What has my life become? I spent most of today in the company of sheep. I'm not talking in the metaphorical sense here, I'm talking about real, woolly, bleating sheep. I'm shocked and appalled that I'm about to write an entire blog entry about sheep, but I have nothing else in my life these days. Those of you who know me well will know that this sort of thing really isn't my scene, but there aren't any other scenes here, so it's like it or lump it, I'm afraid. Actually, I don't know why I'm defending myself, it's left me feeling rather wholesome. And these things aren't even uncool in Norway.
It's all terribly quaint, the world of sheep, apart from the unfeasible amounts of urine these things seem to produce, usually when one is standing right behind them. I've ruined my running shoes.
At this time of year, you see, the sheep are moved from the field to the common grazing land, which is essentially a mountain. I was enlisted to help in this process (a thinly veiled attempt at shirking by saying that I had some important sections of Gloria Hunniford's autobiography to re-read sadly did not wash).
The ram (Torle, or Jarle as he is called) did not go up the mountain as if he were to encounter another ram he would kill it or be killed himself. Most barbaric. He has been left in the field with one ewe who was ill earlier in the year and thus can't be left in high mountain climes, poor lamb (sorry). Being that she is now the only female left in the field with Torle (or Jarle) she is presumably in for a right old porking, so I worry about the wisdom of leaving her behind, but I'm told there won't be any ramifications (sorry).
Getting sheep up a mountain is no joke, even if you like sheep. One drives half way up the mountain and then herds the sheep the rest of the way to the common grazing land. I was told this area was not right at the top. This is what we call a half-truth. It was about thirty feet from the top, and I made my second encounter with the tree line in as many weeks. So I and the adoptive Norwegian family scrambled up the mountain trying to get the sheep to climb it rather than wander off7stop and eat/stop and pee/stop and poo, mainly by shouting/cooing/clapping at them and/or enticing them in the right direction with (a) slices of stale bread (b) wild, flailing arm gestures and (c) empty threats about Lancashire hotpot and mint sauce. Thankfully they were particularly unfit sheep, as one has to be able to run and overtake them at a moment's notice and if they'd been any quicker the only way I would've left that mountain would have been in a rescue helicopter.
The problem, of course, with enticing sheep, is that once one has enticed them into the common grazing land (which is not fenced in any way) one then has to leave the sheep there. As irony would have it, they are more than happy to gad and skip in all directions when you're trying to herd them, but when you're to leave them somewhere then they try to stalk you the whole way back down. The only solution, then, is to try to give them the slip. This entails everyone standing in a group looking nonchalant and slowly and discreetly peeling off one by one in different directions so that the sheep don't notice you going - not unlike a sketch from a very dull agricultural Carry On spin-off. Then, one scrambles back down the mountain post-haste so that one's cunning escape isn't discovered by any of the wily flock. I did so, so scared of tripping over forwards that I fell over backwards twice, grazing my buttocks. My balance has always been a bit woolly (sorry).
Still, the view was nice. I'm told we've got to pop up there twice a week to check on them, so will provide photographs. I may even take some snaps of the flock, if they're not camera shy - I'm told at times they can be rather sheepish.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
I'm Every Woman
I have not been to Oswald's yet. I have, however, been past it. It looks about as much like an English pub as I look like Chaka Khan. Not only is it in a modern building which looks like some sort of municipal administrative facility, but also it is in the same building as the Synsenteret - the Sight Centre, ie the only optician within a four hundred mile radius. So far I have managed to resist the temptation to saunter up to the bar with a wry smile and say"Two pints of lager and a bottle of saline solution please, love", but I may not be able to for much longer. It is, also, in fact, called Ozvald and not even Oswald's, so sounds neither like a genuine English pub and nor like a nineties wine bar in Romford, which was about it's only other angle of attack in terms of being authentically British. The windows are blacked out so I am unable to check for rattan furniture, but will do so at the first available opportunity.
I have so far managed to shirk the majority of my farm labourer duties and haven't been back on the Volvo tractor. I did fulfil a lifetime ambition and have a go on a ride-on lawnmower, which is something. I'm not sure if I'm the hearty farming type. Everyone else seems to laugh at a little run in with the electric fence or think a tustle with a ram protecting his (rather paltry) flock is all something of a jolly jape and a bit of a giggle. I, however, prefer to keep live electrical railings and virile sheep (it's either called Torle or Jarle, I can't remember which) at a safe distance and hold on to the majority of my body parts, for at least the immediate future.
They're all terribly outdoorsy and fit around here. The problem with beautiful scenery is that it tends to be rather hilly. On the advice of the in-laws I took myself off on a pleasant bike ride around the local area with a view to exploring a bit and generally improving my level of fitness. It was, indeed, very picturesque, but alas it was so strenuous that I had to stop about every ten minutes because I thought I was going to be sick. I went on a pleasant evening stroll on Thursday with similar consequences. Our little jaunt up what I was promised was a small mountain took us above the tree line. I swear I had to step over the corpses of several British people who had not made it.
I have just had a little nap as I am still recovering from the Wedding of the Year. I did my very first heckle ever. What a yobbo I have become. That's being a Brit Abroad for you. Said heckle was directed at the Mother of the Bride. That's champers on tap for you. It was an encouraging heckle, but a heckle nontheless. I might go and have another one. A nap, that is, not a heckle.
I have so far managed to shirk the majority of my farm labourer duties and haven't been back on the Volvo tractor. I did fulfil a lifetime ambition and have a go on a ride-on lawnmower, which is something. I'm not sure if I'm the hearty farming type. Everyone else seems to laugh at a little run in with the electric fence or think a tustle with a ram protecting his (rather paltry) flock is all something of a jolly jape and a bit of a giggle. I, however, prefer to keep live electrical railings and virile sheep (it's either called Torle or Jarle, I can't remember which) at a safe distance and hold on to the majority of my body parts, for at least the immediate future.
They're all terribly outdoorsy and fit around here. The problem with beautiful scenery is that it tends to be rather hilly. On the advice of the in-laws I took myself off on a pleasant bike ride around the local area with a view to exploring a bit and generally improving my level of fitness. It was, indeed, very picturesque, but alas it was so strenuous that I had to stop about every ten minutes because I thought I was going to be sick. I went on a pleasant evening stroll on Thursday with similar consequences. Our little jaunt up what I was promised was a small mountain took us above the tree line. I swear I had to step over the corpses of several British people who had not made it.
I have just had a little nap as I am still recovering from the Wedding of the Year. I did my very first heckle ever. What a yobbo I have become. That's being a Brit Abroad for you. Said heckle was directed at the Mother of the Bride. That's champers on tap for you. It was an encouraging heckle, but a heckle nontheless. I might go and have another one. A nap, that is, not a heckle.
Friday, 5 June 2009
Down on the farm...
As I type, I am sitting in a room with three people, all of them asleep. I am scintillating company, it seems. I join you from Norway having been on some sort of latter day Thelma and Louise-esque flit across continental Europe in a ten year old Peugeot. Brad Pitt didn't take advantage of me and run away with all my money, but there were a couple of close calls.
It has been something of an emotional whirlwind, I can tell you. We went to a fake beach in Amsterdam, a strange hippy commune in the centre of Copenhagen and to an authentique Swedish restaurant in Gothenburg to eat meatballs. They were not like the ones you get in IKEA. The waiter was so hot and blond I almost threw myself at his feet and begged him to whisk me away to a log cabin and take me roughly but tenderly and then to have his babies and do his laundry with a washboard in a pristine mountain stream. Sadly I soon realised that not only am I not capable of producing his babies but also that (a) he was a straight as a Canadian pine and (b) there aren't any mountains in Gothenburg. One can dream, can't one?
You wouldn't believe the breathtaking scenery in Norway as we drove over the mountains. Frozen lakes (yes, in June) snow-capped peaks, signs saying 'beware of elk crossing'. The real deal. It isn't actually very far across Norway but being that the roads are so small and the speed limit so low and the mountains so well, big and numerous, that it took eight hours. I'll say that again. Eight hours. Well. I didn't know what was more numb by the end of it, my buttocks or my brain. One even becomes immune to incredible scenery after eight hours. You could've told me that Barbara Cartland was swimming up the fjord with Orville on her back and I wouldn't have given two hoots, as they say. I shall reserve time to go back to said picturesque mountains and appreciate them at a more leisurely pace.
Norwegians are most odd. They have a tendency to (a) get enthusiastic about extremely plain food (e.g "Hmmmm! Boiled potatoes! My favourite! These are just like my mother makes them! (i.e. no seasoning and not peeled properly so they've still got the black bits in)) and (b) break in to song at every possible opportunity, usually at family lunches or dinners. More often than not it's the House of the Rising Sun or Over the Rainbow. Nobody has done the Mull of Kintyre yet but there is time. The other thing they tend to do, following the age-old maxim of 'there's no such thing as bad weather, just inappropropriate clothing' is (c) get entirely cagged and bagged for even the simplest expedition. I tried to go for a walk in the woods earlier in a pair of canvas trainers and the whole family looked as me as if they were about to make some sort of collective citizen's arrest.
The reason I am not asleep is that I'm giddy with excitement as the prospect of going to the new local English bar later, Oswald's. I am told that this is a modern building which has been kitted out with the traditional English pub essentials and that a slight clash of styles has ensued. I can imagine that they have not managed to recruit a throng of bearded local crustacea to prop up the bar from 11am until 11pm every day, for example. How a hardwearing floral carpet in burgundy and taupe is going to sit against Scandinavian pine cladding and Velux windows, I don't know. How sitting with a pickled egg in one hand and a pork scratching in the other shouting 'Get your tits out, Helga!' at the passing local totty is going to work against the backdrop of crystal clear fjord waters lapping at a shale beach as the waning arctic sun slowly drifts towards the horizon it's hard to say. One could go on. All I know is that it's got to better than the other Norwegian attempt at an English bar I have been to, rather more authenically called The Halfway House. If my memory serves me correctly it had been an apartment and had had a somewhat hasty makeover. It was not unlike one of those IKEA mock-up apartments they have in the corner of the showrooms with a makeshift line of optics in one corner and a couple of beers on draught. There was still a shower fitting in the men's lavatory and the only indication that it was supposed to be English was a collection of postcards displaying shots of famous London landmarks, all of which had been placed in those four-for-99p IKEA photo frames and stuck on the wall. Something of a half-hearted attempt, I'm sure you'll agree. Its one trump card was that some dog rough Glaswegians were present last time I was there, filling in nicely for the local crustacea contingent.
I drove a tractor today and moved some wood on a farm. And dismantled a fence. Well, you know what they say, when in Rome...
It has been something of an emotional whirlwind, I can tell you. We went to a fake beach in Amsterdam, a strange hippy commune in the centre of Copenhagen and to an authentique Swedish restaurant in Gothenburg to eat meatballs. They were not like the ones you get in IKEA. The waiter was so hot and blond I almost threw myself at his feet and begged him to whisk me away to a log cabin and take me roughly but tenderly and then to have his babies and do his laundry with a washboard in a pristine mountain stream. Sadly I soon realised that not only am I not capable of producing his babies but also that (a) he was a straight as a Canadian pine and (b) there aren't any mountains in Gothenburg. One can dream, can't one?
You wouldn't believe the breathtaking scenery in Norway as we drove over the mountains. Frozen lakes (yes, in June) snow-capped peaks, signs saying 'beware of elk crossing'. The real deal. It isn't actually very far across Norway but being that the roads are so small and the speed limit so low and the mountains so well, big and numerous, that it took eight hours. I'll say that again. Eight hours. Well. I didn't know what was more numb by the end of it, my buttocks or my brain. One even becomes immune to incredible scenery after eight hours. You could've told me that Barbara Cartland was swimming up the fjord with Orville on her back and I wouldn't have given two hoots, as they say. I shall reserve time to go back to said picturesque mountains and appreciate them at a more leisurely pace.
Norwegians are most odd. They have a tendency to (a) get enthusiastic about extremely plain food (e.g "Hmmmm! Boiled potatoes! My favourite! These are just like my mother makes them! (i.e. no seasoning and not peeled properly so they've still got the black bits in)) and (b) break in to song at every possible opportunity, usually at family lunches or dinners. More often than not it's the House of the Rising Sun or Over the Rainbow. Nobody has done the Mull of Kintyre yet but there is time. The other thing they tend to do, following the age-old maxim of 'there's no such thing as bad weather, just inappropropriate clothing' is (c) get entirely cagged and bagged for even the simplest expedition. I tried to go for a walk in the woods earlier in a pair of canvas trainers and the whole family looked as me as if they were about to make some sort of collective citizen's arrest.
The reason I am not asleep is that I'm giddy with excitement as the prospect of going to the new local English bar later, Oswald's. I am told that this is a modern building which has been kitted out with the traditional English pub essentials and that a slight clash of styles has ensued. I can imagine that they have not managed to recruit a throng of bearded local crustacea to prop up the bar from 11am until 11pm every day, for example. How a hardwearing floral carpet in burgundy and taupe is going to sit against Scandinavian pine cladding and Velux windows, I don't know. How sitting with a pickled egg in one hand and a pork scratching in the other shouting 'Get your tits out, Helga!' at the passing local totty is going to work against the backdrop of crystal clear fjord waters lapping at a shale beach as the waning arctic sun slowly drifts towards the horizon it's hard to say. One could go on. All I know is that it's got to better than the other Norwegian attempt at an English bar I have been to, rather more authenically called The Halfway House. If my memory serves me correctly it had been an apartment and had had a somewhat hasty makeover. It was not unlike one of those IKEA mock-up apartments they have in the corner of the showrooms with a makeshift line of optics in one corner and a couple of beers on draught. There was still a shower fitting in the men's lavatory and the only indication that it was supposed to be English was a collection of postcards displaying shots of famous London landmarks, all of which had been placed in those four-for-99p IKEA photo frames and stuck on the wall. Something of a half-hearted attempt, I'm sure you'll agree. Its one trump card was that some dog rough Glaswegians were present last time I was there, filling in nicely for the local crustacea contingent.
I drove a tractor today and moved some wood on a farm. And dismantled a fence. Well, you know what they say, when in Rome...
Monday, 18 May 2009
Houmous? Humous? Houmus? Hummus?
I don't do topical rants, not being sufficiently in touch with current affairs. Tom, I leave that to you. I'll tell you something I don't appreciate. the Daily Mail, that's what. Every time I read it I experience either rage, disbelief, or disgust. or all three. It wasn't the usual narrow minded short-sighted hideous bigotry this time, mind you, it was the article about Farah Fawcett, who is, by all accounts, on her death bed.
Now, the public's new-found cancer awareness in the light of the late Jade Goody's demise is no bad thing. It really isn't. But I resent coming across pictures of celebrities drawing their penultimate breath when all I was looking for was the free packet of lavender seeds and the Classical Brits CD which were the only reasons I bought the Mail in the first place (note to self, never be sucked in to Daily Mail purchase by rubbish freebies again). I know Farah is in desperate straits. I was saddened to read about it. What possible benefit is there in seeing a photo? The caption was even something along the lines of 'Farah Fawcett in her Charlie's Angels Heyday, and (inset) on her death bed'. We know what happens when people have incurable cancer. They fight for a while and try to keep going, then they spend months on end lying in bed in hideous agony, then they die. What possible benefit does a picture of a dying Farah confer on anyone or anything, juxtaposed with her blow-dried, roller-brushed 1970s self? None. I feel physically sick. I haven't been able to get it out of my head ever since. Gah.
I've been thinking what I'll miss least about London, besides the Mail. Is it Crest of London souvenir shops? Is it the scent of the 46 fried chicken outlets I walk past on my way home? No, it's the omnipresent pool of sick in the bus stop outside Argos in Shepherd's Bush. The last three times I've been there someone has seen fit to spew copious amounts of what appears to be a melange of strawberry McDonald's milkshake and houmous (is that how you spell it? - the Greek cold garlic porridge gritty sloppy stuff that people started having with dips in 2002 and thought they were very vogue). That particuar spot, outside Bagel Bite, Argos and Exclusive Jewellers (I'll be the judge of that) is the most depressing place in the whole of western civiisation. I've spent many a delightful 25 minutes freezing my knackers off there waiting for the 94 bus, wondering if there is any more to London life than bus trips and pinkish vomit. In a way I understand. I mean, standing outside Argos tests the gag reflex in the best of us, but really, of things I won't miss. that particular pool of vomit is certainly in the top five.
I'm a great believer in the old maxim 'if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all', but we can't all be chipper all of the time, can we?
Now, the public's new-found cancer awareness in the light of the late Jade Goody's demise is no bad thing. It really isn't. But I resent coming across pictures of celebrities drawing their penultimate breath when all I was looking for was the free packet of lavender seeds and the Classical Brits CD which were the only reasons I bought the Mail in the first place (note to self, never be sucked in to Daily Mail purchase by rubbish freebies again). I know Farah is in desperate straits. I was saddened to read about it. What possible benefit is there in seeing a photo? The caption was even something along the lines of 'Farah Fawcett in her Charlie's Angels Heyday, and (inset) on her death bed'. We know what happens when people have incurable cancer. They fight for a while and try to keep going, then they spend months on end lying in bed in hideous agony, then they die. What possible benefit does a picture of a dying Farah confer on anyone or anything, juxtaposed with her blow-dried, roller-brushed 1970s self? None. I feel physically sick. I haven't been able to get it out of my head ever since. Gah.
I've been thinking what I'll miss least about London, besides the Mail. Is it Crest of London souvenir shops? Is it the scent of the 46 fried chicken outlets I walk past on my way home? No, it's the omnipresent pool of sick in the bus stop outside Argos in Shepherd's Bush. The last three times I've been there someone has seen fit to spew copious amounts of what appears to be a melange of strawberry McDonald's milkshake and houmous (is that how you spell it? - the Greek cold garlic porridge gritty sloppy stuff that people started having with dips in 2002 and thought they were very vogue). That particuar spot, outside Bagel Bite, Argos and Exclusive Jewellers (I'll be the judge of that) is the most depressing place in the whole of western civiisation. I've spent many a delightful 25 minutes freezing my knackers off there waiting for the 94 bus, wondering if there is any more to London life than bus trips and pinkish vomit. In a way I understand. I mean, standing outside Argos tests the gag reflex in the best of us, but really, of things I won't miss. that particular pool of vomit is certainly in the top five.
I'm a great believer in the old maxim 'if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all', but we can't all be chipper all of the time, can we?
Gloria in Excelsis Deo
Well, Monday morning. What could be better than the notion that I'm waiting to go in to my land law exam. Sigh. Only moderately shitting a brick. A half-brick, you might say. Four hours of misery. Being a learning support student I am in a different building - in fact in an entirely different area of London to all of the normal people. Worryingly, the room number I'm in is 2:2. Let's hope that's not an indication of what my performance is likely to be.
It's at times like these I look to Gloria Hunniford for guidance and support. I had thought of bringing her autobiography to the exam, but as far as I could see it wasn't in the list of permitted materials. Let's just hope that the fact that I have copied her hairstyle will be enough to get me through any low moments should the question on co-ownership be a challenge.
It's at times like these I look to Gloria Hunniford for guidance and support. I had thought of bringing her autobiography to the exam, but as far as I could see it wasn't in the list of permitted materials. Let's just hope that the fact that I have copied her hairstyle will be enough to get me through any low moments should the question on co-ownership be a challenge.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Ruby Explosion
What a relaxing Easter weekend I had!
A pleasant trip to Cheshire on the train, leafing through a murder mystery paperback, gazing out at rolling pastures and rocky peaks, revelling in the prospect of Easter eggs and roast dinners with a possible country stroll.
I arrived home, crossing the familial threshold, not into my Mother's welcoming bosom, but into a sitting room in complete disarray! All of the furniture oddly crammed into the middle of the room like some sort of Turner Prize entry.
What can be happening, I thought? A spring clean? A 'welcome home Robert ' game of musical chairs? An orgy? All was revealed when my eyes fell upon eight roughly equal squares of paint on the wall by the window, all of which were almost identical shades of cream. Decorating.
Well, I managed to spend Good Friday and most of the Saturday holed up in what I rather pretentiously refer to as the Music Room pretending to study but in fact chatting to Norwegian gays online. Eventually, I could stand neither the suspense nor the Norwegian gays any longer and joined the debate as to precisely which identical shade of cream to go for. My sister joined in, and thankfully can always be relied upon for constructive input. It went something like this.
Mummy: "The buttermilk is too dirty from this angle. It's alright from where you're sitting, but from where I'm sitting it's dirty.
Daddy: "I like the buttercream not the buttermilk."
Mummy: "No, that's too insipid. I'm not sure what you can see from where you're sitting, David, but from where I'm sitting it's insipid."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "I still like Barley Glow."
Robert and Caroline: "That's exactly the same as you've got already!"
Robert: "Why don't you do a feature wall of the buttermilk, and then the buttercream, everywhere else, like in the sample book?"
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!"
Mummy: "No. Not nice. I've seen sitting rooms done up like that. I've been to sitting rooms done up like that. I've sat in sitting rooms done up like that. It wasn't nice."
Robert: "They're both magnolia anyway. Why don't you for for Lunar Falls or Daffodil White, brighten the place up a bit?".
Daddy: (adopts patronising tone) "Because, Robert, they're only available in matt finish I'm not putting bloody matt on, it's a bloody nightmare."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Robert: "But a matt finish is much more contemporary, clean lines and all that. If you're thinking about saleability it's worth going for matt".
Daddy: (adopts tone of rising anger) "I'm not putting bloody matt on."
Robert: "But..."
Daddy: (adopts tone of apoplectic frenzy) "Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you? Do you? Do you?"
Robert: "Not if you're going to speak to me in that tone".
Mummy: "Let's not fall out about this!"
Robert and Daddy: "Too late."
Mummy: "I still think the buttermilk is dirty. What about a feature wall? I like the way they've combined the Ruby Explosion and the Ivory in the sample book."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!. I think the Ruby Explosion is too dark. What about Roasted Red?"
Robert and Caroline: That's exactly the same as you've got already!
Mummy: You'll have to go and get some more samples.
In the end, after two trips to B and Q, which were conducted in stony silence, Ivory was selected with a Mud Hut feature wall. Both of which were my suggestions.
I rest my case.
A pleasant trip to Cheshire on the train, leafing through a murder mystery paperback, gazing out at rolling pastures and rocky peaks, revelling in the prospect of Easter eggs and roast dinners with a possible country stroll.
I arrived home, crossing the familial threshold, not into my Mother's welcoming bosom, but into a sitting room in complete disarray! All of the furniture oddly crammed into the middle of the room like some sort of Turner Prize entry.
What can be happening, I thought? A spring clean? A 'welcome home Robert ' game of musical chairs? An orgy? All was revealed when my eyes fell upon eight roughly equal squares of paint on the wall by the window, all of which were almost identical shades of cream. Decorating.
Well, I managed to spend Good Friday and most of the Saturday holed up in what I rather pretentiously refer to as the Music Room pretending to study but in fact chatting to Norwegian gays online. Eventually, I could stand neither the suspense nor the Norwegian gays any longer and joined the debate as to precisely which identical shade of cream to go for. My sister joined in, and thankfully can always be relied upon for constructive input. It went something like this.
Mummy: "The buttermilk is too dirty from this angle. It's alright from where you're sitting, but from where I'm sitting it's dirty.
Daddy: "I like the buttercream not the buttermilk."
Mummy: "No, that's too insipid. I'm not sure what you can see from where you're sitting, David, but from where I'm sitting it's insipid."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "I still like Barley Glow."
Robert and Caroline: "That's exactly the same as you've got already!"
Robert: "Why don't you do a feature wall of the buttermilk, and then the buttercream, everywhere else, like in the sample book?"
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!"
Mummy: "No. Not nice. I've seen sitting rooms done up like that. I've been to sitting rooms done up like that. I've sat in sitting rooms done up like that. It wasn't nice."
Robert: "They're both magnolia anyway. Why don't you for for Lunar Falls or Daffodil White, brighten the place up a bit?".
Daddy: (adopts patronising tone) "Because, Robert, they're only available in matt finish I'm not putting bloody matt on, it's a bloody nightmare."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Robert: "But a matt finish is much more contemporary, clean lines and all that. If you're thinking about saleability it's worth going for matt".
Daddy: (adopts tone of rising anger) "I'm not putting bloody matt on."
Robert: "But..."
Daddy: (adopts tone of apoplectic frenzy) "Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you want to do it? Do you? Do you? Do you?"
Robert: "Not if you're going to speak to me in that tone".
Mummy: "Let's not fall out about this!"
Robert and Daddy: "Too late."
Mummy: "I still think the buttermilk is dirty. What about a feature wall? I like the way they've combined the Ruby Explosion and the Ivory in the sample book."
Caroline: "They're all bloody awful."
Daddy: "Yes! That's what I've been saying all along!. I think the Ruby Explosion is too dark. What about Roasted Red?"
Robert and Caroline: That's exactly the same as you've got already!
Mummy: You'll have to go and get some more samples.
In the end, after two trips to B and Q, which were conducted in stony silence, Ivory was selected with a Mud Hut feature wall. Both of which were my suggestions.
I rest my case.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Shit shit shitty shitting shit.
Isn't England shit? Well, Britain. Well, the United Kingdom if we're going to split hairs, although I have never been to Northern Ireland and it may not be shit, but I imagine that it is.
You see, I am relatively bright. Not massively bright, but relatively. Alright, I think I'm massively bright but my need to outwardly suggest some degree of modesty made me qualify the brightness statement.
Anyway, I am bright. I am relatively hard-working (that really is relative) and and have been relatively hard-working since I started a paper round when I was thirteen. I have never stopped working since then, in fact. I worked in Littlewoods cafe in Chester (albeit for one day). I worked in Marks and Spencer, where I was attacked with a spade by a violent drunkard whilst manning a Portacabin full of chilled perishables (I shit you not). I worked in Racing Green, an awful clothes shop which never had any customers. I endured levels of boredom which you will never understand. I worked in Pizza Hut, for four years. I worked in a call centre. I worked in a hideous gay bar in York. I worked in Marks and Spencer again, in Wood Green. I worked in the glamorous world of TV. I work in a relatively snazzy law firm, even if my office is still like a doctor's surgery even though we've been here for four months. It even smells like a doctor's surgery.
I have qualifications. A masters degree, no less. I vaguely speak a number of languages. I have life skills - hell, I can even touch type.
And yet, I am still poor. Well, alright, not poor, but not comfortable, either. No prospect whatsoever, for example of buying my own home. Not even a studio. Isn't that shit?
I am the first to admit that I have sometimes made the wrong decisions. Choice of degree, for example. Doing a pointless master's degree, for another example. Yet, I might add, I gave up on all my dreams of being a world class flautist and/or opera singer because of the shitty careers advice at my shitty school (bit of fruitless ancient bitterness creeping in there).
So, what I'm saying, is. I'm 30, I'm relatively bright, I'm relatively hard-working, I still have student debts, I'm still not financially comfortable, I live in a flat that isn't big enough for my stuff and I spend my whole life waiting for the bus with Morrisons shopping bags because I can't afford to go to Waitrose, like some latter-day Shirley Valentine. Even she had nice house, albeit a bit surburban for my tastes.
The point of this uninformed rambling, to coin a phrase, is that this country is shit.
NB - I promised myself I would never use any expletives in this blog, but decided to allow 'shit' to creep into this one.
You see, I am relatively bright. Not massively bright, but relatively. Alright, I think I'm massively bright but my need to outwardly suggest some degree of modesty made me qualify the brightness statement.
Anyway, I am bright. I am relatively hard-working (that really is relative) and and have been relatively hard-working since I started a paper round when I was thirteen. I have never stopped working since then, in fact. I worked in Littlewoods cafe in Chester (albeit for one day). I worked in Marks and Spencer, where I was attacked with a spade by a violent drunkard whilst manning a Portacabin full of chilled perishables (I shit you not). I worked in Racing Green, an awful clothes shop which never had any customers. I endured levels of boredom which you will never understand. I worked in Pizza Hut, for four years. I worked in a call centre. I worked in a hideous gay bar in York. I worked in Marks and Spencer again, in Wood Green. I worked in the glamorous world of TV. I work in a relatively snazzy law firm, even if my office is still like a doctor's surgery even though we've been here for four months. It even smells like a doctor's surgery.
I have qualifications. A masters degree, no less. I vaguely speak a number of languages. I have life skills - hell, I can even touch type.
And yet, I am still poor. Well, alright, not poor, but not comfortable, either. No prospect whatsoever, for example of buying my own home. Not even a studio. Isn't that shit?
I am the first to admit that I have sometimes made the wrong decisions. Choice of degree, for example. Doing a pointless master's degree, for another example. Yet, I might add, I gave up on all my dreams of being a world class flautist and/or opera singer because of the shitty careers advice at my shitty school (bit of fruitless ancient bitterness creeping in there).
So, what I'm saying, is. I'm 30, I'm relatively bright, I'm relatively hard-working, I still have student debts, I'm still not financially comfortable, I live in a flat that isn't big enough for my stuff and I spend my whole life waiting for the bus with Morrisons shopping bags because I can't afford to go to Waitrose, like some latter-day Shirley Valentine. Even she had nice house, albeit a bit surburban for my tastes.
The point of this uninformed rambling, to coin a phrase, is that this country is shit.
NB - I promised myself I would never use any expletives in this blog, but decided to allow 'shit' to creep into this one.
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