chips than £2.50 on a panini (never toasted enough) with too much pesto (from a jar, too acidic), and hardly any cheese (rubbery fake mozzarella, applied only to the outer edges of the panini, so it all leaks out when the panini is toasted). I've also tried the soup (once) and it tastes worse than an ancient cup-a-soup, but with less salt, more overcooked broccoli flavour.
Of course, I could do it much better myself, but I'm not about to go and start up a cafe.
Instead, my mission is simply to NEVER have any more chips from the office cafe downstairs again*.
When: From now to eternity
Terms and Conditions
*Eating someone else's chips allowed
Friday, 28 September 2007
Mission 015 - Have your cake
Since I posted my essay, I've been feeling a bit at a loose end and vaguely irritable.
I'm not sure what I should be concentrating on.
So I am going to bake a cake. Not any old cake, mind. A Dobos Torte, named after Austrian pastry chef Josef Dobos, who created it. The Buckwell has been going on about Dobos Tortes since I met him, and earlier this year I tasted one at a Hungarian restaurant. Indeed, it was mightily tasty. I went home and looked up a recipe, only to reel back in horror when I read that every slice contained around 1250 calories, more than half the daily recommended amount for a chick/sheila/bird/laydee.
According to most recipes, it should take me around 1 hour and 30 minutes to bake and ice, although I think it will take more like 2, as there are 9 eggs to beat, and I only have a hand whisk. Yes, this is truly going to be challenging.
The other criteria is that I will need to bake it for guests, because there's no way that the Buckwell and I are going to eat an entire cake in 3 days (which is how long it will keep for because of the chocolate buttercream). Especially 4 slices at 1250 cals each.
It will not be a life-changing mission, but it will be a delicious one.
I'm not sure what I should be concentrating on.
So I am going to bake a cake. Not any old cake, mind. A Dobos Torte, named after Austrian pastry chef Josef Dobos, who created it. The Buckwell has been going on about Dobos Tortes since I met him, and earlier this year I tasted one at a Hungarian restaurant. Indeed, it was mightily tasty. I went home and looked up a recipe, only to reel back in horror when I read that every slice contained around 1250 calories, more than half the daily recommended amount for a chick/sheila/bird/laydee.
According to most recipes, it should take me around 1 hour and 30 minutes to bake and ice, although I think it will take more like 2, as there are 9 eggs to beat, and I only have a hand whisk. Yes, this is truly going to be challenging.
The other criteria is that I will need to bake it for guests, because there's no way that the Buckwell and I are going to eat an entire cake in 3 days (which is how long it will keep for because of the chocolate buttercream). Especially 4 slices at 1250 cals each.
It will not be a life-changing mission, but it will be a delicious one.
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Mission update - Gone and forgotten
I am exhausted and relieved. My final essay for my last paper of my OU degree is done. It is not a very good one, but it should do the job. In a short while I am off to the Crawley post office to queue for a long while, where it will be posted off in a strangely anti-climatic way. Then I will go to Greggs, that bastion of cheap, basic and unhealthy lunches, where I will eat a greasy, peppery vegetable pasty (vegies consisting of potato and peas, for those interested). I've just been to the Greggs site as a matter of fact, my interest piqued by writing about it. On their (poorly written and cumbersome) site, they state: 'We would like to thank you for visiting and if you are a customer, for your tremendous loyalty and support.' This baffles me. It sounds like something terribly bad has happened and they are almost surprised that people are continuing to buy from them. Have I missed something? Anyway, this web banner would seem to indicate that they do regard their customers as passionate people (but not passionate about good food, just cheap food), so maybe their customers' loyalty and support is indeed 'tremendous'. Passionate about pasties? Not theirs, that's for sure. Although 'feed your apathy' doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?
On another completed unrelated note, I have been slightly disappointed to discover that my workplace is about to ban internet sites not feasibly related to work. I know this means Facebook, so therefore there go my Scrabulous games (which increase my wordpower and creativity, thus my ability to write good copy). Boo. I also suspect that access to blogspot will be restricted, so bye bye lunchtime updates and the positive feeling engendered by embarking on a mission. Boo.
Apparently there has been 'widespread abuse of the internet lately', hence the militant crackdown. But for people like me, who really don't have enough to do every day anyway, and rely on frivolous sites to keep me sane and thus productive, I fear the decision may be the beginning of my descent into madness.
I am already halfway there anyway. I didn't remember Mission 014 that I forgot, so I have failed that.
Well I must go now. The post office queue calls.
On another completed unrelated note, I have been slightly disappointed to discover that my workplace is about to ban internet sites not feasibly related to work. I know this means Facebook, so therefore there go my Scrabulous games (which increase my wordpower and creativity, thus my ability to write good copy). Boo. I also suspect that access to blogspot will be restricted, so bye bye lunchtime updates and the positive feeling engendered by embarking on a mission. Boo.
Apparently there has been 'widespread abuse of the internet lately', hence the militant crackdown. But for people like me, who really don't have enough to do every day anyway, and rely on frivolous sites to keep me sane and thus productive, I fear the decision may be the beginning of my descent into madness.
I am already halfway there anyway. I didn't remember Mission 014 that I forgot, so I have failed that.
Well I must go now. The post office queue calls.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Mission 014 - Memory Blues
I am suffering memory loss. For the life of me I can't remember what mission I was going to write here.
Now I'm trying not to become annoyed at myself for forgetting (in line with my previous mission).
Actually, I suspect this general lack-of-memory is linked to the important essay that I'm trying to produce by next Tuesday. Earlier this year I noticed that I had the same problem about the same time as an exam. It appears that my brain reaches capacity in times of intellectual stress and pushes out all perceived non-essential information (like the name of Keira Knightley, which escaped me earlier today and then came back to me an hour after I was looking for it) to make way for the necessary information (such as how Kant's Critique of Judgement influences literary prize judging). Do not, I repeat (for my own benefit) do not invite me to join your pub quiz team at the moment.
After next Tuesday I expect things will improve, and once again I will remember word for word everything the Buckwell has ever said and done in the past and use it against him in future arguments.
In the meantime, I am going to buy myself some fish oil, or Omega 3 or whatever it's called.
That's not my mission, by the way. My mission is to remember the mission I was going to write here to begin with.
Now I'm trying not to become annoyed at myself for forgetting (in line with my previous mission).
Actually, I suspect this general lack-of-memory is linked to the important essay that I'm trying to produce by next Tuesday. Earlier this year I noticed that I had the same problem about the same time as an exam. It appears that my brain reaches capacity in times of intellectual stress and pushes out all perceived non-essential information (like the name of Keira Knightley, which escaped me earlier today and then came back to me an hour after I was looking for it) to make way for the necessary information (such as how Kant's Critique of Judgement influences literary prize judging). Do not, I repeat (for my own benefit) do not invite me to join your pub quiz team at the moment.
After next Tuesday I expect things will improve, and once again I will remember word for word everything the Buckwell has ever said and done in the past and use it against him in future arguments.
In the meantime, I am going to buy myself some fish oil, or Omega 3 or whatever it's called.
That's not my mission, by the way. My mission is to remember the mission I was going to write here to begin with.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Mission update - legs and stuff
I have failed in my mission to tan my legs. I even went to Africa, and only came back with a slight golden tinge, which lasted all of five days. Even fake tan lasts longer than that! So now I've bought several pairs of opaque black stockings. Maybe it's time to become a goth?
I have also failed in my mission to get to work on time every day for a week. I managed one day. Monday. That was it. My heart wasn't in that one really from the start, so I guess I've learned a good lesson. If you don't REALLY want to achieve your goal, choose another goal. Otherwise it's not going to happen.
I don't really want to be a morning person, so I am perpetuating the 'I am a night person' image, which seems so much more exciting. I like being nocturnal. That is, until I have a job that pays more and offers more exciting work. Then I have a feeling that I might suddenly find 9am doesn't seem so bad...
I have also failed in my mission to get to work on time every day for a week. I managed one day. Monday. That was it. My heart wasn't in that one really from the start, so I guess I've learned a good lesson. If you don't REALLY want to achieve your goal, choose another goal. Otherwise it's not going to happen.
I don't really want to be a morning person, so I am perpetuating the 'I am a night person' image, which seems so much more exciting. I like being nocturnal. That is, until I have a job that pays more and offers more exciting work. Then I have a feeling that I might suddenly find 9am doesn't seem so bad...
Mission 013 - Live life
Live life. Pffffff! I mean, please - exactly what else are you supposed to do with it?
Perhaps this post should actually be entitled 'Enjoy more of life instead of being a grumpy and neurotic person all the time.' But that's a bit long. So I thought I would use one of the inane non-phrases that I so detest to remind me that it's not worth getting worked up about them. Apart from the fact that now I am really bothered by the fact that I've used said crock-of-sh*t phrase. Oh dearie me, this mission is going to be a toughie.
To start with, it's not exactly measurable, like goals are supposed to be. It also depends on many variables:
- my financial state
- the time to my next holiday
- whether I have been doing creative writing or tick-the-box writing
- whether I've eaten
- whether I've slept enough
- whether I have tension in my shoulders
- whether the sun is shining
- whether I have scoffed a packet of M&S white-chocolate-coated strawberries
- whether the bottle of wine is empty or full
And many other non-reasons as well.
Ok. All right. All right! Time to stop being annoyed (and by derivation, annoying). My new mission is to 'Accentuate the Positive', as vocalised so cheerily by Johnny Mercer in the song featured in LA Confidential, and a stylish typography-heavy self-promotion ad by Saatchi and Saatchi NZ that aired in the early 90s. So my first step is to listen to that song every morning on the way to work.
After that, I'm not sure. Perhaps I should try laughing whenever I find myself getting annoyed. So when someone brings me copy changes on something I've written, instead of huffing and frowning and resisting the temptation to let loose with a string of expletives worthy of a severe Tourettes attack, perhaps I should just lean my head back and laugh. Mwahahahahahahahaha!
I wonder how long it would take before I get firmly and politely escorted off the premises?
I think I'd better laugh internally instead, then take 3 deep breaths, smile, and think of cute little kittens.
That's about the best I can come up with now. If you have any suggestions that don't require medication I'd be pleased to hear them. Ok. So here I go, living life!
Perhaps this post should actually be entitled 'Enjoy more of life instead of being a grumpy and neurotic person all the time.' But that's a bit long. So I thought I would use one of the inane non-phrases that I so detest to remind me that it's not worth getting worked up about them. Apart from the fact that now I am really bothered by the fact that I've used said crock-of-sh*t phrase. Oh dearie me, this mission is going to be a toughie.
To start with, it's not exactly measurable, like goals are supposed to be. It also depends on many variables:
- my financial state
- the time to my next holiday
- whether I have been doing creative writing or tick-the-box writing
- whether I've eaten
- whether I've slept enough
- whether I have tension in my shoulders
- whether the sun is shining
- whether I have scoffed a packet of M&S white-chocolate-coated strawberries
- whether the bottle of wine is empty or full
And many other non-reasons as well.
Ok. All right. All right! Time to stop being annoyed (and by derivation, annoying). My new mission is to 'Accentuate the Positive', as vocalised so cheerily by Johnny Mercer in the song featured in LA Confidential, and a stylish typography-heavy self-promotion ad by Saatchi and Saatchi NZ that aired in the early 90s. So my first step is to listen to that song every morning on the way to work.
After that, I'm not sure. Perhaps I should try laughing whenever I find myself getting annoyed. So when someone brings me copy changes on something I've written, instead of huffing and frowning and resisting the temptation to let loose with a string of expletives worthy of a severe Tourettes attack, perhaps I should just lean my head back and laugh. Mwahahahahahahahaha!
I wonder how long it would take before I get firmly and politely escorted off the premises?
I think I'd better laugh internally instead, then take 3 deep breaths, smile, and think of cute little kittens.
That's about the best I can come up with now. If you have any suggestions that don't require medication I'd be pleased to hear them. Ok. So here I go, living life!
Friday, 7 September 2007
Mission 012 - Clocking on
I think we all know that I'm supposed to be writing an essay instead of doing a new post. Well, we do now.
My essay is already late, and here I am procrastinating. I am stupendously talented at procrastination, a talent which I believe is common to many famous writers. Or do I just want to believe that my procrastination makes my success as a writer imminent? Somehow I don't think it works like that.
Anyway, it means that I am late for many things, because I put things off until they absolutely must be done. That goes for almost everything. It even included my own wedding, where I booked the registrar about 3 weeks beforehand, so I had to take the only one available. At the wedding, said registrar sank her glass of Champagne in a flash, then nicked someone else's for a chaser. She was also seen swigging from a hip flask before the ceremony.
What can I say - if I'd chosen earlier I may have gotten someone sober, but I'm sure they would not have provided those cherished comedy moments.
However, not all my procrastination leads to comedy. My morning 'I can't bear to drag myself away from my pillow, I think I'll just give it another 5 minutes,' leads me to be, on average, half an hour late to work every day. (This has been the case for most of my working life.) Of course, I stay there late, and I'm not very productive in the morning anyway (poor excuse, I know), but wouldn't it be nice if I turned up when everyone else does for a change?
So from tomorrow, my new mission is: to be on time for work for at least a week. Oh dear; my heart sank when I wrote those words. It means leaving the house at 7:40am. It really is not my cup of tea, but if I can do that, it's a step towards becoming less of a procrastinator. And then I'll be more on track to finish writing my book.
But first I need to write an essay.
My essay is already late, and here I am procrastinating. I am stupendously talented at procrastination, a talent which I believe is common to many famous writers. Or do I just want to believe that my procrastination makes my success as a writer imminent? Somehow I don't think it works like that.
Anyway, it means that I am late for many things, because I put things off until they absolutely must be done. That goes for almost everything. It even included my own wedding, where I booked the registrar about 3 weeks beforehand, so I had to take the only one available. At the wedding, said registrar sank her glass of Champagne in a flash, then nicked someone else's for a chaser. She was also seen swigging from a hip flask before the ceremony.
What can I say - if I'd chosen earlier I may have gotten someone sober, but I'm sure they would not have provided those cherished comedy moments.
However, not all my procrastination leads to comedy. My morning 'I can't bear to drag myself away from my pillow, I think I'll just give it another 5 minutes,' leads me to be, on average, half an hour late to work every day. (This has been the case for most of my working life.) Of course, I stay there late, and I'm not very productive in the morning anyway (poor excuse, I know), but wouldn't it be nice if I turned up when everyone else does for a change?
So from tomorrow, my new mission is: to be on time for work for at least a week. Oh dear; my heart sank when I wrote those words. It means leaving the house at 7:40am. It really is not my cup of tea, but if I can do that, it's a step towards becoming less of a procrastinator. And then I'll be more on track to finish writing my book.
But first I need to write an essay.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Mission update
Officially, at least, I've failed quite a few of my missions so far. But only because of the deadlines.
I'm keeping an open mind about the deadline bit, and so should you, because I work to deadline every day at work. And although that's not an excuse in itself, those of you who also work to deadlines probably know that you can't always run to deadline with everything. Or you have burn-out. Breakdowns. And then if you're in America, you get your gun and head to the nearest college. (Sorry America.) If you're in London, you drink till you fall over, get thrown out of the house by your partner, then lie in the courtyard of your apartment block, sobbing loudly in the rain until about 3am, like one of our neighbours did the other night. And it's precisely because we are in London and are confronted every day by news of knifings, that we didn't go down and comfort him, because he's quite a scary character – especially when he's sobbing. Instead, the Buckwell and I dug out some earplugs and went back to sleep. We would have thrown down a camping tarpaulin for him to make a makeshift bivouac, but because we are in London no one knows how to make bivouacs, so we didn't see the point. You need to grow up in New Zealand, with 1 1/2 acres of native bush - then you get really good at making bivouacs out of native ferns and sticks and things. Not much of that in London.
Anyway, so I haven't made most of the deadlines. But I'm being flexible about that. I have not managed to do 200 hula hoop revolutions, for example. But I've got to 137, so if I just keep it up, I'll get there. Trouble is, the novelty has already worn off...
As for the pet mission, that's coming along nicely. We have been contacted by the Celia Hammond cat rescue centre, who want to give us a mum with kittens to foster. However, we're selling the flat and would rather have an offer under our belts before sticking an adorable mum with kittens, plus undoubtedly stinky litter tray in the spare room.
The yoga mission is not quite dead in the water, but it's sinking fast.
The tango mission is still in there with a fighting chance, although Signor Cossu has introduced the idea of Lindy Hop, which sounds much more fun, although far less sexy.
So bear with me, I'll get there. Eventually.
I'm keeping an open mind about the deadline bit, and so should you, because I work to deadline every day at work. And although that's not an excuse in itself, those of you who also work to deadlines probably know that you can't always run to deadline with everything. Or you have burn-out. Breakdowns. And then if you're in America, you get your gun and head to the nearest college. (Sorry America.) If you're in London, you drink till you fall over, get thrown out of the house by your partner, then lie in the courtyard of your apartment block, sobbing loudly in the rain until about 3am, like one of our neighbours did the other night. And it's precisely because we are in London and are confronted every day by news of knifings, that we didn't go down and comfort him, because he's quite a scary character – especially when he's sobbing. Instead, the Buckwell and I dug out some earplugs and went back to sleep. We would have thrown down a camping tarpaulin for him to make a makeshift bivouac, but because we are in London no one knows how to make bivouacs, so we didn't see the point. You need to grow up in New Zealand, with 1 1/2 acres of native bush - then you get really good at making bivouacs out of native ferns and sticks and things. Not much of that in London.
Anyway, so I haven't made most of the deadlines. But I'm being flexible about that. I have not managed to do 200 hula hoop revolutions, for example. But I've got to 137, so if I just keep it up, I'll get there. Trouble is, the novelty has already worn off...
As for the pet mission, that's coming along nicely. We have been contacted by the Celia Hammond cat rescue centre, who want to give us a mum with kittens to foster. However, we're selling the flat and would rather have an offer under our belts before sticking an adorable mum with kittens, plus undoubtedly stinky litter tray in the spare room.
The yoga mission is not quite dead in the water, but it's sinking fast.
The tango mission is still in there with a fighting chance, although Signor Cossu has introduced the idea of Lindy Hop, which sounds much more fun, although far less sexy.
So bear with me, I'll get there. Eventually.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
Mini-mission 011: Hoop-la
It's a rainy Sunday in London, so today's itinerary of lying in the park reading and trying to tan my legs has been washed out. The Buckwell wants to go to an exhibition at the RCA, but I can't be bothered to walk into central London. However I still feel like doing something active. Luckily I bought a hula hoop on Friday. It was £1.
I defy anyone to be in a bad mood while carrying a peppermint-striped hula hoop home from work. Likewise, to be grumpy while hula-hooping, or especially watching someone hula-hoop after a few glasses of wine. The Buckwell has practically been in hysterics over the past 2 days as he watches me try to regain my hula hoop skills of circa 1985.
I have now set myself a mini-mission - to reach 200 revolutions in one hooping session, by the end of the week. I'm averaging about 20 at the moment, so it could be an entertaining week for those neighbours who can see across into our lounge window. (No way am I taking this thing outside.)
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House, in the lounge
Likelihood of success: Do-able, although I may sustain an abdominal strain
Mission deadline: 15 August
I defy anyone to be in a bad mood while carrying a peppermint-striped hula hoop home from work. Likewise, to be grumpy while hula-hooping, or especially watching someone hula-hoop after a few glasses of wine. The Buckwell has practically been in hysterics over the past 2 days as he watches me try to regain my hula hoop skills of circa 1985.
I have now set myself a mini-mission - to reach 200 revolutions in one hooping session, by the end of the week. I'm averaging about 20 at the moment, so it could be an entertaining week for those neighbours who can see across into our lounge window. (No way am I taking this thing outside.)
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House, in the lounge
Likelihood of success: Do-able, although I may sustain an abdominal strain
Mission deadline: 15 August
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Mission 010: Legs akimbo
If you're a skin health professional or my mother, you should stop reading this now. Especially if you are my mother.
OK, Mum, I know you're still reading, but don't worry, what I'm about to divulge is not rude or anything. It's just not healthy. I know this, and so you don't need to tell me. So please, not a word. Not even a tiny, teeny little email. I know.
Living in England has encouraged me to adopt some terribly unhealthy practices when it comes to the sun. Last weekend I lay out in the sun at a festival, between 11 and 1 WITHOUT SUNBLOCK. And I got burnt. Normally it's rare for me to get very burnt, unless I'm somewhere like Greece, Italy, Oman, Barbados, Australia or New Zealand. In all these places I've been sunburnt at some time, usually because my sunscreen has been sweated off/swum off/ wiped off. But in England I don't usually apply sunscreen, because... well, because I'm in England, of course, stoopid!
Anyway, stoopid me got completely toasted on the back of my neck and my shoulders. They are now itchy and peeling. Nice. My arms went brown and so did my feet. They are not peeling and they look good, even if my skin is 10 years older blah blah de blah. But the parts of my legs that were exposed to the sun – that is to say, the bits from my knees to my ankles – they didn't do anything at all. They gained no colour, not even a subtle drop of vanilla essence.
When I was small I remember looking at my mother's legs with disbelief. 'Mum, your legs are sooo white! With stubble! Yuck! MY legs are NEVER going to be that white!' Then I would run off to look at my horse books and practise learning to ride – in my head.
I don't recall my mother ever saying something back. Perhaps she said, 'We'll wait and see, shall we?' And now she has been waiting for this moment for oh, around 25 years. The moment when I will finally admit, 'My legs are white - no, practically blue – and I can't make them go brown!'
It's been several years now since I put sunscreen on my legs. (Apart from in Barbados after they unexpectedly got burnt.) Normally, their bluish-white sheen reflects as much sun as a 50+ sunscreen, and it's effective all day long. Sometimes, I'll put on fake tan to fool my legs into thinking that they are eminently tannable, but it appears that even with fake tan,they are not. My legs shed the fake tan within a day and my legs remain stoically pure in their antarctic glory.
I can no longer deny the fact that I have my mother's skin on my legs. Combined with my father's solid rugby-player calves, this is sobering on even a good day. So considering that I have a bit of a makeover theme going on with my latest missions, I'm going to keep running with it, if you'll excuse the leggy pun. My latest mission is to tan my legs - a real tan that will remain for at least 2 weeks. See, I told you it wasn't healthy. But nor are white legs very sexy, especially when they are as sturdy and heavily muscled as mine. I want sexy, tanned legs. Or as close to them as I can get. I know I can count on the Buckwell to back me up on this one.
Photo coming soon.
Where mission was conceived: In the shower with razor in hand
Idea-fuelling beverage: Water from the shower head
Likelihood of success: The chances are slim, but the reward would be sweet
Mission deadline: 15 September
OK, Mum, I know you're still reading, but don't worry, what I'm about to divulge is not rude or anything. It's just not healthy. I know this, and so you don't need to tell me. So please, not a word. Not even a tiny, teeny little email. I know.
Living in England has encouraged me to adopt some terribly unhealthy practices when it comes to the sun. Last weekend I lay out in the sun at a festival, between 11 and 1 WITHOUT SUNBLOCK. And I got burnt. Normally it's rare for me to get very burnt, unless I'm somewhere like Greece, Italy, Oman, Barbados, Australia or New Zealand. In all these places I've been sunburnt at some time, usually because my sunscreen has been sweated off/swum off/ wiped off. But in England I don't usually apply sunscreen, because... well, because I'm in England, of course, stoopid!
Anyway, stoopid me got completely toasted on the back of my neck and my shoulders. They are now itchy and peeling. Nice. My arms went brown and so did my feet. They are not peeling and they look good, even if my skin is 10 years older blah blah de blah. But the parts of my legs that were exposed to the sun – that is to say, the bits from my knees to my ankles – they didn't do anything at all. They gained no colour, not even a subtle drop of vanilla essence.
When I was small I remember looking at my mother's legs with disbelief. 'Mum, your legs are sooo white! With stubble! Yuck! MY legs are NEVER going to be that white!' Then I would run off to look at my horse books and practise learning to ride – in my head.
I don't recall my mother ever saying something back. Perhaps she said, 'We'll wait and see, shall we?' And now she has been waiting for this moment for oh, around 25 years. The moment when I will finally admit, 'My legs are white - no, practically blue – and I can't make them go brown!'
It's been several years now since I put sunscreen on my legs. (Apart from in Barbados after they unexpectedly got burnt.) Normally, their bluish-white sheen reflects as much sun as a 50+ sunscreen, and it's effective all day long. Sometimes, I'll put on fake tan to fool my legs into thinking that they are eminently tannable, but it appears that even with fake tan,they are not. My legs shed the fake tan within a day and my legs remain stoically pure in their antarctic glory.
I can no longer deny the fact that I have my mother's skin on my legs. Combined with my father's solid rugby-player calves, this is sobering on even a good day. So considering that I have a bit of a makeover theme going on with my latest missions, I'm going to keep running with it, if you'll excuse the leggy pun. My latest mission is to tan my legs - a real tan that will remain for at least 2 weeks. See, I told you it wasn't healthy. But nor are white legs very sexy, especially when they are as sturdy and heavily muscled as mine. I want sexy, tanned legs. Or as close to them as I can get. I know I can count on the Buckwell to back me up on this one.
Photo coming soon.
Where mission was conceived: In the shower with razor in hand
Idea-fuelling beverage: Water from the shower head
Likelihood of success: The chances are slim, but the reward would be sweet
Mission deadline: 15 September
Friday, 10 August 2007
Mission 009 - Line up, line up
I'm fighting a losing battle. It's not one I ever expected to win; it's just that I didn't think I'd be overcome quite so quickly.
I've been plucking out my grey hairs for a few years now, ever since I saw the first three standing up straight in my crown one morning, like prairie dog sentries scouting for new territory. Of course, I whipped them out at the time, but it was too late. They'd passed the word on to my other follicles, and since then I've been discovering them at increasing intervals. Just now I found a small battalion hiding out behind my right ear. Some of them were quite long, so I can only assume that they have settled in. And undoubtedly, they have reinforcements. It is probably my greyest hour. Yet even though they are fighting me with great strength and fierceness, I won't give up. I will fight them with Boots or Clairol Simply Natural Dark Ebony, I will fight them with the tweezers, I will fight them in the bathroom mirror and the bedroom, I will never surrender. Well not for a while anyway, until there is over 10% coverage, then I may consider it.
But before you get the wrong idea - this fight is not my new mission. There's a side effect that I've noticed, and it's getting worse. When I see a grey hair and attempt to catch it with the tweezers, my eyes roll upwards and my forehead furrows slightly in concentration. Slowly but surely, my forehead is getting more and more lined, in the exact same pattern as my grey-hair-catching expression. I already have lines between my brows from sneezing. That I have to live with. But grey-hair-catching lines are downright embarrassing. So now I have a conundrum. Grey hair, or grey-hair-catching lines? Well, obviously 'neither' is the correct answer here, but more hair dye is not the solution.
So my new mission is to embark upon a course of forehead treatment to ease my lines.
Now, I've ruled out Botox straight away. Because I'm allergic to so much stuff that if I was to Botox my lines, I'm sure I'd end up with a swollen lump the size of a guinea pig on my forehead. Not the subtle look that I'm after. So I've narrowed it down to a natural filler or acupuncture. I'll tell you how it goes. And in the meantime, I'm going to keep pulling out my grey hairs when I see them and dying them as well, because I'm not going to let them win that easily.
Where mission was conceived: In front of the bedroom mirror
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: 80% likely, 20% chance I'll baulk at the cost
Mission deadline: 30 September
I've been plucking out my grey hairs for a few years now, ever since I saw the first three standing up straight in my crown one morning, like prairie dog sentries scouting for new territory. Of course, I whipped them out at the time, but it was too late. They'd passed the word on to my other follicles, and since then I've been discovering them at increasing intervals. Just now I found a small battalion hiding out behind my right ear. Some of them were quite long, so I can only assume that they have settled in. And undoubtedly, they have reinforcements. It is probably my greyest hour. Yet even though they are fighting me with great strength and fierceness, I won't give up. I will fight them with Boots or Clairol Simply Natural Dark Ebony, I will fight them with the tweezers, I will fight them in the bathroom mirror and the bedroom, I will never surrender. Well not for a while anyway, until there is over 10% coverage, then I may consider it.
But before you get the wrong idea - this fight is not my new mission. There's a side effect that I've noticed, and it's getting worse. When I see a grey hair and attempt to catch it with the tweezers, my eyes roll upwards and my forehead furrows slightly in concentration. Slowly but surely, my forehead is getting more and more lined, in the exact same pattern as my grey-hair-catching expression. I already have lines between my brows from sneezing. That I have to live with. But grey-hair-catching lines are downright embarrassing. So now I have a conundrum. Grey hair, or grey-hair-catching lines? Well, obviously 'neither' is the correct answer here, but more hair dye is not the solution.
So my new mission is to embark upon a course of forehead treatment to ease my lines.
Now, I've ruled out Botox straight away. Because I'm allergic to so much stuff that if I was to Botox my lines, I'm sure I'd end up with a swollen lump the size of a guinea pig on my forehead. Not the subtle look that I'm after. So I've narrowed it down to a natural filler or acupuncture. I'll tell you how it goes. And in the meantime, I'm going to keep pulling out my grey hairs when I see them and dying them as well, because I'm not going to let them win that easily.
Where mission was conceived: In front of the bedroom mirror
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: 80% likely, 20% chance I'll baulk at the cost
Mission deadline: 30 September
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Mission 008: Woolly valley
So here we are again. Hi. Um...I know that i should really be giving you a mission update about my unfinished missions, but actually, there's not a lot to report (and I'm a bit embarrassed about that), so let's leave it there for now, shall we? I'll update you later. Promise.
Anyway, you didn't really want to know about old missions, did you? Here's my new one:
I am going to get a haircut.
Wow. Stunned you with that one, didn't I? I know it sounds pretty risky compared to the others, but bear with me. I haven't had a haircut since December. In New Zealand. That's 8 months of ever-increasing, woolly mammoth-like tresses that always need to be tied back because they are no longer a style. I'm not quite sure how I managed to let them get to that state. Actually, I do. It's called 'DIY on the flat every weekend and working 1 1/2 hours out of London so I get home too late for late night appointments'. It's a very effective way to let yourself go without even realising it.
Now I need to go in for some follicle maintenance. Perhaps a bit of a mainicure and a pedicure too. I did my eyebrows in the bath last night, so at least I can see again. Other than that, I'm beginning to look far too much like a vegan academic. Wiry style-less hair, tick. Chewed fingernails, tick. Comfy cardie, tick. Comfy shoes, tick. Grey hair allowed the free run of my head. No, not quite. There's still time for me. Just.
The only problem I can now forsee is that I don't know what hairdresser to go to. I used to go to a great guy in Hackney who had the guts to tell me when I couldn't take a style. I like a hairdresser who's prepared to tell you how it is. 'Here's a photograph of Cate Blanchett (in elegant Prada and Costume National ballet pumps). Can you please do my hair like that?'
' No, your hair won't do that – and you won't find that your sturdy NZ rugby-player's calves will ever look like that, either, luv. Let's aim for this picture of Kathy Bates instead, shall we?'
But I can't go back to that hairdresser because I haven't been for ages, and he'll wonder where I've been in the meantime - why I deserted him for a bland chain salon with shiny posters and pimply assistants with hoop earrings sweeping up the clippings. Even though I didn't - and nor do I want to – which is even more embarrassing, because now my hair's so bad I couldn't possibly go to a hairdresser I know.
So anyway, I think you'll allow me the liberty of not updating you on my other missions. Because as you can tell, this one's terribly important indeed.
Where mission was conceived: Work again
Idea-fuelling beverage: Dr Stuart's 'Wild Nettle tea' (As it says on the packet, 'Time for a spring clean.')
Likelihood of success: 100% certain
Mission deadline: 24 August
Anyway, you didn't really want to know about old missions, did you? Here's my new one:
I am going to get a haircut.
Wow. Stunned you with that one, didn't I? I know it sounds pretty risky compared to the others, but bear with me. I haven't had a haircut since December. In New Zealand. That's 8 months of ever-increasing, woolly mammoth-like tresses that always need to be tied back because they are no longer a style. I'm not quite sure how I managed to let them get to that state. Actually, I do. It's called 'DIY on the flat every weekend and working 1 1/2 hours out of London so I get home too late for late night appointments'. It's a very effective way to let yourself go without even realising it.
Now I need to go in for some follicle maintenance. Perhaps a bit of a mainicure and a pedicure too. I did my eyebrows in the bath last night, so at least I can see again. Other than that, I'm beginning to look far too much like a vegan academic. Wiry style-less hair, tick. Chewed fingernails, tick. Comfy cardie, tick. Comfy shoes, tick. Grey hair allowed the free run of my head. No, not quite. There's still time for me. Just.
The only problem I can now forsee is that I don't know what hairdresser to go to. I used to go to a great guy in Hackney who had the guts to tell me when I couldn't take a style. I like a hairdresser who's prepared to tell you how it is. 'Here's a photograph of Cate Blanchett (in elegant Prada and Costume National ballet pumps). Can you please do my hair like that?'
' No, your hair won't do that – and you won't find that your sturdy NZ rugby-player's calves will ever look like that, either, luv. Let's aim for this picture of Kathy Bates instead, shall we?'
But I can't go back to that hairdresser because I haven't been for ages, and he'll wonder where I've been in the meantime - why I deserted him for a bland chain salon with shiny posters and pimply assistants with hoop earrings sweeping up the clippings. Even though I didn't - and nor do I want to – which is even more embarrassing, because now my hair's so bad I couldn't possibly go to a hairdresser I know.
So anyway, I think you'll allow me the liberty of not updating you on my other missions. Because as you can tell, this one's terribly important indeed.
Where mission was conceived: Work again
Idea-fuelling beverage: Dr Stuart's 'Wild Nettle tea' (As it says on the packet, 'Time for a spring clean.')
Likelihood of success: 100% certain
Mission deadline: 24 August
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Mission 007 -failure
Oh hell. I have absolutely no self-control. I have failed Mission 007 'to stop eating sweets' miserably. It was the M&S extra-chocolately caramels that did it, combined with a dull day at work. If that's all it takes...
However, on a lighter note, the new toilet system should be being installed today, which will mean that it's out of the study (where it has been lingering in bits) and hanging on the wall looking, um...pristine, hopefully. Wow. So instead of using a 70 year-old loo to pass my waste, I will be soiling a brand new set of porcelain. Wonder who will get to use it first, the Buckwell or me?
See, I told you earlier that I have an exciting life.
However, on a lighter note, the new toilet system should be being installed today, which will mean that it's out of the study (where it has been lingering in bits) and hanging on the wall looking, um...pristine, hopefully. Wow. So instead of using a 70 year-old loo to pass my waste, I will be soiling a brand new set of porcelain. Wonder who will get to use it first, the Buckwell or me?
See, I told you earlier that I have an exciting life.
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Mission 007: Sweet and sour
Well, today I don't really have much to say about anything. My bi-polar moods seem to be getting the better of me. Earlier I was practically ecstatic about the fact that I had posted a Mr Hudson and the Library video on Facebook, and I even took the liberty of stealing Lady Barron's new German word 'fabelhaft,' to indicate how I was feeling.
Now I'm staring out at the clouds steaming ominously across the Crawley sky up towards London (just in time to dump their cargo on the punters knocking off early on a Friday), and I can feel the corners of my mouth creeping downwards. It reminds me of those old women you see on New York buses heading downtown from the Upper West Side, with their perfectly coiffured hair (untouchable), navy Hush Puppies and red lipstick that looks freshly applied, but which is already sliding into the set creases of their permanently disaproving lips. Down, down, down. Their husbands are dead, they have cats called Alfie and Mittens, they huff if a teenager brushes against their arm and their handbags are never without a fresh tissue. Yes, I can feel it happening. I'm becoming one of them, and it's starting with my lips.
I think it's time for chocolate. Mmm. Yes, I thought you'd agree. More Rolos? I had some earlier, just after lunch, which helps explain my super high. And this low too.
So no. Actually, stop right there. Don't you go leading me astray with just one of your more-ish-looking Champagne truffle chocolates that you brought back from Bruges. Because this mission, you see, is all about no sweets. And not only no chocolate, but none of those M&S white-chocolate coated strawberries (which incidentally, I think they've discontinued), no Rolos, no Polos and no chocolate-coated caramels (one of which whipped out one of the Buckwell's fillings out the other evening, cheeky devil). I am going to stop eating sweets and see if it helps my moods.
No confectionary at all for... um, till the end of the month! Lucky it's a weekend, so at least I can have alcohol. Whew.
Where mission was conceived: Aaaaaaastral Towerrrrrrs
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Not a drop of anything
Likelihood of success: Yeah, maybe, perhaps
Mission deadline: now till Tues 31 July
Now I'm staring out at the clouds steaming ominously across the Crawley sky up towards London (just in time to dump their cargo on the punters knocking off early on a Friday), and I can feel the corners of my mouth creeping downwards. It reminds me of those old women you see on New York buses heading downtown from the Upper West Side, with their perfectly coiffured hair (untouchable), navy Hush Puppies and red lipstick that looks freshly applied, but which is already sliding into the set creases of their permanently disaproving lips. Down, down, down. Their husbands are dead, they have cats called Alfie and Mittens, they huff if a teenager brushes against their arm and their handbags are never without a fresh tissue. Yes, I can feel it happening. I'm becoming one of them, and it's starting with my lips.
I think it's time for chocolate. Mmm. Yes, I thought you'd agree. More Rolos? I had some earlier, just after lunch, which helps explain my super high. And this low too.
So no. Actually, stop right there. Don't you go leading me astray with just one of your more-ish-looking Champagne truffle chocolates that you brought back from Bruges. Because this mission, you see, is all about no sweets. And not only no chocolate, but none of those M&S white-chocolate coated strawberries (which incidentally, I think they've discontinued), no Rolos, no Polos and no chocolate-coated caramels (one of which whipped out one of the Buckwell's fillings out the other evening, cheeky devil). I am going to stop eating sweets and see if it helps my moods.
No confectionary at all for... um, till the end of the month! Lucky it's a weekend, so at least I can have alcohol. Whew.
Where mission was conceived: Aaaaaaastral Towerrrrrrs
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Not a drop of anything
Likelihood of success: Yeah, maybe, perhaps
Mission deadline: now till Tues 31 July
Friday, 20 July 2007
Mission 006: Adding some spice
My life is pretty exciting. Today I am working from home because I had to wait for a new toilet system to be delivered. (This is my lunch break, FYI current and future employers.) Maybe it was because of my inspiring life that I thought of this mission - I'm not sure. But it came to me in a white-hot flash in between re-logging in to my work email (it logs me out every hour, annoyingly), and waiting for the inbox screen to load (2MB broadband, my derriere).
I am going to learn to tango.
I'm not quite sure what tango has to do with my work email, or the delivery of a toilet (wall hung pan, disappointingly cheap-looking chrome double flush button, bought on ebay), but it could be related to the vaguely Latino music we had playing yesterday at work. Actually, to be completely honest, this mission has been gestating for a good while now, ever since I read an article about themed breaks (learn spanish in Spain, tango in Argentina, whale-harpooning in Iceland) in a weekend paper's Travel section. The Latino music was probably just a slow-acting catalyst.
Of course, being a latent freeloader, I have found a free introductory class. It's in north London, so it will only cost £4 to get there and back, with no £10 class fee. A whopping saving of £6! Of course, then each subsequent class will cost £14 inc transport, so it is going to work out slightly more expensive in the long run. But no matter. I will be strutting my tango stuff across the floor. I will have added a dash of exhilarating latino spice to my life. And if the Buckwell decides to join me, we will be able to gaze into each others eyes on the dancefloor like they do in Dancing with the Stars. As long as he doesn't drop me.
We could look like this:
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House
Type of location: Home (office)
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: Definitely doable
Mission deadline: end of Sept 2007.
I am going to learn to tango.
I'm not quite sure what tango has to do with my work email, or the delivery of a toilet (wall hung pan, disappointingly cheap-looking chrome double flush button, bought on ebay), but it could be related to the vaguely Latino music we had playing yesterday at work. Actually, to be completely honest, this mission has been gestating for a good while now, ever since I read an article about themed breaks (learn spanish in Spain, tango in Argentina, whale-harpooning in Iceland) in a weekend paper's Travel section. The Latino music was probably just a slow-acting catalyst.
Of course, being a latent freeloader, I have found a free introductory class. It's in north London, so it will only cost £4 to get there and back, with no £10 class fee. A whopping saving of £6! Of course, then each subsequent class will cost £14 inc transport, so it is going to work out slightly more expensive in the long run. But no matter. I will be strutting my tango stuff across the floor. I will have added a dash of exhilarating latino spice to my life. And if the Buckwell decides to join me, we will be able to gaze into each others eyes on the dancefloor like they do in Dancing with the Stars. As long as he doesn't drop me.
We could look like this:
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House
Type of location: Home (office)
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: Definitely doable
Mission deadline: end of Sept 2007.
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
Miission 005: Woof, meow, squeak
My new mission is to acquire a pet. This is actually a joint mission with the Buckwell, who is suffering acute pet deprivation.
The main problem with this mission is that we're not really in a pet friendly situation, so we need a temporary pet. We have therefore identified our market as 'London pet rescue services' (as foster carers).
I've taken the liberty of doing a SWOT analysis for this mission - below.
See here if you're unfamiliar with entry level management tools:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swot_analysis
Strengths:
Ability to take a dog to work (the Buckwell)
Experience with a range of pets
Secure environment for a pet
No small children to pull tails or ears
Weaknesses:
Bad allergy to cats (me)
A small apartment with no outside space
Inability to take a dog to work (me)
Tendency to travel often and no one to feed the pet when we are away
Expensive furniture that could be scratched and ruined
No transport to collect pet or pet food
Opportunities:
Foster a small/invalid dog for Battersea Dogs Home
Foster a mother cat and kittens for a cat rescue centre
Foster a shy or unwell cat for another cat rescue charity
Threats:
Estate agents and prospective buyers coming to view our flat may not appreciate the presence of a litterbox
Reliance on charity to provide pet
No choice of pet could mean we end up with a dud
London weather can make walking a dog unpleasant
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Licorice tea (again)
Likelihood of success: 50/50 is probably slightly optimistic in London
Mission deadline: Sunday 25 Feb 2008.
The main problem with this mission is that we're not really in a pet friendly situation, so we need a temporary pet. We have therefore identified our market as 'London pet rescue services' (as foster carers).
I've taken the liberty of doing a SWOT analysis for this mission - below.
See here if you're unfamiliar with entry level management tools:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swot_analysis
Strengths:
Ability to take a dog to work (the Buckwell)
Experience with a range of pets
Secure environment for a pet
No small children to pull tails or ears
Weaknesses:
Bad allergy to cats (me)
A small apartment with no outside space
Inability to take a dog to work (me)
Tendency to travel often and no one to feed the pet when we are away
Expensive furniture that could be scratched and ruined
No transport to collect pet or pet food
Opportunities:
Foster a small/invalid dog for Battersea Dogs Home
Foster a mother cat and kittens for a cat rescue centre
Foster a shy or unwell cat for another cat rescue charity
Threats:
Estate agents and prospective buyers coming to view our flat may not appreciate the presence of a litterbox
Reliance on charity to provide pet
No choice of pet could mean we end up with a dud
London weather can make walking a dog unpleasant
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Licorice tea (again)
Likelihood of success: 50/50 is probably slightly optimistic in London
Mission deadline: Sunday 25 Feb 2008.
Mission update
I can now report that I had satisfying success in mission 004. I was able to use 'moustachioed' twice alone on Friday night, chalked two more usages up on Saturday, followed by one on Sunday (granted, that one did refer to myself - but don't worry, it's been dealt with).
This leaves me with 2 current missions:
Mission 001 (research completed, still to complete action stage)
Mission 002 (umm, this one's not doing so well yet, actually)
Mission 003 is now redundant, owing to the death (by accidental drought) of the malodorous plants.
This leaves me with 2 current missions:
Mission 001 (research completed, still to complete action stage)
Mission 002 (umm, this one's not doing so well yet, actually)
Mission 003 is now redundant, owing to the death (by accidental drought) of the malodorous plants.
Saturday, 7 July 2007
Mini-Mission 004
Moustachioed. Such a deeply satisfying word. I used it almost by accident earlier today, which has led me to my new mission - to use the word 'moustachioed' in normal conversation at least 5 times over the weekend.
Say it slowly with me now. Mou-stach-i-ooooed. What a lovely stretchy exercise for the mouth.
Given that I don't know anyone with a moustache, this could be a potentially difficult mission, but if times get tough, there is an Indian restuarant round the corner with a plentiful supply of moustaches on staff. I'm going to watch the Prologue for the Tour de France on Saturday, too, so there may be some gents - or ladies for that matter - with lip dusters in the crowds. So I think I should have enough material to work with.
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Likelihood of success: I give it 80/20
Mission deadline: Sunday 8 July.
Say it slowly with me now. Mou-stach-i-ooooed. What a lovely stretchy exercise for the mouth.
Given that I don't know anyone with a moustache, this could be a potentially difficult mission, but if times get tough, there is an Indian restuarant round the corner with a plentiful supply of moustaches on staff. I'm going to watch the Prologue for the Tour de France on Saturday, too, so there may be some gents - or ladies for that matter - with lip dusters in the crowds. So I think I should have enough material to work with.
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Likelihood of success: I give it 80/20
Mission deadline: Sunday 8 July.
Thursday, 5 July 2007
Mission 003
My nose has been offended.
At lunchtime today I marched (okay, was driven by Lady C) off to Homebase to get some plants for the soon to be balcony planting, intended as a townie nod to the rambling wildflower gardens currently in vogue. I picked up two each of gypsophilia and aster daisies, thinking that they'd add a splash of pretty English countryside to the balcony of our hulking 1930s building.
I got them back to the office and sat them by my desk. All was well in the garden of Astral Towers. But before too long I got a whiff of feet. Not mine. Not Mr Samuels. And not Lady C's, although she was the first suspect as her shoes were ones with lots of little holes in them. A mild inkling rumbled in my brain, and I bent down and took a sniff of the plants.
The asters smelt of ripe toes. The gypsophilia smelt like rank Stilton. Together, they were Death.
There is an estate agent coming tomorrow to value the flat before it goes on the market...and his first impression is going to be a ratty English countryside balcony that smells of long dead feet.
I must get some new plants for the balcony. And next time I must smell them before I buy them.
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Pure life-giving, odourless water
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Significant
Likelihood of success: It will happen or I will have to cut my nose off
Mission deadline: Sunday 8 July.
At lunchtime today I marched (okay, was driven by Lady C) off to Homebase to get some plants for the soon to be balcony planting, intended as a townie nod to the rambling wildflower gardens currently in vogue. I picked up two each of gypsophilia and aster daisies, thinking that they'd add a splash of pretty English countryside to the balcony of our hulking 1930s building.
I got them back to the office and sat them by my desk. All was well in the garden of Astral Towers. But before too long I got a whiff of feet. Not mine. Not Mr Samuels. And not Lady C's, although she was the first suspect as her shoes were ones with lots of little holes in them. A mild inkling rumbled in my brain, and I bent down and took a sniff of the plants.
The asters smelt of ripe toes. The gypsophilia smelt like rank Stilton. Together, they were Death.
There is an estate agent coming tomorrow to value the flat before it goes on the market...and his first impression is going to be a ratty English countryside balcony that smells of long dead feet.
I must get some new plants for the balcony. And next time I must smell them before I buy them.
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Pure life-giving, odourless water
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Significant
Likelihood of success: It will happen or I will have to cut my nose off
Mission deadline: Sunday 8 July.
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Mission 002
New week. New mission. To eliminate, ok, maybe not eliminate...reduce the mind-bogglingly annoying and tedious neck and back tension that dogs my desk-bound life.
So what to do about it? Unfortunately I fear that on this occasion my genetics could have the last word, and my computer will have the penultimate one. My dear mother has been telling me about her neck and shoulder tension for about the last 25 years, to my knowledge. And there's a good chance she was also telling me about it for the previous 8, only I wasn't listening. As for the computer, it has me for least 9 hours a day, and that's not likely to change. Er, ...actually, I think I need to stop writing now as the only thing I'm doing so far is to talk myself out of this mission. So back to the action.
I am going to start yoga. Not the sticky, sweating, dirty-sounding Bikram yoga of Bikram Choudury fame. And probably not the chanting, calming, soothing Hatha yoga so beloved by breathy types with limpid eyes(I guess). I like the bendy, onomatopoetic, alluringly-exotic sound of Ashtanga yoga, and I've found a Thursday night class that offers it near London Bridge. It's all far too convenient and easy. So what's my excuse? I need a yoga buddy. So I'll need to convince the Buckwell to come along too. (Ah yes, you've found the mission fine print - my get-out clause.)
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Organic Licorice tea (really truly)
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Exponential
Likelihood of success: Mission possible but could be scuppered by my genetics
Mission deadline: Thursday 27 July.
So what to do about it? Unfortunately I fear that on this occasion my genetics could have the last word, and my computer will have the penultimate one. My dear mother has been telling me about her neck and shoulder tension for about the last 25 years, to my knowledge. And there's a good chance she was also telling me about it for the previous 8, only I wasn't listening. As for the computer, it has me for least 9 hours a day, and that's not likely to change. Er, ...actually, I think I need to stop writing now as the only thing I'm doing so far is to talk myself out of this mission. So back to the action.
I am going to start yoga. Not the sticky, sweating, dirty-sounding Bikram yoga of Bikram Choudury fame. And probably not the chanting, calming, soothing Hatha yoga so beloved by breathy types with limpid eyes(I guess). I like the bendy, onomatopoetic, alluringly-exotic sound of Ashtanga yoga, and I've found a Thursday night class that offers it near London Bridge. It's all far too convenient and easy. So what's my excuse? I need a yoga buddy. So I'll need to convince the Buckwell to come along too. (Ah yes, you've found the mission fine print - my get-out clause.)
Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Organic Licorice tea (really truly)
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Exponential
Likelihood of success: Mission possible but could be scuppered by my genetics
Mission deadline: Thursday 27 July.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Mission 001
You know those days when you're not quite sure what you feel like eating, but you'd like it to be somewhat healthy with a hint of MSG? Or is that just me?
Anyway, a couple of days ago I was swilling back a few glasses of an average Sauvignon Blanc when the fabulous Lady Barron gave me a bright idea. "Honey", she said, "buy some frozen dim sum and a steamer and away you go". She's done it before in Sydney with great success (although it's called yum cha there), and so now I aim to follow in her culinary footsteps. Of course, it would be much more satisfying to make the dim sum from scratch (and also very 'me' - that's my latent attention seeker/purist/masochist in action). But on those lazy Sundays when it's raining in London, and the Buckwell and I can't be bothered to drag ourselves off to Soho to wait for a table, frozen dim sum would come in very handy indeed.
Now if only this mission could be completed by this Sunday...but I think, realistically, I need to aim for next.
Where mission was conceived: Dreambags Jaguarshoes, Shoreditch, London
Type of location: Bar
Idea-fuelling beverage: Chilean Sauvignon Blanc
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Moderate initially, then low as the MSG takes effect
Likelihood of success: Mission probable
Mission deadline: Sunday 08 July.
Anyway, a couple of days ago I was swilling back a few glasses of an average Sauvignon Blanc when the fabulous Lady Barron gave me a bright idea. "Honey", she said, "buy some frozen dim sum and a steamer and away you go". She's done it before in Sydney with great success (although it's called yum cha there), and so now I aim to follow in her culinary footsteps. Of course, it would be much more satisfying to make the dim sum from scratch (and also very 'me' - that's my latent attention seeker/purist/masochist in action). But on those lazy Sundays when it's raining in London, and the Buckwell and I can't be bothered to drag ourselves off to Soho to wait for a table, frozen dim sum would come in very handy indeed.
Now if only this mission could be completed by this Sunday...but I think, realistically, I need to aim for next.
Where mission was conceived: Dreambags Jaguarshoes, Shoreditch, London
Type of location: Bar
Idea-fuelling beverage: Chilean Sauvignon Blanc
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Moderate initially, then low as the MSG takes effect
Likelihood of success: Mission probable
Mission deadline: Sunday 08 July.
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