I discovered today by accident that NGO X now has a blogging policy. It states that you should tell your manager if you "already have a personal blog, website or social network page which indicates in any way that you work for [NGO X]".
Bugger. Here I have been carefully self-regulating all these years, but now we have OfBlog. I think I'm caught out by that "in any way". You would not need to be Inspector Morse to work out who I am and where I am a 0.6FTE.
The policy goes on to say, in essence and inter alia, that I must not say anything "potentially offensive" on my blog about anyone else who works for NGO X. Even if in-my-personal-view-and-not-that-of-my-employer it happens to be bang on.
Theoretically, I've done that. As in, there is someone who might theoretically get to joella and theoretically recognise herself and theoretically be offended. So I need to pare. I think they'll let me get away with saying that the lightbulbs in the New Building gave me a headache, but I should probably cleanse certain other references before I present myself for inspection.
I have a feeling that edited-and-republished posts appear as new in certain RSS readers, so bear with me if you get a lot of sanitised old stuff popping up.
Part of me thinks it's fair enough, another part knows that there ain't no justice.
joella
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Quaking in my pyjamas
I haven't been sleeping well recently. I put this down to Lent -- I decided to give up drinking at home. I've since modified this to giving up drinking at home unless we've got company, which isn't really on a par with fasting in the wild, but it's still sufficiently ascetic to make me feel pleased with myself. Oh hang on, it's not about that is it? Arse.
Anyway, a side-effect is sporadic insomnia. My anticipatory anxiety remains undulled, no matter how much camomile tea I drink, and all the things that might go wrong with my world creep around my head, releasing occasional squirts of adrenaline which send me downstairs to check the doors, self-censor blog entries, make sure I'm not overdrawn. If I have a plumbing job the next day, my imagination floods houses and falls out of lofts. Which is all very tiring.
On Monday night I took half a Temazepam from my secret stash. This is left over from the Dark Days, when I would drink enough to get to sleep but *still* wake up in the night full of rage and helplessness. Anticipating the inconsistent was pointless, but that never stopped me trying. But Temazepam is wonderful. You go to sleep without a care in the world, and, even better, you wake up in a benign universe. I guess some people feel like this all the time. They are probably morning people.
I don't do this very often though, as a benzodiazepine habit is the last thing I need. And engaging with one's anxiety is an important way of managing it. So I went to bed last night clean and serene, read a few pages of the new Screwfix catalogue. I turned the light off and lay there for a while thinking of power tools and listening to the darkness, and finally began to drift off.
And then the mirror leaning up against the chimney breast started banging. It felt like the roof rippled. I sat bolt upright, and M woke up with a start. What was that?
I think it was someone running across the roof, I said. Or an earthquake.
He went back to sleep, in the 'nothing we can do about it now' sort of way that he has. I lay there for another half an hour, waiting to be burgled or for the house to fall down around me.
I thought the former was more likely, but it turned out to be the latter. I've never felt an earthquake before. Now I've got something else to keep me awake at night. Maybe I'll go to the pub tonight.
joella
Anyway, a side-effect is sporadic insomnia. My anticipatory anxiety remains undulled, no matter how much camomile tea I drink, and all the things that might go wrong with my world creep around my head, releasing occasional squirts of adrenaline which send me downstairs to check the doors, self-censor blog entries, make sure I'm not overdrawn. If I have a plumbing job the next day, my imagination floods houses and falls out of lofts. Which is all very tiring.
On Monday night I took half a Temazepam from my secret stash. This is left over from the Dark Days, when I would drink enough to get to sleep but *still* wake up in the night full of rage and helplessness. Anticipating the inconsistent was pointless, but that never stopped me trying. But Temazepam is wonderful. You go to sleep without a care in the world, and, even better, you wake up in a benign universe. I guess some people feel like this all the time. They are probably morning people.
I don't do this very often though, as a benzodiazepine habit is the last thing I need. And engaging with one's anxiety is an important way of managing it. So I went to bed last night clean and serene, read a few pages of the new Screwfix catalogue. I turned the light off and lay there for a while thinking of power tools and listening to the darkness, and finally began to drift off.
And then the mirror leaning up against the chimney breast started banging. It felt like the roof rippled. I sat bolt upright, and M woke up with a start. What was that?
I think it was someone running across the roof, I said. Or an earthquake.
He went back to sleep, in the 'nothing we can do about it now' sort of way that he has. I lay there for another half an hour, waiting to be burgled or for the house to fall down around me.
I thought the former was more likely, but it turned out to be the latter. I've never felt an earthquake before. Now I've got something else to keep me awake at night. Maybe I'll go to the pub tonight.
joella
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Growing up
In a perfect world, no one would have step-children. Or, to look at it the other way, step-parents. It's a side-effect relationship, and it's almost always a side-effect of something the step-children wish hadn't happened and the step-parents wouldn't have chosen.
But these things happen in the real world, and I've had step-children for getting on a decade now. They've never lived with us, so they probably wouldn't define themselves as such, but that's how I see them.
It's been up and down, with generally more up than down, so I can't really complain. I know people who've had it a lot worse. As they get older, and as I get older, it gets easier. There are times when it's a lot of fun. Two out of three of them are now older than I was when I got together with their father, and I figure that must help.
But this is still one of the few areas of my life where I am deliberately non-confrontational -- anyone who's a step-parent knows that they are skating on thin ice, and the water underneath is very cold. Recently, and with one of them in particular, I sense warmer undercurrents of acknowledgement. I appreciate these a lot, but I suspect they might still disappear in a blinding flash and a puff of green smoke if the wind changed. See how I write about it in rubbish mixed metaphors? Mind you, it's only recently I've dared write about it at all.
However. M's eldest is about to turn 30. I was in several minds (there are few situations that can generate more than two, but this is one of them) about whether I should go to his party -- we're invited, but so, obviously, is his mother, and there is pretty much no one I would less like to encounter in a social situation.
So I was vacillating, but you can't say these things. But when we saw him today he suggested, unprompted, that we arrive after 8 if we wanted to avoid scary X (he doesn't call her that, I hasten to add).
Wow, I thought, that is a grown up thing to do. I guess I should celebrate the arrival of my step-children into adulthood, and get over some of the things they did and said before they got there.
joella
But these things happen in the real world, and I've had step-children for getting on a decade now. They've never lived with us, so they probably wouldn't define themselves as such, but that's how I see them.
It's been up and down, with generally more up than down, so I can't really complain. I know people who've had it a lot worse. As they get older, and as I get older, it gets easier. There are times when it's a lot of fun. Two out of three of them are now older than I was when I got together with their father, and I figure that must help.
But this is still one of the few areas of my life where I am deliberately non-confrontational -- anyone who's a step-parent knows that they are skating on thin ice, and the water underneath is very cold. Recently, and with one of them in particular, I sense warmer undercurrents of acknowledgement. I appreciate these a lot, but I suspect they might still disappear in a blinding flash and a puff of green smoke if the wind changed. See how I write about it in rubbish mixed metaphors? Mind you, it's only recently I've dared write about it at all.
However. M's eldest is about to turn 30. I was in several minds (there are few situations that can generate more than two, but this is one of them) about whether I should go to his party -- we're invited, but so, obviously, is his mother, and there is pretty much no one I would less like to encounter in a social situation.
So I was vacillating, but you can't say these things. But when we saw him today he suggested, unprompted, that we arrive after 8 if we wanted to avoid scary X (he doesn't call her that, I hasten to add).
Wow, I thought, that is a grown up thing to do. I guess I should celebrate the arrival of my step-children into adulthood, and get over some of the things they did and said before they got there.
joella
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Cherry Lips
I got a little bag of goodies from my sister for Christmas. It was mostly Fairtrade stuff for the kitchen, and very nice too, but the real gem was glowing red at the bottom of the bag. It was a packet of Cherry Lips.
I've never been a sweet lover, but I adore Cherry Lips. I haven't seen them for years, since the Chocolate House in Lytham, where I used to buy them, turned into a discount perfumery or something equally pointless. They are part of my adolescence, hard and red and perfumed and impractical. They jam your jaws together, get stuck in your teeth and taste like soap. A bag of them lasts for months, as evidenced by the fact that I'm only about halfway through this lot and we're nearly out of winter.
It's like chewing on a little bit of the 1980s. It's the Ashes to Ashes soundtrack in my mouth. Weird.
joella
I've never been a sweet lover, but I adore Cherry Lips. I haven't seen them for years, since the Chocolate House in Lytham, where I used to buy them, turned into a discount perfumery or something equally pointless. They are part of my adolescence, hard and red and perfumed and impractical. They jam your jaws together, get stuck in your teeth and taste like soap. A bag of them lasts for months, as evidenced by the fact that I'm only about halfway through this lot and we're nearly out of winter.
It's like chewing on a little bit of the 1980s. It's the Ashes to Ashes soundtrack in my mouth. Weird.
joella
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Emerging, blinking
Right, said BJ the on-site plumbing assessor, I can see you've got your safety boots and kneepads on, but do you have a first aid kit with you? Oh yes! I replied, nodding vigorously like the dog in the Churchill adverts.
My first aid kit contains: tampons, hand cream, Lemsip, lip balm, and plasters (the bright blue waterproof kind: if I cut myself I like people to notice), but luckily he didn't actually ask to see it.
Shall we go upstairs? I said.
I was being assessed on the refit of the bathroom in the house of Plumbing S. Theoretically, we were doing it together, but in practice, once we'd got the old one out the plumbing was mine and the sawing up of floorboards and extra pair of hands was hers. It was more stressful than I expected: there were some unexpected surprises (not of the good kind, there are never good surprises in plumbing), and the basin had to be re-piped in mains as they drink it in the night. Don't drink tank-fed water, people, unless you know your tank complies with current regulations. This one hasn't been touched since oooh, the mid 70s? Think dead bat. Think fungus.
The deal was that she got her bathroom fitted for the cost of new copper so I could remake more pipework than you would normally bother with (to be assessable the pipework had to be taken back to one hot and one cold pipe entering the room) and agreeing to take lots of 'evidence' photos of me (here's Jo tightening an isolation valve! Here she is with her blowtorch! Here she is drilling a hole with ear defenders on!). I got J the plumber to come and give me reassurance (he is technically overseeing all this anyway), and do the cutting into the mains bit, I was too scared even though I shouldn't have been.
Plumbing S was anxious, which made me more anxious. I don't think she thought we could do it. But we could. Nonetheless, I was still bricking it when BJ the assessor turned up on Tuesday morning. What if he spotted that my fire extinguisher was for the wrong kind of fire? What if he saw that we'd notched away a bit of one of the floorboards to make up for the fact that the WC feed was a bit proud of one of the joists? What if you're not allowed to use flexi tap connectors? What if he checked the bath with a spirit level and saw it was just over the line?
He stood in the middle of the room, looked around, and asked me a couple of questions about continuity bonding and back-siphoning. Then he said, well, this looks great. You can be very pleased with this. He sounded, if anything, mildly surprised, but in a happy to be surprised sort of way. And he went off downstairs to do his paperwork while we carried on fitting the toilet.
There was no stopping me after that, and it was all done by the end of the day (well, all the plumbing, there's still tons of other stuff to do), freeing me up for a lovely evening in the lovely Cricketers with some lovely men.
I'm still tired, though. Takes it out of you, this plumbing lark.
joella
My first aid kit contains: tampons, hand cream, Lemsip, lip balm, and plasters (the bright blue waterproof kind: if I cut myself I like people to notice), but luckily he didn't actually ask to see it.
Shall we go upstairs? I said.
I was being assessed on the refit of the bathroom in the house of Plumbing S. Theoretically, we were doing it together, but in practice, once we'd got the old one out the plumbing was mine and the sawing up of floorboards and extra pair of hands was hers. It was more stressful than I expected: there were some unexpected surprises (not of the good kind, there are never good surprises in plumbing), and the basin had to be re-piped in mains as they drink it in the night. Don't drink tank-fed water, people, unless you know your tank complies with current regulations. This one hasn't been touched since oooh, the mid 70s? Think dead bat. Think fungus.
The deal was that she got her bathroom fitted for the cost of new copper so I could remake more pipework than you would normally bother with (to be assessable the pipework had to be taken back to one hot and one cold pipe entering the room) and agreeing to take lots of 'evidence' photos of me (here's Jo tightening an isolation valve! Here she is with her blowtorch! Here she is drilling a hole with ear defenders on!). I got J the plumber to come and give me reassurance (he is technically overseeing all this anyway), and do the cutting into the mains bit, I was too scared even though I shouldn't have been.
Plumbing S was anxious, which made me more anxious. I don't think she thought we could do it. But we could. Nonetheless, I was still bricking it when BJ the assessor turned up on Tuesday morning. What if he spotted that my fire extinguisher was for the wrong kind of fire? What if he saw that we'd notched away a bit of one of the floorboards to make up for the fact that the WC feed was a bit proud of one of the joists? What if you're not allowed to use flexi tap connectors? What if he checked the bath with a spirit level and saw it was just over the line?
He stood in the middle of the room, looked around, and asked me a couple of questions about continuity bonding and back-siphoning. Then he said, well, this looks great. You can be very pleased with this. He sounded, if anything, mildly surprised, but in a happy to be surprised sort of way. And he went off downstairs to do his paperwork while we carried on fitting the toilet.
There was no stopping me after that, and it was all done by the end of the day (well, all the plumbing, there's still tons of other stuff to do), freeing me up for a lovely evening in the lovely Cricketers with some lovely men.
I'm still tired, though. Takes it out of you, this plumbing lark.
joella
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Camillas in the mist
Oooh, it was spooky walking down Cowley Road last night. I was off to see the Oxford Improvisers performing a take on the Orpheus myth -- something they really should have kept for Valentine's Day, as it was delightfully bleak.
The streetlights were huge in the mist, but their light was swallowed before it hit the ground. It was murky and mysterious at ground level, and people were swallowed by the night as quickly as they appeared.
And then I saw them: stilettoes and bare legs, posh coats and expensive hair, scattered across the pavement in a spindly flock, in their own fog of smoke and perfume and yah and wow. They weren't moving for anyone.
So I turned up my collar, turned up It's Hard to be a Saint in the City, and marched straight through the middle of them.
Not an endangered species, sadly.
joella
The streetlights were huge in the mist, but their light was swallowed before it hit the ground. It was murky and mysterious at ground level, and people were swallowed by the night as quickly as they appeared.
And then I saw them: stilettoes and bare legs, posh coats and expensive hair, scattered across the pavement in a spindly flock, in their own fog of smoke and perfume and yah and wow. They weren't moving for anyone.
So I turned up my collar, turned up It's Hard to be a Saint in the City, and marched straight through the middle of them.
Not an endangered species, sadly.
joella
Monday, February 11, 2008
Bright and not so bright young things
On the one hand, there was the young man who works in Jessops camera shop. My four year old IXUS 400 packed up recently, and while it doesn't have the bin-with-a-line through it mark on it, its replacement does. So I thought I would take it back to the place where I got it and see if they knew what to do with it.
The young man who works in Jessops camera shop said he was sorry, but this branch of Jessops wasn't able to take cameras for recycling. But, he said, he was going to London soon and he knew a shop there that would take them, so he'd take it there for me if I wanted.
I wanted. I thanked him very much indeed, and left the shop feeling warm inside. A little goodwill goes a long way, and his took me very nearly all the way home.
But then on the other hand there are my braying, gormless, charmless student neighbours. Just after they left for Christmas, I found our wheelie bin stuffed with what I presumed was their surplus rubbish, as theirs was overflowing. I took it all out and chucked it into their front garden (for the very good reason that the bin wouldn't be emptied for nearly a fortnight, and where the fuck were we supposed to put *our* rubbish in the meantime?) but did feel slightly guilty in case it wasn't them.
When I got home today, our wheelie bin had two black binliners jammed into it, neither of which was ours. I hauled one of them into the house and we poked gingerly through the detritus, at least 50% of which should have been in a green or blue box rather than the bin anyway, until I found half a bank statement, which proved conclusively that it was indeed Caroline (or one of her charming housemates) who had decided again that our bin was at their disposal.
We wrote them a note, asking them to cease and desist, pointing out that a) they can order a bigger bin if they want one and b) they could always try recycling a bit more, and dumped their bags on their doorstep.
I hate them. I know it's a waste of hatred, but I can't help it. They should have enough A-levels between them to work out what goes in which bin and when it's going to be collected. Guidance is freely available in Simple English and any other language you care to mention.
Meanwhile, I now have Caroline's home address (her house has a name, not a number, naturally), sort code and bank account number. As she dumped it in my bin on my property, I probably didn't break any laws obtaining it. It's very tempting to set up a chunky standing order to Friends of the Earth, a la Jeremy Clarkson. It is so tempting that I'm blogging it to stop me doing it. But if anyone's feeling similarly malevolent, be my guest.
joella
The young man who works in Jessops camera shop said he was sorry, but this branch of Jessops wasn't able to take cameras for recycling. But, he said, he was going to London soon and he knew a shop there that would take them, so he'd take it there for me if I wanted.
I wanted. I thanked him very much indeed, and left the shop feeling warm inside. A little goodwill goes a long way, and his took me very nearly all the way home.
But then on the other hand there are my braying, gormless, charmless student neighbours. Just after they left for Christmas, I found our wheelie bin stuffed with what I presumed was their surplus rubbish, as theirs was overflowing. I took it all out and chucked it into their front garden (for the very good reason that the bin wouldn't be emptied for nearly a fortnight, and where the fuck were we supposed to put *our* rubbish in the meantime?) but did feel slightly guilty in case it wasn't them.
When I got home today, our wheelie bin had two black binliners jammed into it, neither of which was ours. I hauled one of them into the house and we poked gingerly through the detritus, at least 50% of which should have been in a green or blue box rather than the bin anyway, until I found half a bank statement, which proved conclusively that it was indeed Caroline (or one of her charming housemates) who had decided again that our bin was at their disposal.
We wrote them a note, asking them to cease and desist, pointing out that a) they can order a bigger bin if they want one and b) they could always try recycling a bit more, and dumped their bags on their doorstep.
I hate them. I know it's a waste of hatred, but I can't help it. They should have enough A-levels between them to work out what goes in which bin and when it's going to be collected. Guidance is freely available in Simple English and any other language you care to mention.
Meanwhile, I now have Caroline's home address (her house has a name, not a number, naturally), sort code and bank account number. As she dumped it in my bin on my property, I probably didn't break any laws obtaining it. It's very tempting to set up a chunky standing order to Friends of the Earth, a la Jeremy Clarkson. It is so tempting that I'm blogging it to stop me doing it. But if anyone's feeling similarly malevolent, be my guest.
joella
Disaster averted
There was an ominous silence this morning where Woman's Hour should have been. They tried a couple of times and then put on some strange jazz, the kind of thing they probably have to hand in case the Queen dies or to play during the four minute warning. 'Help!' I shouted down to M. 'Women have been taken off the airwaves!'
Yes, he shouted up. We have taken over. Stay in your bedroom and await further instructions.
Luckily, by the time he came up with my fried egg, it was all ok again.
joella
Yes, he shouted up. We have taken over. Stay in your bedroom and await further instructions.
Luckily, by the time he came up with my fried egg, it was all ok again.
joella
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Stories from the country, stories from the sea
When we'd got our bearings in rural Lancashire (ie we'd discovered the Village Pub's Golden Best and the Village Shop's butter pie) we took ourselves out and about. On the sunniest day, we climbed Parlick and got blown along the top for an enjoyable hour or so. We drove up to the Nick of Pendle and got blown around up there for a while too.
The next day M tried to persuade me to go for a bike ride. I got as far as getting all my stuff on and going out to unlock my bike, but then I came back in and said sorry mate, I'm not cycling in horizontal hail. So we went to the seaside, where we walked down the front in the horizontal hail instead. It was a novel experience for M (check out the hair!), but I remember my school days in Blackpool, where schoolmate S and I were once literally blown off our feet outside the Wimpy.
There was an impressive sand drift (how do they get the sand back where it came from?), and we bravely fought our way off the beach and into the Honey Tree restaurant. During our main course, the friendly Hong Kong Chinese waiter came over and said "are you tourists?".
Well, yes, I said. Where are you from? he asked. Oxford, I said. That was a strange moment, feeling less at home in Lancashire than a man from the other side of the world.
After lunch the hail picked up again, so we took refuge in the best second hand bookshop in the North (or possibly anywhere). We raided our respective special interest shelves (mine being the Virago one, naturally), and we got ourselves blown back to the car and away.
And the next day we *did* go cycling in the hail. Well, it only started on the way back, and it was more snow with chips of ice in it than serious hail, but it was still enough to make me cry. However, surviving it gave us licence to spend our final afternoon in the Village Pub. Golden Best is only 3.5%, so you can drink a fair amount of it as your hair steams dry in front of a peat fire.
I can't recommend the Forest of Bowland highly enough, should your tastes run to a thousand shades of green, a thousand shades of brown, and a nice pint of mild in a friendly pub. A part of me (more sizeable after all the butter pies) can't imagine needing anything else. And there I was thinking I was 100% city girl.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Eww!
I have just done a Bad Thing by accident. I feel the need to confess. Blame my nun-sprinkled childhood, or blame my anxiety that my Firefox history will be stolen along with my identity and printed on the Guardian Women's Page and everyone will think I went looking. But I didn't.
It came about because I got some money for my birthday from my parents. I spent it on clothes from Gudrun Sjoden, being as how a) I love some of her stuff, b) I can't normally afford it but c) as well as having birthday money, there was a sale on.
I got a wraparound cardigan, which is the most grown up item of clothing I've ever had and which is lovely. I got some trousers, which are itchy and too big and going back. I got some little shoe-boot things, which already look like they were born on my feet, and, on a whim, I got a pair of black-with-greeny-blue-diamonds-on tights.
I bought the tights in L, which is my top-half Gudrun Sjoden size, but, it turns out, not my bottom half size. These tights, from waistband to toe, are about as long as my whole body. I thought they might be specially designed to stretch sideways, so I gave them a go anyway. They look great as long as I am holding a fistful of fabric halfway up each thigh, but basically, there's no getting away from the fact that these tights are getting on for a foot too long.
I'd worn them, so I couldn't send them back, so I figured my options were
a) Sell them on eBay
b) Give them away to a taller person
c) Cut off the tops and turn them into stockings
d) Cut off the bottoms and turn them into leggings
Gudrun Sjoden stuff sells really well on eBay, in fact that is how I came by my favourite summer skirt, but a lot of it is BNWT (probaby as it's all mail order in the UK so easy to buy something that doesn't really work for you but which you don't get round to sending back) and I wasn't sure there was a market for already-worn tights. So I went to have a look.
MISTAKE! You would not *believe* the market for already-worn tights. The more worn the better, if you get my drift. The first ad I saw stated that the tights were 'nearly worn through on the knees' and I thought 'but why would anyone want...'
Oh.
And I've learnt a new bit of jargon, which is obviously to keep eBay happy: these ads are at pains to state that tights are 'gently laundered' before posting. Very gently, I suspect. So gently you would hardly know it.
I won't be selling my used tights on eBay. The fact that they are clean as a whistle (I left them in the machine for the 95 degree maintenance wash in a vain attempt to shrink them) and more Nora Batty than Linda Lovelace wouldn't do much for my feedback.
Back to the list of options then. Anyone know a 6'4" woman?
joella
It came about because I got some money for my birthday from my parents. I spent it on clothes from Gudrun Sjoden, being as how a) I love some of her stuff, b) I can't normally afford it but c) as well as having birthday money, there was a sale on.
I got a wraparound cardigan, which is the most grown up item of clothing I've ever had and which is lovely. I got some trousers, which are itchy and too big and going back. I got some little shoe-boot things, which already look like they were born on my feet, and, on a whim, I got a pair of black-with-greeny-blue-diamonds-on tights.
I bought the tights in L, which is my top-half Gudrun Sjoden size, but, it turns out, not my bottom half size. These tights, from waistband to toe, are about as long as my whole body. I thought they might be specially designed to stretch sideways, so I gave them a go anyway. They look great as long as I am holding a fistful of fabric halfway up each thigh, but basically, there's no getting away from the fact that these tights are getting on for a foot too long.
I'd worn them, so I couldn't send them back, so I figured my options were
a) Sell them on eBay
b) Give them away to a taller person
c) Cut off the tops and turn them into stockings
d) Cut off the bottoms and turn them into leggings
Gudrun Sjoden stuff sells really well on eBay, in fact that is how I came by my favourite summer skirt, but a lot of it is BNWT (probaby as it's all mail order in the UK so easy to buy something that doesn't really work for you but which you don't get round to sending back) and I wasn't sure there was a market for already-worn tights. So I went to have a look.
MISTAKE! You would not *believe* the market for already-worn tights. The more worn the better, if you get my drift. The first ad I saw stated that the tights were 'nearly worn through on the knees' and I thought 'but why would anyone want...'
Oh.
And I've learnt a new bit of jargon, which is obviously to keep eBay happy: these ads are at pains to state that tights are 'gently laundered' before posting. Very gently, I suspect. So gently you would hardly know it.
I won't be selling my used tights on eBay. The fact that they are clean as a whistle (I left them in the machine for the 95 degree maintenance wash in a vain attempt to shrink them) and more Nora Batty than Linda Lovelace wouldn't do much for my feedback.
Back to the list of options then. Anyone know a 6'4" woman?
joella
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Public Footpath
We had a lovely time on holiday in Lancashire. I knew the Forest of Bowland was beautiful, I went there on a school trip or two, but I didn't really know how beautiful, what kind of beautiful.
We got some good tips from Tim and Beth, who came over to help us check out the local pub, which turned out to have a bottle of raspberry Sambuca with our names on it. Who'd have guessed? I was topping up after an indulgent family birthday lunch at the Inn at Whitewell (which I heartily recommend, should you be passing, though it does have a touch of the hunting lodge about it) so didn't take much persuading, but I was impressed at the fortitude of my companions on what was, for them, a school night.
I was woken just after 7am not, as I'd half expected, by one of them falling out of the bunk beds or down the insanely steep stairs, but by a rumbling that shook the whole cottage. My first thought was that Tim must have a seriously noisy electric toothbrush, but it turned out to be next door doing some early morning hoovering. They like to keep things tidy up there. I left a warning in the Visitors Book.
That day didn't amount to much, being mostly spent rehydrating in the miniature bathroom and finishing the sensationistly-named but actually Very Good Emergency Sex And Other Desperate Measures. Once normal service was resumed we visited the churchyards, the War Memorial, the Post Office (who kindly offered to get us the Guardian in), the Village Shop (who already knew where we were staying -- M said 'wow, do you know our names?' and she said 'no, never asked'), the chair factory, and the local cafe, which I have in my mind as the Cobbled Cob, though that can't really be its name. Between the last two, we took our first Public Footpath, which was basically a right of way across a bog.
It's not dry round here is it, said M. Ha! I said. Things can only get wetter.
joella
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Rum flavoured pie burps
I am coming to the end of a week's holiday in Lancashire. It's been right windy and I've had no sniff of web access. But it's also been mighty fine, and more details will follow, ice and snow permitting... joella
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The sun is out, the sky is blue...
... and I am sitting in a little room at the top of a tall house with the curtains closed typing about it. I am overly mediating.
M and I are two thirds of the way Up North and stopped last night in to see C and Wire the dog. We experienced the finest curry in Cheshire (probably) plus a rollicking live set in the pub next door afterwards. "Pulled into Nantwich, was feeling 'bout half past dead"... Cracking.
But we are feeling very much alive, specially after the Staffordshire oatcakes. And it's onwards to (hopefully sunny) Lancashire. Not sure what connectivity options there will be, so I have set my brain to receive birthday greetings telepathically.
joella
Monday, January 21, 2008
Gonna use it up, gonna wear it out...
The above is my New Year's Resolution, though it's possibly more important or indeed urgent that I shake my body down.
It's a good resolution, being a) aligned with the zeitgeist and b) something I haven't got much choice about, as my personal finances are bumping along the bottom at present. That's a year of working three days a week without drinking noticeably less for you.
I've been doing the use it up part for a while already. I'm managing well on one giant bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner (ok, so I buy my hair stuff at Neals Yard, so not the cheapest, but that's not *quite* what this is about) at a time, which I carefully decant into smaller bottles for the shower, for swimming and for travelling. I am also running three simultaneous tubes of moisturiser, but I bought them on a 3 for 2 and I got the 2 on my Boots Advantage card points, so that was £75 of facial product on the back of years of previous feckless purchasing. Go me!
And there's something very satisfying about using stuff up. It's going well in the kitchen too, though I did chuck out a rock hard box of Aunt Bessie's pancake mix the other day. I am not sure who bought it, but I suspect it was someone who doesn't live here anymore.
Wearing things out can also be very pleasing. I have worn out my pillowcases! I've never done that before. I've also worn out my orange pyjamas. I've never done that before either. (This gives some indication of how much time I spend in bed, which also needs to be addressed, but one thing at a time). But I think my underwear drawer took my resolution too literally, as in no time at all after I'd made it holes appeared in pretty much everything.
There was nothing else for it: I had to Go Bra Shopping. Fortunately, I had some M&S vouchers lurking in my wallet for just such an occasion, so I girded my loins and headed for the lingerie department.
My word, buying bras is a whole different prospect these days. Last time I did it seriously, they were all still in boxes, with the little cups on the top of the display and the big ones on the bottom. I shared gloomy looks of solidarity with other large breasted women as we crawled round on the floor scrabbling for that elusive E cup that didn't look like it was designed in Soviet Russia.
It's all changed. Racks of multicoloured flimsiness stretch into the distance. A disturbing amount of it could have been tagged 'slutty', and an astounding proportion of the bras were padded, even the big ones, but I persevered, and emerged from the changing rooms with four suitable garments, two very comfortable, and two slightly less comfortable but presentable enough to be worn under things that might show them a bit.
Given Jeremy Paxman's complaints about the quality of M&S underwear (and the hundreds of people who seem to agree with him), I wonder how long it will take me to wear these ones out.
joella
It's a good resolution, being a) aligned with the zeitgeist and b) something I haven't got much choice about, as my personal finances are bumping along the bottom at present. That's a year of working three days a week without drinking noticeably less for you.
I've been doing the use it up part for a while already. I'm managing well on one giant bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner (ok, so I buy my hair stuff at Neals Yard, so not the cheapest, but that's not *quite* what this is about) at a time, which I carefully decant into smaller bottles for the shower, for swimming and for travelling. I am also running three simultaneous tubes of moisturiser, but I bought them on a 3 for 2 and I got the 2 on my Boots Advantage card points, so that was £75 of facial product on the back of years of previous feckless purchasing. Go me!
And there's something very satisfying about using stuff up. It's going well in the kitchen too, though I did chuck out a rock hard box of Aunt Bessie's pancake mix the other day. I am not sure who bought it, but I suspect it was someone who doesn't live here anymore.
Wearing things out can also be very pleasing. I have worn out my pillowcases! I've never done that before. I've also worn out my orange pyjamas. I've never done that before either. (This gives some indication of how much time I spend in bed, which also needs to be addressed, but one thing at a time). But I think my underwear drawer took my resolution too literally, as in no time at all after I'd made it holes appeared in pretty much everything.
There was nothing else for it: I had to Go Bra Shopping. Fortunately, I had some M&S vouchers lurking in my wallet for just such an occasion, so I girded my loins and headed for the lingerie department.
My word, buying bras is a whole different prospect these days. Last time I did it seriously, they were all still in boxes, with the little cups on the top of the display and the big ones on the bottom. I shared gloomy looks of solidarity with other large breasted women as we crawled round on the floor scrabbling for that elusive E cup that didn't look like it was designed in Soviet Russia.
It's all changed. Racks of multicoloured flimsiness stretch into the distance. A disturbing amount of it could have been tagged 'slutty', and an astounding proportion of the bras were padded, even the big ones, but I persevered, and emerged from the changing rooms with four suitable garments, two very comfortable, and two slightly less comfortable but presentable enough to be worn under things that might show them a bit.
Given Jeremy Paxman's complaints about the quality of M&S underwear (and the hundreds of people who seem to agree with him), I wonder how long it will take me to wear these ones out.
joella
Monday, January 14, 2008
Losing my Cherry
No, not *that* cherry. I've already covered that. *This* Cherry:
The good looking one is my sister. The big red one is Cherry. The one with 'who let her walk the streets with that hair' hair is me, aged 23. The balloons are celebrating my return home from a year's backpacking with my Significant Ex.
I missed my family. I missed my friends. I missed my dog. And I missed my 2cv. I missed other things, like big jumpers and hot baths and pints of beer, but these were the important things I missed.
I got my 2cv when I was 18 and I sold her when I was 32. And Charlie is absolutely spot on (see comments on previous post) to link this with my newfound desire for a Tata Nano.
I loved that car far more than was healthy. In the time I had her, she received a new roof, a new chassis, a new front bumper, new kingpins (whatever they are), two new wheels, new seat belts (in the front: there were none in the back), a new floor, multiple new exhausts and tyres, endless new spark plugs and handbrake pins and god only knows what else. By the end I was sourcing parts off the internet and carrying them carefully down to the endlessly patient Oxford French Car Centre to be welded into place.
The windscreen wipers had two speeds: on and off. The maximum speed I ever managed was 75mph (or thereabouts - the needle was juddering against the end of the dial so it might have been faster, there was just no way to tell), downhill on the middle lane of the M6 screaming my lungs out. The lights were hopeless, and prone to flickering, especially in the rain, when the tape deck would also slow down as water dripped through it. At such times, I would be thankful for the rusted through parts of the floor, as they provided valuable drainage.
In the winter, you got nowhere without a can of WD40 and an ability to judge the precise combination of choke and accelerator required to avoid a) flattening the battery or b) flooding the engine. I once had to ask a policeman for a jump start in the car park of a motorway service station. It was 6am and I was wearing a T-shirt that said 'Trust me, I'm a condom'.
I always carried fuses for the lights (actually, only once the brake-light, headlight and indicator fuses had blown and my Significant Ex and I had to drive 10 miles in thick fog with him hanging out the passenger window shouting directions and me using 'slowing down now!' hand signals), the aforementioned jump leads, a torch, a big fluorescent waterproof and a telescopic wrench for getting the wheel nuts off. I had cause to use them all. The anxiety was lessened a bit once I got a mobile phone and could afford to join the RAC. A lovely man came out to me once when my accelerator cable jammed on the A34 -- I had to pull off the road with Cherry roaring like a stuck pig and I was a bit embarrassed, but he said he loved coming out to 2cvs because he could always fix them. He emerged from his van with a spring that looked like he'd nicked it off an anglepoise lamp, and I was on my way.
An article in the Times stated that they were the least safe car on the road. This prompted my only ever letter to a national newspaper, where I pointed out that at least in a 2cv you know you're not safe, so you drive accordingly, while your Jaguar/Volvo/Saab owner (these were the days before the invasion of the 4x4 bodysnatchers) is far more likely to drive like a twat because s/he feels invincible. So who's safer there, then? Huh? If we all drove 2cvs, I concluded, the world would be a better place.
And you know, when it comes down to it, despite the fact that I offer silent thanks to the car I now drive (M's 10 year old Mercedes A Class) every time the heavens open (or the wind blows or the frost bites or the motorway stretches out endlessly before me) for being so comfortable, so reliable, so unlikely to break down or blow up or kill or maim me in some unpredictable way, so *likely* to get me from A to B without incident, basically, a large part of me still believes the conclusion of that letter.
If you own a 2cv, and especially if you drive it in anger, you rely on the goodwill of humanity. I loved that about it even as I found it terrifying. But I also loved the romance of entry-level motoring: you, your tunes, alone with your thoughts or your boy by your side or a car full of friends, with the roof off (does the Tata Nano come in convertible?), the tape deck up to 11 because you'll never hear it otherwise, rolling cigarettes at red lights, groaning up hills, swooping down them, finally getting what they're on about when they talk about the open road. The fact that you're only a wing and a prayer away from getting the bus home makes that freedom taste all the sweeter, and the fact that most people simply can't see the point of that is the cherry on top. That's not why I called her Cherry though. That was just her name, as soon as I set eyes on her.
The Tata Nano is the closest thing to living that dream I've seen in a long time, though the Smart Car came pretty close before it went all kitsch. I like to think I haven't moved on into mid-life crisis car territory (for girls I think this probably equals MG or new-style Mini or Beetle) -- but the fact that the only other thing I have looked longingly at recently is J the plumber's ancient Land Rover is kind of reassuring.
Who knew I had that much to say about cars? I certainly didn't.
joella
The good looking one is my sister. The big red one is Cherry. The one with 'who let her walk the streets with that hair' hair is me, aged 23. The balloons are celebrating my return home from a year's backpacking with my Significant Ex.
I missed my family. I missed my friends. I missed my dog. And I missed my 2cv. I missed other things, like big jumpers and hot baths and pints of beer, but these were the important things I missed.
I got my 2cv when I was 18 and I sold her when I was 32. And Charlie is absolutely spot on (see comments on previous post) to link this with my newfound desire for a Tata Nano.
I loved that car far more than was healthy. In the time I had her, she received a new roof, a new chassis, a new front bumper, new kingpins (whatever they are), two new wheels, new seat belts (in the front: there were none in the back), a new floor, multiple new exhausts and tyres, endless new spark plugs and handbrake pins and god only knows what else. By the end I was sourcing parts off the internet and carrying them carefully down to the endlessly patient Oxford French Car Centre to be welded into place.
The windscreen wipers had two speeds: on and off. The maximum speed I ever managed was 75mph (or thereabouts - the needle was juddering against the end of the dial so it might have been faster, there was just no way to tell), downhill on the middle lane of the M6 screaming my lungs out. The lights were hopeless, and prone to flickering, especially in the rain, when the tape deck would also slow down as water dripped through it. At such times, I would be thankful for the rusted through parts of the floor, as they provided valuable drainage.
In the winter, you got nowhere without a can of WD40 and an ability to judge the precise combination of choke and accelerator required to avoid a) flattening the battery or b) flooding the engine. I once had to ask a policeman for a jump start in the car park of a motorway service station. It was 6am and I was wearing a T-shirt that said 'Trust me, I'm a condom'.
I always carried fuses for the lights (actually, only once the brake-light, headlight and indicator fuses had blown and my Significant Ex and I had to drive 10 miles in thick fog with him hanging out the passenger window shouting directions and me using 'slowing down now!' hand signals), the aforementioned jump leads, a torch, a big fluorescent waterproof and a telescopic wrench for getting the wheel nuts off. I had cause to use them all. The anxiety was lessened a bit once I got a mobile phone and could afford to join the RAC. A lovely man came out to me once when my accelerator cable jammed on the A34 -- I had to pull off the road with Cherry roaring like a stuck pig and I was a bit embarrassed, but he said he loved coming out to 2cvs because he could always fix them. He emerged from his van with a spring that looked like he'd nicked it off an anglepoise lamp, and I was on my way.
An article in the Times stated that they were the least safe car on the road. This prompted my only ever letter to a national newspaper, where I pointed out that at least in a 2cv you know you're not safe, so you drive accordingly, while your Jaguar/Volvo/Saab owner (these were the days before the invasion of the 4x4 bodysnatchers) is far more likely to drive like a twat because s/he feels invincible. So who's safer there, then? Huh? If we all drove 2cvs, I concluded, the world would be a better place.
And you know, when it comes down to it, despite the fact that I offer silent thanks to the car I now drive (M's 10 year old Mercedes A Class) every time the heavens open (or the wind blows or the frost bites or the motorway stretches out endlessly before me) for being so comfortable, so reliable, so unlikely to break down or blow up or kill or maim me in some unpredictable way, so *likely* to get me from A to B without incident, basically, a large part of me still believes the conclusion of that letter.
If you own a 2cv, and especially if you drive it in anger, you rely on the goodwill of humanity. I loved that about it even as I found it terrifying. But I also loved the romance of entry-level motoring: you, your tunes, alone with your thoughts or your boy by your side or a car full of friends, with the roof off (does the Tata Nano come in convertible?), the tape deck up to 11 because you'll never hear it otherwise, rolling cigarettes at red lights, groaning up hills, swooping down them, finally getting what they're on about when they talk about the open road. The fact that you're only a wing and a prayer away from getting the bus home makes that freedom taste all the sweeter, and the fact that most people simply can't see the point of that is the cherry on top. That's not why I called her Cherry though. That was just her name, as soon as I set eyes on her.
The Tata Nano is the closest thing to living that dream I've seen in a long time, though the Smart Car came pretty close before it went all kitsch. I like to think I haven't moved on into mid-life crisis car territory (for girls I think this probably equals MG or new-style Mini or Beetle) -- but the fact that the only other thing I have looked longingly at recently is J the plumber's ancient Land Rover is kind of reassuring.
Who knew I had that much to say about cars? I certainly didn't.
joella
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Inside information
As I am a) a bit geeky and b) a bit anxious, I read P&HE Magazine from cover to cover. It's more interesting than you might think. No really, it is.
So I knew about this baby scalding case a while ago. The mainstream reporting on it is a bit wonky, which is understandable, as what happened (or at least what the plumbing industry body thinks happened) is a little complex to explain.
But let me try, in case you have a water storage cistern in your loft and a small child (or a large child, or yourself) in a bedroom under it and this story has worried you.
The water was not heated in the loft, but, like most stored hot water, in a hot water cylinder, probably in an airing cupboard. Most hot water cylinders have two ways of heating the water. The main way is via a coil, which circulates hot water from the gas boiler, but for back up or top up there is an immersion heater, which is powered by electricity and works much like a kettle element. You turn on the immersion heater and the water heats up until it reaches a certain temperature, when the thermostat turns it off.
If there is no gas then there might just be an immersion heater. This is a pretty expensive way to heat water, especially if the cylinder isn't well insulated, but it does happen quite a lot.
Cylinders heated in either of these ways are vented. As the water heats, it expands, and there is a pipe up into the loft space to allow for expansion. This ends over a cold water storage cistern (tank). This cistern generally stores water for the cold taps, though these can also be fed directly from the mains, and also feeds cold water into the hot water cylinder as hot water is drawn off via the hot taps. If steam rises up the pipe, it will condense and drip into the cold water cistern. But cold water is being replaced all the time as hot or cold water is used, so that water should stay pretty cold.
Unless the immersion heater is on and the thermostat fails. In which case, over time, that water will get hotter and hotter. The water in the cylinder will boil, go up the vent pipe, condense into the cistern, more water will be drawn into the cylinder from the cistern, and it will go round and round. In extreme circumstances, if no water is drawn off (which would bring cold water into the cistern from the mains), the whole system could reach scalding temperature.
Which is obviously potentially lethal. *However* even if that happened, if your storage cistern is compliant with the Water Regulations, which stipulate what material it should be made out of, what type and size of platform it should be sitting on, and what kind of covering it should have, then it should not fail in the way that this one did. This one was apparently on too small a platform, and was overlapping its edges. This doesn't matter if it's not hot, but once the water heated up, the plastic warped and the whole thing flipped, with dreadful consequences for the baby sleeping underneath it.
So, brothers and sisters. Don't ignore a dodgy thermostat, is the easiest thing to do. And make sure your plumber isn't like some of the guys on my course, who didn't write their names on the front of their copies of the Water Regs to make it easier to sell them on when the course was finished. You know, like doctors sell their anatomy books. They'll never need *them* again, right?
Just felt I needed to say that.
joella
So I knew about this baby scalding case a while ago. The mainstream reporting on it is a bit wonky, which is understandable, as what happened (or at least what the plumbing industry body thinks happened) is a little complex to explain.
But let me try, in case you have a water storage cistern in your loft and a small child (or a large child, or yourself) in a bedroom under it and this story has worried you.
The water was not heated in the loft, but, like most stored hot water, in a hot water cylinder, probably in an airing cupboard. Most hot water cylinders have two ways of heating the water. The main way is via a coil, which circulates hot water from the gas boiler, but for back up or top up there is an immersion heater, which is powered by electricity and works much like a kettle element. You turn on the immersion heater and the water heats up until it reaches a certain temperature, when the thermostat turns it off.
If there is no gas then there might just be an immersion heater. This is a pretty expensive way to heat water, especially if the cylinder isn't well insulated, but it does happen quite a lot.
Cylinders heated in either of these ways are vented. As the water heats, it expands, and there is a pipe up into the loft space to allow for expansion. This ends over a cold water storage cistern (tank). This cistern generally stores water for the cold taps, though these can also be fed directly from the mains, and also feeds cold water into the hot water cylinder as hot water is drawn off via the hot taps. If steam rises up the pipe, it will condense and drip into the cold water cistern. But cold water is being replaced all the time as hot or cold water is used, so that water should stay pretty cold.
Unless the immersion heater is on and the thermostat fails. In which case, over time, that water will get hotter and hotter. The water in the cylinder will boil, go up the vent pipe, condense into the cistern, more water will be drawn into the cylinder from the cistern, and it will go round and round. In extreme circumstances, if no water is drawn off (which would bring cold water into the cistern from the mains), the whole system could reach scalding temperature.
Which is obviously potentially lethal. *However* even if that happened, if your storage cistern is compliant with the Water Regulations, which stipulate what material it should be made out of, what type and size of platform it should be sitting on, and what kind of covering it should have, then it should not fail in the way that this one did. This one was apparently on too small a platform, and was overlapping its edges. This doesn't matter if it's not hot, but once the water heated up, the plastic warped and the whole thing flipped, with dreadful consequences for the baby sleeping underneath it.
So, brothers and sisters. Don't ignore a dodgy thermostat, is the easiest thing to do. And make sure your plumber isn't like some of the guys on my course, who didn't write their names on the front of their copies of the Water Regs to make it easier to sell them on when the course was finished. You know, like doctors sell their anatomy books. They'll never need *them* again, right?
Just felt I needed to say that.
joella
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Come into the garden, Maud
It's been interesting being upfront about my grown up UTI. When I was a child my teachers were more embarrassed than I was about my special toilet paper and special need to go to the water fountain. Special needs were something to be ashamed of. Some of that rubbed off on my young adult self, but not that much: I could tell you which of my friends had an STD, an eating disorder, a spotty back, or an unplanned pregnancy in their late teens (not that I *would* tell you, of course) -- nobody advertised these things, but you needed someone to bear witness to them. A problem shared really was a problem halved, so long as you chose the right person to share it with.
But something happens as you get older. Maybe it's that you feel the things that go wrong with your body or your life are more your own fault, maybe it's that we retreat into couples and talking outside that feels disloyal or inappropriate, maybe we just embarrass more easily at signs of our own flaws or fallibility.
I don't know what it is. But I decided not to make a secret of the reason I was so Very Pissed Off over New Year, and it was a great decision. I have had a tremendous outpouring of sympathy and empathy (mostly, but not exclusively, from women), plus some interesting prophylactic advice.
And if you give, you get. I had a hilarious exchange today with a friend who first offered urinary tract solidarity, and then asked for my opinion on bikini line management, prompted by the fact that hers is receiving close attention for the first time in a while.
It depends what you're dealing with, I said. And what he expects to be dealing with -- I know mores change on these things, that's why I go out with someone from the 1970s. No, he's cool, she said, he's at the Capability Brown end of the spectrum rather than the Zen garden end. But there are limits. We're talking rainforest here.
Fair enough, I said, and offered the phone number of the lovely E, who for the last 10 years has been in charge of removing what body hair I ask to be removed while diplomatically passing no comment on the rest.
But I was very taken with the idea of Capability Brown pubic hair. Seemingly natural but in fact carefully designed. I shall pretend that's what I'm up to from now on.
joella
But something happens as you get older. Maybe it's that you feel the things that go wrong with your body or your life are more your own fault, maybe it's that we retreat into couples and talking outside that feels disloyal or inappropriate, maybe we just embarrass more easily at signs of our own flaws or fallibility.
I don't know what it is. But I decided not to make a secret of the reason I was so Very Pissed Off over New Year, and it was a great decision. I have had a tremendous outpouring of sympathy and empathy (mostly, but not exclusively, from women), plus some interesting prophylactic advice.
And if you give, you get. I had a hilarious exchange today with a friend who first offered urinary tract solidarity, and then asked for my opinion on bikini line management, prompted by the fact that hers is receiving close attention for the first time in a while.
It depends what you're dealing with, I said. And what he expects to be dealing with -- I know mores change on these things, that's why I go out with someone from the 1970s. No, he's cool, she said, he's at the Capability Brown end of the spectrum rather than the Zen garden end. But there are limits. We're talking rainforest here.
Fair enough, I said, and offered the phone number of the lovely E, who for the last 10 years has been in charge of removing what body hair I ask to be removed while diplomatically passing no comment on the rest.
But I was very taken with the idea of Capability Brown pubic hair. Seemingly natural but in fact carefully designed. I shall pretend that's what I'm up to from now on.
joella
Monday, December 31, 2007
That was the year that was
I spent an hour waiting to see the doctor this morning, probably contracting a fair few new infections from the festering antechamber in the process. But he was delightfully sympathetic ("Oh dear! Poor you! Bad luck!") and wrote me a prescription for highly specific antibiotics, which I carted off to Boots just as fast as my ragged urethra would allow. God bless the NHS, I thought, as I climbed gingerly onto the bus home. It's wonky, but it's saved my life on a couple of occasions and my quality of life on countless others. If your urino-genital system is, shall we say, sub-prime, you could live in a lot worse places.
I am, however, consigned to the sofa for the duration of New Year's Eve, wrapped in a blanket and watching the fire. So I have an unusually timely opportunity to reflect.
In photos:
January: Elephant riding, Kerala. February: Snowdrops, Christ Church Meadows. March: Luminox, Broad Street.
April: Pebbles and sea, Westward Ho! May: Baby Tungsten, our garden. June: Cow parsley, Thrupp.
July: M on the jetty, Lytham. August: Road sign, Cowley Road. September: Wire waiting for Charlie, Chatsworth.
October: No Entry, Harcourt Arboretum. November: At home. December: Recovering from shopping, St Michael's St.
Happenings of note:
Must not forget life's great continuities: old and new friends, front crawl (not enough of that, mind), OX4, FY8, too much booze, inner fury, good food, Evening Primrose Oil, a lovely boyfriend, a roof over my head, a town where they know what I'm like and don't mind.
To paraphrase my favourite toast, may the worst years of our lives be like this one.
joella
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Shake your UTI
Marvellous. I have a urinary tract infection. That will serve me right for enjoying myself.
When I was a child, I had a gazillion of these. Nobody knows why. I had my own little box of soft toilet paper that I kept in my tray at primary school, thus saving me from the shiny stuff that was printed 'Lancashire County Council. Now wash your hands please'. That was a bonus. Less of a bonus were various operations, months and months of antibiotics, and a steady stream of doctors poking around 'down there', but I'm sure it all contributed to my enduring fascination with water generally and toilets in particular.
I haven't had a UTI for years, though. I know exactly what to do to avoid one (look it up on NHS Direct if you need to know, but if you need to know you probably already do know) and I am usually pretty good at it. I blame the inflaming sambuca. Still, a New Year's Eve based on cranberry juice and no sudden movements won't do me any harm.
joella
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