Train, train, train, foot, train, bus, train

I believe in public transport. An essential criterion when buying this house was proximity to a decent local bus route. We are also within walking distance of the London and airport buses, which was a desirable rather than an essential, but something I take advantage of whenever the opportunity presents itself. I held onto my Young Person's Railcard until the very last possible day, and still get trains whenever it makes sense to rather than knee-jerking myself into the car.

This is partly because I don't particularly like driving, and if you're going to get pedantic about it, partly because I don't have a car of my own (and even when I did it wasn't really a car that liked being a long way from home, and it let you know about it). But it's mainly because I think we should promote mass transport, both environmentally and sociologically, and in my own imperfect little way I try to put my money where my mouth is. And if *I'm* going to get pedantic about it I would say that this is one of the reasons I don't have a car of my own.

But hell, they don't make it easy for you. First of all train fares cost a fucking fortune, and cost double for two in the way a car just doesn't, and then you have to fight drunken breastfeeding Glaswegians (no offence) for the seat you booked, and then the train limps into to Birmingham New Street and coughs its last and you have to decant into a giant roller skate pulled by pit ponies and it takes you seventeen years to get to Preston sitting in the same traffic you'd have been in if you'd driven in the first place, only with less privacy, a shorter temper and a fuller bladder.

This is only a slight exaggeration. I've taken the last train north for Easter many times, and it's never been pleasant. On one memorable occasion the smokers (and I was proud to be counted among them in those days) were herded into a rickety carriage with no electricity (= no light and no heat) and we lit candles and shared beer and sang songs as we inched north. We were four hours late on a three and a half hour journey, and ex-housemate S and I literally fell out onto the platform, so pissed were we. It was memorable, but I'd rather have got there on time and not had the vestigial smell of chilly train carriage piss hanging around for the whole weekend.

So... Japan we ain't, when it comes to rail travel. But I try and keep the faith, and as we are journeying north this easter for the parentals' 40th wedding anniversary, I thought I'd be organised and book train tickets.

And this was the suggestion for the return journey:



Six hours, six changes. Chances of a journey this convoluted going smoothly: slim. Chances of us paying fifty four quid each for the privilege of getting on a bus at Dorridge (Dorridge? Dorridge? Where the fuck is Dorridge?): zero.

So it looks like the M6 at snail's pace, playing I-Spy and trying not to split up. Housemate K suggested flying from Stansted to Blackpool. I know short haul flights are evil, but you know what, two flights would cost the same as one train ticket and take 45 minutes. If we didn't live two hours from Stansted I think I'd be doing it. I'd hate myself, but I would stay sane. As things stand, it looks like I'm going to hate myself *and* go mad. Bring it on.

joella

Mystery theft x 2

About six weeks? two months? ago I did some tidying up in the front garden, and filled one of our nice new garden waste bags (which we bought recently to replace ones which rotted because we left them out full for weeks on end) with weeds, clippings, dead foliage, you know, stuff. And left it out full for weeks on end. Normally I spend only marginally less time at the tip than I do at B&Q, but recently we just haven't reached tipping point (arf).

On Sunday I opened the front door to wave off my cousin and his girlfriend, and noticed that the bag was empty. Someone had nicked our garden waste! How weird is that? Maybe there's a hyper-composter somewhere.

But the bag was all soggy, it was raining and dark and, well, I left it there. Tonight I came back from plumbing and the bag had gone as well. Which is really annoying as it was brand bloody new and they cost a tenner. And it would have been so easy to chuck it into the back garden.

And I wonder to myself, was it the same person? In which case why didn't they just nick the full bag? It was no heavier than the stuff in it, and would have been a good deal more pleasant to carry. Or was it two people? What kind of neighbours do we have, exactly?

Put it this way, it's not for nothing that we've chained the dustbin to the fence. We lost two before we did that.

joella

Embracing your inner contradictions

Since moving in, housemate K has expressed a degree of surprise at the number of lipsticks and dangly earrings that she finds lying round the place, not to mention the newly candy pinked radiator in the bathroom.

This is entirely understandable. When I became a woman, I put away girlish things. It was far more important that people Took Me Seriously. And to a very large extent, it still is.

But every now and again I drive out into deepest Oxfordshire and wrangle with myself with the help of a psychotherapist. It's a process that's given me (among many other things) the space to acknowledge and enjoy things that don't easily fit together, and not worry about it too much.

It's the same with food. Yesterday my cousin and his girlfriend came for lunch. We had a LOT of organic vegetables and talked about eating and cooking and food and how lovely and delicious and important it all is. Most of the time, we eat good things: fish and vegetables and lentils and rice and nuts and seeds and porridge and salad and soup.

Tonight: SuperNoodles and Diet Coke. Tonight I needed something instant and stodgy and salty. Bad day at work, little weep in Wantage, slow recovery from Saturday night's slighly mad excesses (dinner with housemate K and her parents, trip to the pub with A&L, back to meet M and some improvisers, decision that turning up to J's party a) incoherent and b) at 3 am was probably not a good plan), pointless mission to B&Q, as so many of them seem to be. It was not a night for healthy food.

But that's ok.

If you're similarly inclined, the following serves 2:

2 packets chicken SuperNoodles (which are suitable for vegetarians)
1 tin tuna
Encona
Black pepper
4 tomatoes

Boil the water, add the tuna and the sachets of chicken flavouring, bash the tuna around to break it up. Add a big slug of Encona and then the noodles. Cook till gloopy. Turn off the heat and add the tomatoes and black pepper.

Curl up on sofa. Feel small.

joella

Horizontal blogging

I am lying on the sofa with my feet up and a glass of wine perched precariously on the fire surround. I tried to sit up at the little desk where my laptop lives, but I couldn't do it. I was too aware of my aching head and weary limbs to think of anything to say. Now I'm comfy I can make the space to reflect a little, not least on how wild it is to be able to access the internet lying down. That never used to be possible.

If I cycle into work tomorrow, it will make five days out of five: a personal record. I almost don't want to, it will leave me nothing to achieve. And as if that weren't impressive enough, there have been multiple extra journey bits:

Monday: home > work > town > home
Tuesday: home > work > plumbing > home
Wednesday: home > work > home
Thursday: home > hotel in N Oxford > home > plumbing > home

Home > work = 15 mins
Work > town = 25 mins
Town > home = 15 mins
Work > plumbing = 10 mins
Plumbing > home = 20 mins
Home > hotel in N Oxford = 20 mins

So we are talking 55 + 45 + 30 + 80 minutes = LOTS of cycling this week. It must be good for me. *And* I've given up crisps for Lent. I'm a frigging paragon of virtue at the moment, frankly.

So why do I feel so crap? Well... it's not been an insane week but it's had its moments, particularly Monday evening, which was spent immensely pleasurably with housemate K and our mutual friend J, who is a make up artist. She has put foundation on Yasmin Le Bon! She (J, not Yasmin Le Bon) came from London on the bus and we generally made a very respectable night of it. There was brandy involved. On a school night. Tsk.

And then (and much more BORINGLY) there are the headaches. They have kind of come back and it's really dull. *gloom*

Oh, but tonight M has come home with a visiting musician, who we are putting up. She is an improvising flautist from Los Angeles, on tour with a Chinese zither player. As if that weren't weird enough, by day she's a paralegal who does contracts for rap artists. She likes 'Europe' and she drinks Scotch. Thursday nights are cool.

joella

Sunday afternoon sauna

Sunday afternoon sauna
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

We've been away. Hooray! Back now, boo hoo.

M and I decided to book a late break at Center Parcs. By ourselves. We weren't even sure you were allowed in without a brace of children, or indeed that we would know what to do with ourselves, but it was lovely.

We booked an apartment rather than a villa. That's what grown ups do. And when we got there they said they'd upgraded us to a penthouse. Woo hoo! We had two floors! Two fridges! Two toilets! Two balconies! And one of them had a sauna on it!

We went to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise and threw ourselves down chutes and rapids. We went to the spa and covered ourselves in ice and mud. We got up stupidly early on Sunday and went to a yoga class. We hung out in the sunshine looking at the giant redwoods, watching moorhens and making the most of being able to get hot enough to lie out reading the paper in the nip in the middle of March.

I feel, as the Lizard would say, clean and serene. It's a little like Pontins meets the Truman Show meets Disneyland, but sometimes it makes sense to suppress one's inner snob.

joella

I wish I never saw the sunshine*

Yesterday was getting on for balmy. I wanted to lie in the sun singing songs all day like my life had just begun.

But today... today I fought the hail and the hail won. Who needs microdermabrasion when you have a 20 minute downhill bike ride at the end of the day? If I hadn't been glowing inside with scaffolding tower construction achievements (only mildly offset by the fact that plumbing S and I were the only ones they thought it important to get photographic evidence of) I might have abandoned my bike to Blackbird Leys and called a cab. As it was I fell in the door and shook ice out of my hair straight into my drink.

I have an A4 b&w print out of our photo. Plumbing S, sitting cross-legged atop the tower, looks sultry and like something out of Flashdance. I am swinging off the cross-strut support at ground level looking more like a special needs child in an adventure playground. We are both wearing hard hats which are about four sizes too big -- we pointed out that having a hat falling over your eyes and donking you on the nose probably impedes safety rather than the reverse (and we also pointed out that nobody else had even looked at the hats, never mind worn them) but... as I remember from my limited building site experience, in this world you really do need to choose your battles, and you really do need to make the most of the sunshine that comes your way.

And so, on reflection, I am glad for all the sunshine I have seen, both real and metaphorical.

joella

*on re-reading, I realised this title assumes you know the next line of the (Beth Orton) song, which goes "'cause if I never saw the sunshine, then maybe I wouldn't mind the rain". Which you may not, but if you don't, I recommend it. It's perfect for singing on a wet bicycle.

T.E.S.C.O.

(In subversive Ottowan stylee)

It is T, gargantuan
It is E, ubiquitous
It is S, inescapable
It is C, unethical
It is OoooooooooOOOOOOOOHHHHoooooooooooHHHHHH

I hate Tesco as an entity, but they bring stuff to my door. And better than that, they usually bring me something I didn't quite ask for, but which is just weird enough to add value to an experience which would otherwise feel a little dirty.

Example 1: last time. Last time, we got double everything except the refrigerated goods. What added value was a) that we didn't have to pay double and b) that M (who received the order) thought it was perfectly within the bounds of possibility that I might have ordered 32 toilet rolls and 24 litres of fizzy water. It was only when he unpacked two tins of mustard powder that he suspected something might be amiss.

Example 2: this time. The delivery man (preternaturally cheerful) assured us the order was all present and correct. And it was, except we had three packets of Knorr Minestrone instead of three of Knorr Chicken Noodle (acceptable error, if annoying), and... thirteen random limes.

Why limes? Why 13? Why did the man (who independently reminded us both of M's ex's on again off again boyfriend) suggest we check our order 'just in case'?

Are we part of something bigger and more surreal?

Oh I do hope so.

joella

Happy Pi Day

One of my colleagues congratulated another of my colleagues today on her fine use of circles on a flip chart. Especially appropriate, she said, as today is Pi Day. What on earth is Pi Day? Why does Pi have a day? I thought these things briefly, but the conversation moved on, and I forgot all about it.

Later on I lay on the sofa talking to M. We discussed cold water cisterns and Sufism - possibly the only household in the land to manage this particular combination, and that's probably no bad thing. But either of these topics is more engaging than compiling a Tesco's list and deciding whether to order online or go there IRL. Desperate for distractions, I caught sight of a copy of Pi on the shelf.

It's Pi Day today, I said.
What's that?
I have no idea.

[mathematician thinks]

Ah, he said. It's American.
What?
3/14. Pi.
Right.

[non mathematician thinks]

We should have our own, like Mother's Day, on the 31st of, oh. Damn.

Later again (after doing virtual Tesco's - I would do virtual Co-op if they did virtual, I really would) I wikipedia'd it and saw that he was right. However I shall choose instead to mark Pi Approximation Day, which is the more pleasing 22/7.

joella

New bathroom colour scheme

Walls: harvest fruits 5



Woodwork and boxing: woodland fern 2



Pipes and radiator and shelves and cupboard: rock candy 3



I am particularly taken with Rock Candy, and very impressed with M that he has embraced the use of such a spectacularly girly colour. It's like Barbie lite.

The floor will be rubber, in a colour called 'Proton'



When it's all done I will a) probably have permanent rock candy and woodland fern highlights, and b) almost have forgiven Tony the plumber for doing such a thoughtless heartless job.

joella

Roe vs Wade = choosing life

I don't think my politics get any less radical as I get older, but I do keep quieter about them. I often think about why this is.

Some of the reasons are good ones, involving acknowledgement that life is complicated and messy; that compromise does not necessarily equal weakness (and may often in fact equal strength); that reality, frankly, bites.

But some of them are bad ones... involving a reluctance to stand up and be counted. Who's got time for all those difficult conversations? Let's instead talk about organic veg delivery miles and the latest Web 2.0 mash ups. We can debate our unease at our successful middle class post-modernity and everyone's a winner.

M stepped out of that box the other week, when he got up early to go on the Pro-test march in support of Oxford University's new animal testing facility. Ten (fifteen?) years ago, I'd have been on the opposing march. This time, I stayed in bed, to avoid arguments. I used to be black and white on this, now I'm grey. I felt confused, in the way that I felt confused when millions marched against the war in Iraq and I didn't. I profoundly disagreed with my boyfriend, but not so profoundly that I'd stand on a barricade when he would. How uncomfortable.

So it has come as some relief to realise that there are still some things, or at least one thing, that I *would* chain myself to a railing for. And that one thing is a woman's right to choose to have an abortion.

I cannot believe what has just happened in South Dakota. I cannot believe that Roe vs Wade is under threat. I cannot believe that the land of the free is potentially about to remove such a hard won freedom from the daughters and grand-daughters of the women who fought for it. In short, I cannot believe that religious fundamentalism has gained such a freakish stranglehold on the USA. It will be its downfall, mark my words.

You bunch of fuckers.

So in the face of such medieval recidivism, I feel I ought to front up. I'm not pro-abortion. I don't believe anyone is pro-abortion. I have never had an abortion myself (mostly down to assiduous use of contraception and, latterly, choice of vasectomised partner, partly down to luck), but I know many women who have, and I don't believe any of them did it lightly. It's not a light thing. It shouldn't be a light thing. It should be a last resort thing. But it's a resort that needs to be there.

Take it away and you are saying to women that a bunch of cells has more rights than they do. I don't buy that. The life that's already happening has the right to decide what happens. To have it otherwise isn't valuing life, it's devaluing it.

And let's not forget that unwanted pregnancies, carried to term, might become unwanted children. What kind of start in life is that? What kind of life is that full stop? I don't know if I completely buy the link, but a few years ago two US academics produced a paper pointing out that crime rates in the US dropped significantly about 18 years after abortion was legalised.

Finally, and more pragmatically, take legal abortion away and you don't stop abortion happening, you just make it more difficult and more dangerous.

So. Hope those rednecks come to their senses soon. Rant over.

joella

This house needs a bean bag

Sometimes I want to lie by the fire. There's a rug, but it's not in any way squishy. Sometimes I want to lie on the floor in the middle room where the big speakers are and make the most of what I am reliably informed is called the 'sound stage'. There's no rug, just a paltry collection of cushions. (And a rug wouldn't work in there, because we wheel bikes through it every morning).

What we need is a bean bag. Portable, comfy, adolescent. I had a bean bag in my life from age 10ish to age 30-odd. I revised for my A-levels on a bean bag. I wrote my university essays on a bean bag. I had my late 20s crisis on a bean bag. What am I doing without a bean bag in my life now?

joella

Go Go! Team!

Go! Team hand stamp plus woodwork primer
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Oh I did enjoy the Go! Team (beware nasty Flash) at Brookes last night. They were better than I thought they were going to be, which is quite remarkable as I am often disappointed by Brookes gig experiences. It's a rubbish venue, all pillars, pinch points and bad acoustics. No excuse, given that it's purpose built.

But it was top jumpy up and down stuff, particularly a new track called Ice Storm. I can't wait to get my hands on that.

Even better, the support band (some fun-loving Australians called The Grates, I believe) were unexpectedly fantastic.

So my only gripe was the bloody hand stamp, which has proved harder to get off than the paint I was covered in half an hour before leaving the house. I woke up this morning with a blue circle on my inner thigh (must have slept all curled up last night) which I can't get off either.

So all in all quite adventurous for a frosty Sunday. And that's without my strange gig etiquette experience.

A strange Glaswegian tapped me on the shoulder and said "stop leaning on my bird". I pointed out (very politely) that I was standing upright, she was leaning back onto me, and I had nowhere to go, while she had a big space in front of her (that someone had just left -- all around us was otherwise packed). He gestured me into the big space with his head.

I shrugged and moved into it. His bird was right pissed off - I don't think that's quite what she had in mind. But hey, that's what happens when you get your boyfriend to fight your battles for you.

joella

North

North
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

The light is changing. I noticed it last weekend, and even more so today. Must be something to do with the angle of the sun, I guess, but I never did get my head round the physics of the seasons.

I love the light of winter, but there's something incredibly life affirming about the sunshine of early spring. It's sharp without being harsh, and gives dilapidated things a kind of romantic edge that will be gone by May.

joella

they know me so well

I was out with my housemates tonight. We ate mezze, drank white Rioja, talked about, you know, stuff. Work stuff, mostly.

Next week I have to have a significant and difficult conversation with my manager. I received comradely advice from them both.

K recommended trying a phrase she had just picked up on a training course: "I don't want to give you the impression that I'm in any way dissatisfied, but there are a couple of points I'd like to raise."

Tactical. I'll remember that.

M said: "I'd try and avoid using the words 'you bloody fucker'."

Top strategic advice all round.

joella

And your point *is*?

It was never going to be easy tonight. Most women can work out what's going on when you keep walking into things a la Sideshow Bob, dropping things on your foot, spilling coffee down yourself and randomly coming over all sweary and tearful, but you won't be able to play the be-gentle-with-me-I'm-premenstrual card in plumbing class for several decades yet.

Plumbing S was a star, and guided me through a range of health and safety assessments. What's wrong with this power drill? What do you use a junior hacksaw for? What kind of extinguisher do you use to put out a wood shavings fire near a fuse box? Why are threads on LPG hoses left handed? What personal protective equipment do you need when using a jigsaw?

The final bit was a test to see if you can solder without burning a hole in the board you've clamped your pipework to. Friendly K gave us some tips on heating from the side and avoiding solder blobs. And I did a beautiful job, if I say so myself.

B the teacher looked it over, blew down it to see if it leaked, and said 'wow Jo, you're getting to be better at this than the boys!'. The look he got said 'and your point IS?', but he wasn't looking, he was signing my assessment form. When he looked up, I was smiling like a lobotomy patient and shuffled off without a word. Even in this state, I find it pays to pick your battles.

The upside was the bike ride home. Normally, it's mildly terrifying negotiating the infamous Blackbird Leys chicane (put in to slow the joyriders down, allegedly), and I mutter 'please don't kill me please don't kill me' through gritted teeth all the way to Temple Cowley. But tonight I would have taken on any boy racers stupid enough to try and cut me up.

I wonder if I'll make it to the menopause?

joella

When the night is cold, some get by but some get old

Is it spring or isn't it? It's dark, there's snow on the ground, and I am sitting by the fire drinking whisky in a bleak premenstrual haze. So on that evidence I would side with the traditionalists and say no, there must be at least three more weeks of winter to go.

Earlier on, in an attempt to avert utter self-loathing, I did switch off the television set and do something less boring instead. This happened to be switching on 6Music just in time to hear Beth Orton's 'I wish I never saw the sunshine', possibly my defining song of 1998 (not my finest year). I shed a little tear and felt a little bleaker. M's son T came round to pick up his birthday presents. I opened the door, kissed him hello and said 'Hmm. 28. Difficult age'. He must wonder what sort of nutter his father lives with.

But then later, post a divine bottle of red wine shared with housemates over rice penne with chilli, broccoli, anchovies and pine kernels (hot, salty, comforting and good for you), I was left alone in the living room with only a Nick Drake documentary and some crackling logs (from sustainably managed woodland of course) for company.

And what fine company it was. If you'd asked me, I'd have said I'd had enough Nick Drake documentaries for one lifetime, but I'm glad you didn't because then I might not have heard the strains of so many beautiful songs right at a time when I needed them. I almost never listen to Nick Drake because it's such a bittersweet experience for me, like taking the pressed flowers of teenage dreams out of the book where they've been safe all this time and seeing how the colours have faded and the pages have stained.

But there's something hopeful and cathartic about doing that, as well as something sad. And sad is fine too. Let the fresh air in, feel what's there to be felt, add it to everything else that helps to feel the next thing.

So by this argument, I'm with the new kids on the block. Spring is sprung. Or at least springing.

joella