frisson of excitement

You know that frisson of excitement you get when you find that card on your doormat expressing sorrow that you weren’t in and advising you leave 24 hours before collecting it? And how quickly the thought of what great things it might be (a box of wine, Olympics tickets, an advance copy of the new Martin Amis) turns to bitter disappointment when you trek all that way to the sorting office to find:

• One of those devices your energy supplier is giving away free that measures how much electricity you are using at a given time.
• The tomato seeds you ordered from the Suttons catalogue. That’s your weekend ruined planting them.
• A replacement part for a broken appliance.
• Groupon vouchers for a sushi-making class you bought online when you were a bit drunk.
• An eBay purchase that’s not in as tip-top condition as the seller claimed.
• Any type of eco lightbulb.

Worse is when it’s not even a package at all but merely something you need to sign for – minutes of a meeting you weren’t interested in attending in the first place, a new chequebook, a decree nisi…

“The way I understand it, the Russians are sort of a combination of evil and incompetence… sort of like the Post Office with tanks.” Emo Philips

 

i have a fan

I have a fan. It’s very exciting. I was under the impression that hardly anyone read my blog, and then out of the blue I received a ‘comment’.  Although I realize that my initial assertion is probably still correct. 

“Love your blog and found it completely by chance while dribbling over Rachel Khoo flat/accessories/life. You made me laugh out loud with your ten things… – but why so few blogs – are you lazy? Anyway, I don’t usually write messages like this, but I can tell you have a fragile ego so I thought you might like it. I see that I have to include my email address here (you’d better not be a psycho).” 

If my fan is reading this, I would like to say a big thank you, as you brighten my Friday! After reading the comment I got to thinking about why I haven’t written more often, and you are indeed correct I am lazy! Also a few others things: 

1 – I’m probably a little boring, my life evolves around lunches, brunches and suppers. Choosing lamps and thinking about the durability of rugs. Being in the studio, thinking about colours, print and getting everything done – in a 70 hour work week. 

2 -  I am not in the make my own bread, source the perfect carrot, see the must see exhibitions, write about it all bandwagon. I buy my bread form Paul’s. I have carrots delivered, they sit in the veg draw and eventually I throw them away. I go to private views, mainly for the bad wine, and rarely remember the work. 

3 – I watch a lot of TV. This doesn’t leave time for writing, especially since getting Sky plus. 

4 – I try not to write about the lives of my friends, which border on the psychotic at times. 

5 – I don’t think people would enjoy a blog about my fear of tradesmen, or how stressful I find the Sainsburys online shop. 

 ”I couldn’t imagine playing someone young now; it would be so boring.” Francesca Annis 

jog on

Smug cyclists have long been the bug bear of pedestrians – thinking that being environmentally friendly absolves them from having to obey red traffic lights or no entry signs. But now it’s joggers. For the record, pulling on Jack Wills  sweats  and puffing round the park every day with your special water bottle with a hole in and your iPod training app might make you fitter than the rest of us, but it doesn’t make you morally superior. It does not give you the right to swear at park users who have the audacity to walk along the footpath you want to run along. It does not mean that crowds in areas designated for pedestrians such as the South Bank or, indeed, pavements, are obliged to part for you, even if it is your lunch hour.

It’s an accident waiting to happen – quite possibly the ‘accident’ of a smogger being gently nudged into oncoming traffic by a pedestrian who just can’t take it any more.

“I don’t excercise. If God had wanted me to bend over, he would have put diamonds on the floor.” Joan Rivers

i want to be rachel khoo!

I want to live Paris, have a tiny impractical kitchen, cheerful clothes and a bright demeanor; in essence I want to be Rachel Khoo. Ironically I was in Croydon yesterday – Khoo’s place of birth: watching the first in the series of her new cookery show ‘The little Paris kitchen’. Fresh indigents, a well stocked array of retro jugs, bowls and pots; who could fail not to fall in love with her.

What makes her most appealing is that for the moment she is just like you and me – in the broadest sense, her accent is unplaceable – yet distinguishably middle class. She does not have a walk-in larder the size of a small bedroom; nip in and out of taxis as if they were the replacement route master, nor casually drop into convo that her ingredients are sourced from around the world trips, rather than around the corner.

She is a cook for a world post-banker bonus, where the new should look old and splashing the cash is somewhat vulgar! Where once a Kensington housewife would have impressed with a Mulberry Alexa, one is now more likely to rave about being a economic vegetarian! 

“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all” 
Harriet Van Horne

 

instantly go blind

There are certain things in life which beg belief, people who vote Liberal Democrat, that delivery people can not give more accurate time slots and that someone would defecate in ones communal stairwell. Living in Central London and after being burgled several times, one becomes hyper-awear of security; locking doors becomes an unbreakable habit. On Tuesday, as with most days I was rushing out of my flat, running late for work and still half asleep. I unlocked the internal door; greeted by a sight so disgusting, I am surprised I did not instantly go blind, or turn to stone. The sight in question? A man passed out in my hallway – a man I did not know; I wish I could say that was the extent of the abomination, alas it was not, the site which should, yet did not take my sight, was a giant shit accompanied by two pools of vomit.

My first thought was that a homeless person had broken into my house, my second thought was that I had closed the door to my flat; and thus the shit, man and I were alone with one another. When panic sets in, a mundane task becomes so difficult, you fear you will never again master it. I thumbled with my keys – trying to get back into the relative safety of home. This seemed to take an age, in which thoughts of Crimewatch reconstructions flashed before me. Which picture will they use in the Pimlico and Belgravia news? Not that horrid graduation one?

Upon successful entrance I raced upstairs and woke my flatmate. As we were deciding on a course of action; I voted that we call the police, and have the intruder arrested, ideally sentenced to a minimum of 5 years imprisonment. (After all if they send people to prison for stealing rice, shitting in Belgravia ought to get one life!) We carefully opened the door: the man had vanished, and indeed if it wasn’t for the shit. I might have thought I imagined the whole ordeal. The emergence of the Police, called by our confused cleaner, soon demonstrated that the incident was in fact very real – and it has since transpired that the homeless vandal, was a guest of the downstairs neighbour - who’s chum was in “London for the first time”, a phrase abounded as if it were justification for the act. Perhaps the next I visit a country I have not jet graced, I will find a spot to dump – although I sincerely doubt it!

qualifying ones existence in fiscal terms

So we all need to tighten our belts! Layer up instead of putting the heating on, fire the cleaner, lose the too posh to wash attitude to our own post dinner party war zone, rewiring our brains so that £18.00 at David Mellor doesn’t seem like such a bargain for a ceramic pot one keeps salt in . One gets a slight buzz at the idea of saving, cutting costs – the only problem is; two months into my new fiscal policy, seems to have resulted in zero cash saving. It’s all about rationalizing – one stays in and justifies a ‘good’ bottle of wine as a reward for such prudence. One goes out, and orders the cheap house white – and marvels at the price, and thus ends up drinking two bottles, and after two bottles of cheap wine all prudence is abandoned in ernest. I can assure you.

Everything I have read of late is about quantifying ones existence in fiscal terms, and identifying where one can cut back. Yes spending close to £15,000 a year on rent could be considered excessive, but what’s the real alternative, move to Peckham? Spending far less on rent but far more on taxis getting home? I long ago abandoned my penchant for organic food. The Kabbalah centre is free, although of course one contributes to the wine, what’s the point in reaching enlightenment if one can’t get jolly doing it.

Yes I could use the library to support my book addiction but I am rather indebted with a large fine (did I mention I am lazy).The only logical way out of it seems to be a change of identity, but as we all know that’s rather an expensive undertaking. I have cut back on clothing, now only shopping twice a year; winter and summer and no longer disposable fashion, which of course costs more in the short-term but saves in the long-term (one has to say this often, like a mantra so that it sinks in, even after your new £200.00 sweater becomes supper to an unfriendly moth).

Cycling to work would be cheaper and a greener alternative to the tube, but as I can’t ride a bike, combined with a complete lack of spacial awareness – this is unlikely. Expensive restaurants have been ditched in favor of cheaper deal oriented establishments – but this seems to encourage more frequency in non-home dinning; and as my mother proclaims “It’s cheaper to eat out than in”. Which is of course complete nonsense, but this is the kind of ideology I am up against. What have I learnt from my fiscal audit? That I am failing to grasp the concept! I wonder if I can pay someone to do it for me!

In the words of Benjamin Franklin “A penny saved is a penny earned.”

ten things I am not good at

1. Saying sorry.

2. Knowing when I have had enough to drink.

3. Any sport.

4. Small talk with strangers.

5. Hiding distain if I don’t like someone.

6. Not being on time.

7. Riding a bike.

8. Going with the flow.

9. Traveling.

10. Keeping the jam out of the butter.