moving on

It has been a busy few weeks, but I have now moved out. We took a vast quantity of unwanted belongings to the dump, filling up the car or van on numerous occasions and trailing back and forth. I have also put what little I am keeping into storage, all locked up safe and sound along the road where it shall patiently wait until I am ready to move into the new flat.



It was a long and stressful process, one which has left me covered in bruises but with fabulously strong arms. Although it was sad to leave the old house, home for so long, I have to admit to only occasional twinges when I miss it.

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday, with a meal at the Sukhothai Palace followed by much drinking, debauchery and dancing back at Rosehill. It was a fabulous way to wind down and relax, and despite my tiredness did manage to stay awake until five thirty, when I fell asleep on the sofa.

Today has, naturally, been one of rest. After my brother rose from the depths of unconsciousness just after midday, we sent him home and trotted down to the Park Crescent for a roast. Although near, it was disappointingly either burnt or cold, depending on which area of the plate we were attacking. To make up for this I decided on an afternoon of snoozing, which certainly made up for the lack of gastronomic success. Quietly nestled up on the sofa, I’m settled in for an evening of Spooks and curry and not a box to pack in sight. Glorious!

packed out

I’ve now spent more time around cardboard than I have ever cared to, given myself numerous paper cuts, become smeared in news print and been covered in dust and dirt when clearing out the attic. The house is in a complete state of confusion, with boxes being a feature in every room.

However this didn’t stop me from having a house-cooling party on Saturday. The crowd gathered round to drink lots of wine and chilli beer, talk nonsense and toast the house and the last eight years in it. It was lovely, if a little sad, to sit with those people who have spent the most time there over the years, to look back over the memories and yet be safe in the knowledge that we didn’t spill nearly as much wine as we used to.

Sunday was a day off, I spent the vast majority of it asleep, catching up and letting myself wind down after another stressful week. This evening I will be back to the parcel tape and marker pen, labelling up the boxes. Tomorrow Mum & I will be ferrying things to the tip, and this will hopefully get the vast majority of useless junk out of the house, giving me that much needed light at the end of the tunnel for the end of the week. Only three more days to go and then it's all over.

moving date

My moving-out date is set, 15th September, three days before my birthday. This means that I will be homeless for my birthday, a depressing thought only made bearable by the fact that I will also have a rather large sum of money, for a short while at least.

It’s exciting to have a date but it’s also rather sad, a bitter-sweet pill. I have been saying goodbye to the house for months now, and had one of those lovely solitary weekends where I shut myself away to pack and immerse myself in books. It was glorious to sit there, snuggled up on the sofa with the bears and Josephine Tey, occasionally raising my head to glance out of the window at the grey skies and rain showers.

My mind fell back to the cottage we lived in when I was young, with low square-paned windows looking out over the fields. You could sit and watch the storms brewing in the distance and yet have the warm crackling of the open fire behind you.

But there shall be no more resting for me, there will only be boxes and boxes and farewells before that limbo in between homes. It all seems to have happened so quickly and yet taken such a long time that I am left clutching at nothing but panic and lists, endless lists. I hope it won't be for long.

back on form

A long soak in the bath, the calmness of making soup and an early night with an Agatha Christie certainly did the job. By the time I turned out the light I felt beautifully relaxed. This morning I woke feeling awake for once and back to my normal smiley self. What a relief!

Today is an exciting day, although I didn’t know it when I woke. Today I hear that contracts are being signed on the house, which means that at least one side of my move is going well. I shall have a completion date shortly, and so I aim to spend the weekend packing what I can. I’ve so far trawled the offices and collected a load of boxes to fill with books, clothes and all those other things I’m not going to need for the next few months. (OK, I know I’m going to need books – but not all of them. I shall have to be very firm with myself and only choose a few to take with me, and just go to the library more!)

Next week I should also hear more regarding estimates taken today on my (hopefully) new flat. It is obviously all up in the air at the moment and causing me much stress, mostly because it’s out of my hands. Me? A control freak!? Never! But there is nothing I can do but sit back, wait and cross everything it's possible to cross.

the blue funk

Today is a Wind in the Willows day. I feel as if I want to be curled up on a visit to Mole’s house one dark winters eve.

“The Rat paid no heed to his [Mole] doleful self-reproaches. He was running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles and sticking them up everywhere. `What a capital little house this is!' he called out cheerily.”

I want to be in a capital little house, with bunks and candles, a blazing fire and a parlour. I want duvets a plenty and warm mugs of honey and lemon, home made soup and chunks of bread, still warm from the oven.

Although the weather is gloriously sunny, I feel tired and worn out and know I’ve lost the battle to hold off autumn. I’ve even gone so far as to order a new jumper, and find my thoughts turning to winter as the evenings get darker and the mornings have that inescapable chill. I would be prickly but I’m too dulled for that, and instead just sit looking morose and sorry for myself. I have promised myself an early night, and some homemade soup, and hope that this raises my mood from the doldrums. I do so hate to be glum.

acid brass

Yesterday Tom and I gave up on the idea of a picnic and headed out to Bexhill on Sea and the De La Warr Pavillion to see the Jeremy Deller exhibition. We wandered around the newly renovated building, gazing out at the rain along the coast and marvelling at the "thing" out in the sea which looked rather like an oil platform but wasn't.


After a brief wander for some food and a bit of rock pooling, we headed back for Acid Brass. It started as an experiment that Jeremy Deller set up, whilst sitting in a pub and thinking of the many links between brass bands and acid house music. There was a lovely range of people there, from chaps in their dotage to children dancing about and running back and forth in front of the stage. It didn't take long before the dancing started, with a couple of groups who were determined to relive part of their misspent youth.

I don't think I've ever heard anything quite like it, it was great fun but also quite surreal.

the weekend beckons

With the sunshine, my mood returns and I find myself gazing happily out of the window at the blue sky, listening for birds and dreaming of picnics by the riverbank. Tomorrow we shall head out into the countryside and find a place to spread our blanket, but beforehand I shall pick up the necessary delicacies on my way home and somehow keep myself from picking at them this evening.

It is a relief to be in such a chipper mood especially considering that yesterday brought a conversation with my surveyor, which could result in problems with the new flat. I had thought that the whole process was moving too well, positively swimmingly in fact. But until reports are made and quotes received there is nothing I can do but hold fire and try not to worry too much. It is a little frustrating, but then again not entirely unexpected. I have been repeatedly told, by numerous people, that the whole house buying process is a minefield of problem after problem and for once I paid close attention to this advice.

I shall put the whole business out of my mind for the weekend though, and delight in picnicking, and adventures into the wilds of East Sussex to see an exhibition and a concert. What better way to spend time with my lovely boy?

dinner out

Last night Tom and I headed to Katharine & Rich’s for dinner. It’s only been a month or so since they moved in, and the new flat is already looking lovely and lived in, with the vast majority repainted. Sam has a larger room, which means he actually has space to play with his toys and although the sitting room is narrow and galley-like, there is actually more room for their dining table than at their previous flat.

I got to spend some time with my lovely godson, who is coming on leaps and bounds but was feeling a little grizzly due to the terrible weather. He is adorable, and cuddled up to watch the teletubbies with me for a short while.

Katharine cooked a lovely chicken tikka massala, washed down with liberal amounts of wine, poppadums, nans and chutneys that left us feeling distinctly well fed. A sticky toffee pudding followed, which I unfortunately had to pass up due to the fullness of my belly.

We talked autism and politics, privatisation and the Royal Mail, generally putting the world to rights. But home time eventually came, and Tom and I strolled out into the dark night to get soaked to the bone in yet another torrential rain shower. It is probably time I invested in an umbrella; there is after all a big difference between being optimistic and just plain damp.

come back summer...

I’m trying desperately hard to hold onto the thought that it is still summer, that autumn hasn’t yet started and that all this rain and gloom is simply a bad patch of weather that will soon pass and reveal lovely sunshine like July.

Despite the aid of chocolate biscuits, I can feel this glimmer of hope quietly disappearing. Surely summer can’t be over? Surely that can’t be it? It’s only August – and only half way through August at that.

Of course a part of me quite likes autumn, if only because it provides another season in which I can wear jumpers. Jumpers and me get on. They’re warm, cosy and soft. I’ve stolen a few in my years too, normally from boys. There is something even better about boys jumpers, and stolen ones better still.

As much as I love jumpers, and boots, which also remind me of autumn and kicking up piles of red leaves, it’s just not time for it yet. There is still warm weather to be enjoyed, evenings basking in the slowly cooling light, days on the beach or driving through the glorious green countryside. And most importantly, I still haven’t had a picnic this year. It simply can’t be over until I’ve had a picnic!

school photo

Every year a group of us get together to document the past year with a photo, an event we fondly call the “school photo” simply because it is similar to those posed affairs where you had to stand on metal staging for hours on end, staring into the sun and sweltering in blazers, ties and the like.

Yesterday afternoon I made my way, via Katharine’s, to Preston Park and our usual meeting place on the rockery. Of course, just as we reached the park the heavens opened and torrential rain fell out of the sky, soaking us to the bone. We leapt from cover to cover, and dashed across the bare grass when there was none until finally meeting up with James and heading for the cover of the café.

The usual tomfoolery followed, with cups of tea a plenty and much brushing of damp hair. We sat about waiting for the stragglers to catch up, before Kate; our photographer, ordered us about like a true professional. We sat obediently, before leaping up and down stairs, dashing from left to right and generally making artistic fools of ourselves.

Whilst some staggered off to the pub, braving the prospect of more rain, I tramped my soggy and cold self home for a much needed bath and the promise of warm, dry clothes. However much I love the romance of summer rainstorms, there does need to be a deliciously warm bath at the end or else I fear the dreaded summer cold.

hols

It has been a glorious week off but a part of me can't help but be a little sad that it's nearly over. We spent a relaxed weekend, with a drink on Sunday afternoon to celebrate Glasnost's birthday, before settling into the seemingly endless unplanned days.

Tuesday became a busy day with my interview in the morning, followed by lunch at Havana's and a brief meeting with my solicitor. Fortunately though we still had time to lounge around on the beach, gazing up at the bright blue sky, or lying on a pile of cushions on the decking, absorbed in our books.

We met with Donovan & Sam on Tuesday evening and headed out for a night of indie at Audio, much dancing ensued and Wednesday was therefore a day of relaxing and hiding away from the light.

Yesterday we headed up for London, abandoning our Plan A of Kew Gardens for Plan B and headed to the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum. I saw my first IMAX film, a beautiful piece of film about deep sea creatures, wandered around amongst dinosaurs, fossils and stepped through a fake earthquake. We then headed out to the Nordic Bar off Oxford Street for a fabulous cocktail before heading to the much loved Ping Pong for steamed parcels of deliciousness.

It has been so nice to relax and unwind for a week, especially with the previous week being so stressful. Although the weather hasn't been it's best, we've had a good mix of getting out to do stuff, and staying in curled up hiding from the rain. Books have been read, films have been watched, take away has been eaten and culture has been absorbed. With the remainder of my holiday likely to be taken up with moving, its been lovely to have had such a week to enjoy.

offer accepted

My offer has been accepted. And I have a job interview.

My day has suddenly got a lot more exciting!

waiting game

I've found a flat, made an offer and am now sitting, wracked with nerves whilst I wait to hear if it's been accepted. Calmer than yesterday evening, I still find myself unable to think of anything other than when the phone will ring. Every third glance is to the mobile on my desk, I occasionally check it to make sure it's on and panic that if I leave it for a second I'll miss it ringing.

I feel completely irrational, emotional and ever so slightly insane. But now that I've got over my initial abject fear, I'm actually starting to enjoy this. Yes, it's terrifying and bewildering but it's also exciting. It's edge of the seat stuff!

The only thing that could make this better is for my boy to come home, but for that I will have to wait until Saturday. I just hope that the phone call doesn't take that long.

peaks and troughs

The flat hunting has been more difficult than expected this past weekend. On Saturday I saw a flat that, on first viewing was promising but on second became quite clear would not be suitable. It was a shame; the sitting room was lovely and light for a basement, with patio doors that led out onto a lovely garden. But there were too many “bad points” which out-weighed the good ones, meaning that I decided in the end not to make an offer.

I found this in itself depressing enough, but spent the rest of the day trawling estate agents and finding that there simply is nothing on the market at the moment that fits my needs. Tired and hot, by this time I was beginning to feel not only depressed but despairing of ever finding a flat at all.

Fortunately a late afternoon nap soon meant that I was feeling more myself, as did booking in a viewing for this evening. Finally I started to feel that there was an end in sight.

I spent a much more relaxed Sunday in the countryside, celebrating Dad’s birthday with a BBQ in the dappled sunshine. It was a lovely way to spend the day, and a welcome break from Brighton. We bickered and teased, ate steaks followed by home made strawberry ice-cream and sipped on Pimms or red wine. And it was with a peaceful heart that I set off home, top down on the car, through the orange-turning sunshine.

With the start of the week, it’s back to the grindstone and back on the phone to agents. I suspect that I will be spending a considerable amount of my time on the other end of a line, desperately trying to track down that elusive flat, but with hopefully a cheerier disposition than of late.

and now the fun starts

This afternoon we accepted an offer on the house. So now the whole wheel is in motion, appointments with IFA's, viewings, offers of my own to make...

I feel this incredible excitement and also this deep terror. Here I am, about to embark on one of life's biggest adventures and all I can think of is wallpaper. Still, it's good to know the creative part of my brain is enjoying this!

Alexander's Feast

Dad and I trotted up to London yesterday to spend the day being cultured. We started with the Tate Modern, gorging ourselves on Mattise, Dali and other surrealists before having lunch whilst admiring the fabulous view across the Millenium Bridge. We next took a trip on the Eye, which despite the cloud cover gave us lovely views across London. Ever since going on it for the first time last year, I've been dying to go in the evening. I'm sure looking down on all those twinkling lights must be a beautiful sight.

By now feeling a little tired, we headed for a quiet meander through the V&A, taking in some original 60's art work that left Dad in a state of smiling nostalgia, harking back to his school days and playing tennis on the croquet lawn (surely that was a disgraceful thing to do?)

Finally we headed off for the Royal Albert Hall to hear Mozart's rearrangement of Handel's Alexander's Feast. The chorus were enchanting, but unfortunately we sat to the side and didn't get the best acoustics. It's the longest choral piece I've heard, and the only piece with two harpicords.

We caught the fast train back to Brighton to get me home to rest my tired and achey feet. A tiring but definitely worthwhile day.

of morris dancing... and other things

Friday night was a combination of the weird and wonderful in terms of music, with the added frisson of tequila and toilet roll. Tom, Dan, Kerry and myself headed along to the Komedia to see Victoria Hume play. As mentioned in a previous post, Vic has a superb voice and it was interesting to hear them play as a band, rather than Vic alone and acoustic. I’m hoping that she gets more gigs down in Brighton, as I’d love to hear more of her.

Vic was followed by Circulus, whom Steve found (perhaps due to the tequila, although he did buy the album) worthy of engaging in Morris dancing with toilet rolls. I’m amazed that he managed to get a few unsuspecting audience members to join in, if only for a short and for them I’d imagine, confused time. Despite being urged to join in, I felt it my place to simply document the procedures, so see photos here.

As is often the case when tequila is involved, the night proceeded to continue until the small hours, with further alcohol and Tom & Dan doing their obligatory fighting. Injuries followed, as they are wont to do, and Deep Heat has been applied.

This rather long and debauched evening, along with the recent full diary, led me to spend a quiet and restful Saturday evening at home with the cats. Feeling somewhat neglected recently, they enjoyed the copious amounts of fussing they received in a heart warming fashion, and curled up beside me as I nodded off. It would have been a perfect nights sleep if I hadn’t ruined it by waking inexplicably at 2:40am and found it nigh-on impossible to get back to sleep for a good hour or so. Fortunately though, a lie in on Sunday is obligatory and a slow start to the day, with a breakfast of scrambled egg and bacon and freshly brewed coffee followed by Phillip Pullman for the afternoon, and curry for dinner, meant that I once again feel human and ready to face the week.

changes afoot

Over the past few weeks I have come to a decision about where to go next. It’s been a tricky decision to make with all the other changes going on (well, the prospect of imminent mortgage). As I recently posted, I’ve been feeling restless and I’ve worked out what it is: I need to change my career.

I only ever got into doing admin as a stop gap between school and university, but with that being nine years ago now it has become far more than a stop gap and more of a weight that I have felt unable to unhook myself from.

As the recent months have gone by, I’ve become more and more aware of the fact that I am unfulfilled in this area of my life. I don’t feel tested, or that I’m putting my skills to their best uses. I don’t want to end up stuck here, resenting that I never made that leap and drudging through each day. So I’ve made up my mind, changes are afoot I shall be making a leap. I just hope I don’t land awkwardly.

amoureux

I’m in love. I’m in love with Paris, with a weekend that despite the constant heat, the blisters and the aching legs, was filled with beauty and delight.

At first, with those tentative steps out of the Gard du Nord into the rows of restaurants and sex shops, I felt a little disappointed. I was tired, with two hours sleep and a snooze on the train, and I needed lunch. We walked along, heavy bags on our backs with the blazing sun beating down until we gave up, stopping at a small brasserie and ordering salad in pigin-french, words sticking and refusing to form.

The metro only confused me, I stood about wondering which direction, which line, and under ground was so much hotter. But then suddenly we were up above ground again, on the left bank and on the road we needed. A boulevard lined with trees and people, and suddenly behind me was the river, and the Louvre, and Notre Dame and then I felt it.

We spent the afternoon walking along the left bank, dog-tired but determined to make it from Notre Dame to the Jardin des Plantes. We drank water by the gallon and trudged through back streets and squares where people sat in the sun, or basked below the cool shade of trees. We had time to sleep before we headed out for dinner, at one of the only restaurants in the area that wasn’t Japanese. The food was simple but delicious and set us up for the succession of mohito’s we drank at a bar round the corner.

On Saturday morning I felt it again as we walked through the entrance to the Palais de Louvre and stood, necks craned to take it all in. It bowled me over, the size and the beauty; it struck me dumb. But on we went, through the Jardin des Tuileries and up the Champs Elysees to the Arc d’Triomphe. Then down towards the river again and the Eiffel Tower. The queues were too long to spend time in, and so we missed the journey to the top and views over Paris. Instead we walked on, along the Quai D’Orsay to take in the Musee D’Orsay before heading back to change for dinner.

As the sun began to sink on yet another beautiful day, we climbed aboard and sailed gently up and down the Seine, delighting in four courses and the cool breeze that rushed in on either side of the boat. The views were wonderful, from the rows of tents on the riverside to the Eiffel Tower, lit up in sparkling lights and bathing all with the searchlight. We left feeling tired but contented, to stroll along the streets of Saint-Germain in the cool darkness.

Now home again I feel a tug for Paris, a longing for all the things we didn’t get to see, but I know that it was a glorious weekend, and one I shall not forget.

the hunt is on

The flat hunting has started; I’ve seen three so far this week with another lined up for tomorrow. Walking around them is a rather new experience; I’m being allowed to be nosey. I can peer at cracks in the walls, check for damp and inspect kitchen units and bathrooms with more care that the average visitor. I can ask pointed questions about the area or the neighbours, can remark on redecorating or “ripping that out”.

At first it seemed almost rude, to be walking around someone’s home and mentally taking the place apart. It has been made easier by the fact that so far it is always estate agents who have taken me round, and never the homeowner or tenant. I could imagine that my comments on “the obvious damp problem in the bathroom” and “why on earth did they paint the kitchen dark red?” would be somewhat curtailed if faced with the vendor.

Of the three seen so far, one was a definite “no” with a garden you would need crampons to climb. One was in nice condition, with a new kitchen and a garden which showed lots of potential, but it will be sold by now and to be honest, it had a little too much done for my liking. I would like somewhere that needs more work. The third flat was much more exciting, showing lots of promise and with character, but again there is an issue with the garden.

I am not holding out for a perfect flat but for something with potential, and the selection I’ve seen so far has been interesting. It is great to finally be at the stage where I can go and see property, and when people are coming to see the house. Although with this new rush of energy I realise that I will miss the old house, if only a little, because it has been such a solid home to me and so many of my friends for so long. I only get glimpses of this though, because the rest of me is far more excited to be moving!

flitting

Since Tom's return from Roskilde on Monday the week has flown by in a concoction of busyness or sleepiness. I suspect the term "burning the candle at both ends" would not quite cover it. In fact I think we got all the candles we could find and set light to them, indeed at many times during the week my brain has felt like a puddle of warm wax.

We had a lovely adventure up to Regents Park Open Air Theatre on Wednesday evening, to watch The Taming of The Shrew. Having missed our train by about 30 seconds, we unfortunately couldn't sup on parcels of deliciousness at Ping Pong. We made up for it with Bratwurst and bubbly followed by chocolate truffle cake, whilst we basked in the warmth of the evening, grateful that it didn't rain after all.

Yesterday evening was Pirate evening, and after meeting at the Fortune of War, we all piled in to the cinema, tricorns aplenty, to "yarrrrr" at Cap'n Jack Sparrow. I am wondering if Joh, Ed and James will be organising another of the fabled "Pirate Nights", but have heard no whispers yet. I quite fancy another swashbuckling adventure, but not today, for today is Katharine's birthday party and I'm not sure she'd appreciate it!

softly sunday

Having spent Saturday morning trawling estate agents (very exciting) and Saturday afternoon helping Katharine & Rich move (not quite as exciting, but somehow rewarding), it was a relief to put the top down on the car and speed off into the countryside yesterday for my brothers birthday barbeque.

It was such a beautiful morning, and like me, my car loves the sunshine. I sped along the A27 on nearly clear roads, turning off through the Cuilfail tunnel and Ringmer and taking the longer route to Mum & Dad's. The engine purred along the country roads, wind swept my hair and I couldn't help but smile.

My little brother turned twenty-four, and celebrated with his friends on Saturday night. Feeling slightly the worse for wear, he was still up and about (just) in time for lunch. I turned burgers and sausages whilst the family drank Pimms. The garden, shaded now by trees that have grown since I lived there, was lovely and dappled; keeping the worst of the midday heat at bay.

We talked for hours, and picked at salads, strawberries and cherries in kirsch and soft French and Italian cheeses. It was a perfect afternoon in quiet countryside, and a lovely cooler drive back to Brighton, the evening sunshine beating on my sunsoaked skin

decisions

I’m feeling restless. My mind doesn’t stay on one topic for long, I stand up and walk around the office, I break off mid conversation and start a new one. I flick from thought to thought without finishing any. It’s leaving me feeling frustrated and twitchy.

I would like to be able to say “I long to…” and whatever it would be, would fill me with calm and peace. But I don’t know what I long to do. It changes from minute to minute, hour to hour and moves so fast I cannot focus.

I feel like a ball of tightly bound energy. Every nerve ending is electric, ready to jump at the slightest provocation. There are butterflies in my stomach and tingling in my fingertips. I have spent the week flitting between thoughts, what I want to do next, what I want to read, what I want to watch, where I want to sit, or to eat, or to drink. I cannot settle on any decision without an almost instantaneous opposite popping up in my head.

At a time when a large proportion of the stable things in my life are changing, it is ironic that I look for more to change. Instead of sitting back and dealing with what I already have to face, I find myself looking for more “improvements” to make. It’s almost like “buy one, get one free”: if I’m doing this now, I might as well get this and this out of the way at the same time. And so I find myself re-evaluating everything, looking at what I want to be different and trying to tackle it all at once.

However I have made no decisions, and this leaves me feeling adrift, restless and frustrated. Perhaps it’s time to take a break and come back to “me” with fresh eyes.

on sam

A couple of weeks ago I spent an afternoon with Katharine and my godson Sam, who had just been diagnosed as autistic. We caught up on recent events and wandered to Preston Park to gossip with a beer, enjoy the sunshine and let Sam have a run about. It was only a brief stay, but one which opened my eyes to one of the many difficulties that Katharine, Rich and Sam face.

Sam loves gates, and doors, and anything else that opens and closes. Whilst sitting in his pushchair on trips to the library, he will watch the automatic doors open and close. This causes great excitement, his arms flap, his hands clasp and his legs wiggle in joy.

He also loves to open and close the gate that leads to the play area in the park. Unlike other small boys, the swings and slide hold no interest for him. He only has eyes for the gate, which he opens and watches with glee as it bangs closed.

Unfortunately the problem arises when other people want to use this gate, and quite naturally, don't understand why the lovely blue-eyed boy is trying to push them out of the way, or slowly crumbling into tears, or worse still, screaming in obvious distress. Most people move through the gate, look bemused and carry on, forgetting the incident within seconds. But there are the odd one or two who simply want to stand it front of it, or lean against it.

It is an effort to explain why it would be appreciated if they could move, they looked confused and in the end there is the inevitable disclosure of Sam's autism. It is traumatic for all, especially if people still don't understand. Sam, who doesn't either, begins to cry and then to scream.

These little things, a simple trip to the park, are in fact not simple at all. Instead a battle to be fought, to communicate that Sam simply wants to open and close the gate. There will be many more battles as Sam grows up, but I'm proud to know that Katharine and Rich will continue to fight them, whether big or small, with the same love and devotion for Sam. He is, after all, the best godson in the world.

breather

The results are out, the final year students have been and gone, finishing their three years at University with, on most accounts, the degree they expected. It was a good week, a mixture of excitement and hard work that kept our adrenaline up until the end, when we all collapsed exhausted but happy to have been a part of it.

Now we have a breather, of sorts, whilst the marks for our second year students come in. Once that is done we go through the whole process again, although without the same excitement. By the middle of July it will all be over for another year.

After spending Friday afternoon napping in recovering, and a quiet evening regaining my brain, on Saturday it was back to work. Although this time it was work on the house. Mum, Dad & I built new banisters for the steps in the garden, one of the final bits of work needing to be done before the house goes on the market. Today Mum is going about visiting estate agents and the scaffolding that has been cutting out all the light into my house will finally be removed.

In a way I feel as if I've just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Last week is the most stressful week of the year at work, and now starts the most stressful time at home. Although I would love the move to go smoothly, I am fully aware that happens very rarely. There will be problems, there will be issues that need to be ironed out, and there will be inevitable delays. I just hope that there aren't too many.

It is exciting though, to be on the edge of another adventure. There have been so many adventures recently, but I'm not complaining. A good adventure stirs the soul, and that is a fabulous feeling.

long grass

Today is a day for lying around in tall grasses on picnic blankets. I want to sip champagne and nibble sun-warmed strawberries, leaving sticky fingers to wipe. I want to lie in the grass so all I can see is the blue sky above me and the tops of the grasses, waving in the breeze.

I'll never forget spending one spring under the daffodils. I was small enough that I could lie amongst them and look up under the bright yellow trumpets. They would fill my vision, I'd watch bees fly from flower to flower and time didn't seem to pass at all. I was so upset when, a year later, I was too big to fit under the daffodils. I'd grown so much that I could only flatten them.

I remember making circles of flattened grass on the Downs, little islands to sit in hidden from view. And rolling down the hills, bump after bump, until I lay panting at the bottom, covered in bits of grass and twig and giggling.

Tomorrow I think I'll go in search of tall grasses, I'll tumble down hills until I'm covered in bruises and come home giggling. But first I must sort out my passport, for as lovely as tall grasses are, Paris is beckoning.

rollercoaster

And so it begins, the busiest working week of the year. This morning has been a wonderful rush of questions, with paper flying from printers and copiers, people dashing from office to office, urgent phone calls and emails and everywhere there are marks.

It is my favourite time of year, I love the panic and the urgency, the constant deadlines and hurried meetings, but only because it lasts for a comparatively short time. If life was like this every day I would have burnt out rather quickly a while ago.

Most of all I love the day of the classification meeting. I rush from printer to computer, meeting to meeting, taking endless phone calls and making copious notes. Then there is the quiet of the classification, before the most nerve racking part of the whole process - where I write the pass list. It gets checked, and checked, and checked again, before I walk out into the sunshine, mafia style flanked by my assistants, list in hand. The mass of students before me supercharge the air with emotions, those few minutes pass in slow motion.

Nothing beats the shouts, the grins, the smiles and hugs and kisses, those gloriously happy faces. It fills your heart and all the stresses and the strains of the previous week wash away. Those smiles, they more than make it worth the effort.

bournemouth bound

Although more solid looking than Brighton's piers, Bournemouth pier doesn't have quite the same beauty. I decided this whilst sitting on the deck of West Beach restaurant, glass of wine in hand and gazing out across the glorious sandy beach and blue sea on Saturday evening. It was the perfect place to be sitting, sunshine beating down on my burnt nose and forehead, whilst I looked over the menu.

In the end I decided on white mushroom soup to start, followed by halibut cooked in a red wine sauce with mash and asparagus. By this time we had moved in from the deck to get away from the sudden and raucous chants of those inescapable football fans; drenched in Stella and swaying.

The food was delicious and made the perfect stop gap between Monkey World and the Pier Theatre. I suspect, however, that our later plan of cocktails at Hot Rocks was a mistake. Sickly and far too sweet, they cloyed to our tastebuds like toffee to teeth. Of course, that didn't stop us from having a second, just to make sure they didn't improve with time. Again, a mistake. They most definitely did not. But a small price to pay for such a splendid day.

distraction

The news that the assessment boycott has been suspended whilst members of the UCU vote on the pay deal means that my workload is now at full tilt, exam scripts piling up left, right and centre and marks flying in at rapid rates. Despite this sudden influx I find myself severely distracted this week, something not helped by the bug I seem to have picked up.

I spent yesterday curled up in a small and sorry state, trying hard to swallow orange juice and all things good, whilst my throat burnt as if I had swallowed acid. I am, even now, dosed up on aspirin, sucking on plums and guzzling down vitamin-c laden drink to keep the germs at bay. But I know that it is not the germs that are distracting me.

Out of my office window the sky is a perfect duck egg blue. The sky light dapples through the leaves, which gently wave in the breeze; dancing on the end of their supple branches. There is that glorious smell of cut grass, the distant hum of conversation and the occasional lobster-red shoulders of sun worshippers. Of course, as lovely as it is to finally have summer here, it isn't that which is distracting me.

I know what it is that makes me smile through the day, what makes my heart sing and my spine tingle with excitement. And I know that, in my heart of hearts, I don't really mind being distracted at all because, you see, it's wonderful to be me; I am quite ridiculously happy.

brighton frocks

On Saturday, Katharine and I downed glasses of white wine and headed out, in true Ab Fab style, to the Brighton Frocks Show at the Concorde. Despite having a 7pm start on the ticket, we found the place remarkably empty when we arrived, and having refilled our glasses a number of times, easily managed to get a front row spot overlooking the catwalk.

Just over an hour, and much wine later, the show started. An array of Brighton based designers showing off their new creations, with the majority being exciting designs. I was greatly impressed by the fabulously frilly knickers of Ophelia Fancy, who brought ballet and tap dancers to the catwalk. Fetique put on a fabulous show, with the most uncomfortable pair of shoes I've ever seen and a lovely blonde writhing for the cameras.

Two hours passed remarkably quickly, as we were shown a wide range of designs to suit any taste. At the introduction it was mentioned that within two years, Brighton Frocks hope to run a Brighton Fashion Weekend. With so many exciting designers I can see this as a possibility, and look forward to next year.

We finished off the evening with dinner at Zafferelli's and, naturally, another bottle of wine. After all, these things have to be done properly!

moth to the flame

Last night Tom and I went to see his aunt sing. We caught up with the lovely Katharine and Rich, that charming chap James and Evil Pete, who is obviously not evil at all. Vic normally sings with a band, but last night went acoustic with only Chris on keyboard. She sings beautifully, making goosebumps rise on my arms and my spine tingle. With only time for two songs it was difficult to get an idea of just how good she is, but Moth are playing the Komedia on 28th July and I fully intend to be there.

We headed off before the end of the evening to fill our empty stomachs at Wagamama. It was almost eerie, sitting there with only two other people and the whole restaurant in comparative silence. But observing my surroundings was shortlived, as talk came round to the precipice we find ourselves standing on. There are times when I can hear the pebbles rush down the sides, gathering pace and clicking against each other. The world is a whirl of excitement. I can feel it as I look over the edge, and know that any minute I shall start to slip and slide and rush down with the pebbles, over the edge and onto the next adventure, onto a different ground.

It was no wonder that I woke early, walked along the quiet streets with blue sky and warm sun on my back, smiling up in wonder. Today I will find beauty in unexpected places, today I will find each smile makes my fingers tingle, my spine shiver. But it won't just be today. I think this adventure is here to stay.

six days of relaxation

Chelsea was great! We were lucky with the weather and managed to avoid the two major rain showers by either eating lunch or hiding away in the large marquee, wandering amongst the displays. I found some amazing mirrored sculptures, beautiful hanging seats and found myself inspired by the gardens. It was so interesting to see the designs and planting up close, to see what effects they had on people, how they impressed or disappointed.

After a glorious day exploring the gardens, plants and stopping for a drink in Covent Garden, Mum and I dropped in on Ping Pong, as recommended by Tom and Sprink. Delicious little dumplings of steamed goodness, and a bottle of red between us, filled us and let us rest our aching feet before catching the train home to Brighton.

Friday was probably one of the best evenings I've had. If I said that the food at the Seven Dials Restaurant was delicious and the company fantastic, it wouldn't go anywhere near explaining the evening. And so I shall stop there.

The rest of the weekend passed in a relaxed mismash of wanders to the marina for the Big Splash, catching up on some friends, watching X-Men 3 and numerous glasses of wine. I feel rested and comfortable and supremely happy. Long may it continue.

last day

Finally a few rays of sunshine this morning, on my last day at work before a six day break. After the past few weeks, having some time off is a dream. I envisage lie-in's, breakfast at Bill's, and glorious sunshine. However, I know the sun won't shine for long.

Tomorrow I'm off to Chelsea, and I plan to take my wellies. I have visions of ploughing through Glastonbury-style mud slides, of feeling continuously damp and cold and shivery. But also I'm longing to see the gardens, to wander among the flowers and take in all those glorious scents.

For the rest of the break I have much to look forward to, meals out, a picnic, a barbecue (I'm noticing a food-related theme here). I shall read books, relax and take long, hot baths. I don't want too many plans, I want to be free to jump up and drive out to the countryside if the rain stops, or stalk down to the beach and watch the waves crash. And only 8 more hours until I can escape.

Lewes

Yesterday evening Mr "I told you it wasn't along here" Burt and myself made a short train journey to Lewes, to listen to readings from Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf with music from a solo cello at Southover Grange. It would prove to be an interesting evening, but not for the reasons I expected. It began with the cellist, who was completely unaware of who the readings would be from and whilst fluffing his way through an introduction of "Peter Sackville-West", promptly began to make his cello sound like a strangled cat.

It has been suggested to me that the cellist was in fact a fake. The real cellist had been murdered by his identical twin brother earlier on in the day, and as his disappearance would be noticed if he didn't perform that evening, the evil twin brother decided that he would step boldly into the dead mans shoes and brave the cello.

The interval came, and still stifling giggles, we exited, looks of amazement on our faces. I don't think I've ever had to leave a performance half way through before, and it was with relief that we turned the corner and let our laughter burst forth.

To aid recovery, we dropped in on Ollie at the Brewers Arms before heading back to Brighton, safe in the knowledge that culture is not necessarily always a good thing.

shift up a gear

Tomorrow the scaffolding will arrive. Suddenly flat hunting seems far closer. For a while there I had been drifting, forgetting about flats, about leasehold, freehold and surveying. I had forgotten to remember to start collecting boxes, to make lists of things to keep and things to throw away. After a brief phone call last night it all rushed back to me, and there it is, real again in front of me.

The outside of the house is going to be painted a soft light green, which those small areas already coated show, will be easy on the eye but also give much needed colour. From tomorrow this painting can start at the back of the house, before moving out to the front once the scaffolders have permission from the council to use the pavement. The party walls will be worked on, my bedroom repainted and then the work is complete.

It fills me with excitement and has caught me unawares whilst I wasn't paying attention. Next week I must use one of my days off to trawl estate agents, putting my name on lists and start to anxiously wait for particulars to fall through the letterbox. I have this awful feeling that now I'm a grown up.

storm

With the clouds looming overhead, thick and heavy grey with rain, and the darkness spreading through the sky, I get a tingling in the tips of my fingers. This afternoon I am all built-up-energy, brain flashing, fidgeting and unable to sit still. I look about me, thoughts not staying on one surface for longer than a few seconds, and even my speech is faster, less coherent, jumping about.

I get the feeling of a thunder storm brewing, the closeness and this reined in energy are sure signs to my mind. I want to jump up and run out, dancing in the rain drops, getting soaked to the skin. Instead I am surrounded by exam scripts, elastic bands and chatter, listening to the heavy raindrops hit the window. All frustration, all bound up, and the tingling in my fingers doesn't stop.

gangsters galore

Saturday evening found me dining in Donatello's with Lyndsey, catching up on her adventures and trying to avoid the hen nights, and the associated half naked men, screaming in the bar. We guzzled wine like no tomorrow and made plans for future ventures before heading out into the warm night air and a walk to the Nightingale Theatre.

The theatre is above a pub on the corner of Surrey Street. After ordering our interval drinks we stood about, tickets in hand, waiting for the late show of "Ten Thousand Several Doors". It was a fabulous promenade play, with the audience walking from a dark, black-painted room, through back corridors and out of kitchens, from scene to scene. The actors walked past you, brushing you aside or standing menacingly in their well-cut suits, legs apart in true gangster form, whilst the double bass hummed.

We left elated, talking nineteen to the dozen, and headed down to the Speigletent for a last drink and a dance to, unexpectedly, songs from The Jungle Book. The only mar on this fabulous evening was being covered in earth by a hidden assailant by Hanover Crescent on the stroll home.

insomnia

Insomnia visits about once a year, when my body clock decides that the sleepless nights I've voluntarily put it through are not enough and I could do with one more. Last night was one such night. Despite the yawning, eye rubbing and general sleepiness, my brain, working much like a freight train, continued to roll on. For the second time in seven days I'm running on three hours sleep.

There are times during one of these nights when I can actually feel myself falling asleep. My eyes close and the world gets much darker than normal, my limbs feel heavy and won't move and a blackness descends in my head. Unfortunately this is normally followed by my helpful brain saying, in a wide awake voice, "you're falling asleep, isn't this weird?"

Fortunately last night was missing this most frustrating of insomniatic (you see, now I make up words) problems. My body didn't even try to sleep for many hours, so I fidgeted instead. Fidgeting is almost as bad.

A combination of Kaiser Chiefs, Alabama 3 and the fact that I get to drive to work in the sunshine in a sports car, have all meant that I am at present wide awake. I expect my first caffeine injection to hit home shortly, and from then on the day will pass in a confused fashion, with sense being just beyond my grasp. Oh what joys to look forward to!

days like these

I'm feeling restless in the sunshine. Instead of being stuck in the office, warm sunlight pouring through the window, I want to be outside, picnicking in Laura Ashley. I'm not quite sure why Laura Ashley. It's not a style that normally comes to mind, but I have suspicisions that I'm finding my romance mojo, and Laura Ashley spells romance.

I'm on my own this morning, and so there isn't the slightest chance of sneaking out to bask in the sunshine. To bring the outside in, I have a large tub of strawberries at my side, which I shall devour (there's another good word) throughout the day. Strawberries are food for the Gods, along with raspberries of course. In my new garden I shall grow them in abundance and descend upon my friends with mountains of the delicious soft red fruits along with tubs on home-made strawberry ice-cream.

Even the scent of strawberries takes me far off into summer, sunburnt skin, barbecue smoke and hot nights when soft sleep takes longer to come. I love spring, with all its freshness and light, but I love the sultriness of summer, the knock of cricket balls and sand in my shoes. In two weeks I'm off to Chelsea and have a couple of days off before the Bank Holiday. To me the late May holiday is the start of summer and whilst not wanting to wish my days away, a part of me can't wait.

41 hours

A red corset, a clarinet, on a floor that bows and bounces with each step. The sun comes down over circus tents.

Red hair, full pub. Dancing till the early hours. Walking in circles, following the boys.

Sun rising over the Seven Dials. Clean, crisp morning air. Walking home to bird song before the chill sets in.

The man in Richer Sounds who tells you facts you don't need to hear. Smiling into your eyes as if imparting special knowledge.

And rest those tired eyes.

A brief walk, some more talk and Indian takeaway to fill you up.

Sleep comes quickly, all worn out, until the morning brings bright light through the blinds.

And all the time, my grin won't stop.

hammock weather

It is definitely hammock weather. I sat outside on the grass during my lunch break, reading Ian Rankin and letting the ants climb my knees, but back in the office my head fills with thoughts of hammock lounging.

I've long been of the opinion that hammocks in the office would make a happier workforce. Obviously in weather like this we would de-camp to the sunnied outside, but during cooler days I would definitely appreciate a hammock over a swivel chair. Of course, it would make typing that bit more difficult, but I've thought about that too. I could have a secretary. She/he could type for me as I lie there, sipping tea and feeling full of self-importance.

This sort of train of thought always carries me away, and I start to think of "Butlers I would want...". I often wondered if a certain friend of mine would make a good butler, but have decided that although his scrambled egg making abilities are great, I don't think he'd offer the kind of Jeeves-like plans I would need to get me out of the Wooster-like scrapes I would undoubtedly feel I ought to get into.

You see, this hammock weather does indeed lead a girl to think but not, I fear, of work.

weekend gone

Despite the somewhat gloomy weather I managed to fill my bank holiday weekend with a combination of further work on the house, visiting family and catching up with friends.

James introduced me to coddled eggs on Friday night, whilst we sat drinking wine and laughing raucously at "The 40 Year Old Virgin". It's good to have a belly-aching laugh, with tears streaming down your face every once in a while.

Mum and I have started to work on the hallway downstairs, and after a quick trip to B&Q, where the trolleys have minds of their own and compost is hard to find in small bags, we returned home with the usual array of powertools to keep us happy. I learnt more about "No More Nails" than I feel I ought to know, but am duly impressed by its sticking power.

Sunday was a day of adventures in Queen's Park. James and I stopped off at the Walmer Castle for lunch before heading out to meet others for the May Day Festival. There was a may pole, fresh faced young green-clad dancers ready with their red and white ribbons, and many garlands adorned heads. The weather, however, let us down and we all headed back as the sun went in and dark clouds loomed.

Yesterday my brother drove us up to Kent to visit family. Once we'd hit the M25 the weather started to turn to one of those lovely blossom filled, sunny spring days. We stuffed ourselves with deliciously pink roast beef, drank of pink bubbly and red wine, and walked the dogs through fields of crops, green leaves just starting to rise from the soil. I was driven home along sun dappled country lanes at great speed, listening to The Police and dreaming of what lay behind the cottage curtains. As we came close to home the evening sunlight flickered from windows like camera flashes, dazzling and promising hot summer days to come.

sprung

It's going to be a lovely day, the sun is already pouring through my open office windows, the sky is a perfect blue and it's beautifully warm.

One of the things I love about working on campus is the proximity to nature. Surrounded by grass and trees, there is wildlife everywhere. As I walked into work today there were birds hopping through the hedges, heads tilted to the sun, on the lookout for breakfast. Squirrels running up trees or sitting bravely on the grass until you get too close. Outside the main door is a beautiful tree covered in fountains of white scented blossom, just beginning to fall in a carpet of softest snow. Leaves are unfurling around me in fresh new yellow-green.

It is a day that I am going to hate being stuck inside for. I long to pack up and stroll off into the countryside with a picnic and a book, not a care in the world and bask in the spring sunlight.

storytelling

I spent Friday evening sat on the floor with James at the Permanent Gallery, listening to people reading out tales and poems. There is something very comforting about sitting on the floor with a friend, especially when listening to stories. It took me back to some of my first days at school, when my classmates and I would sit on the once thick pile carpet in front of the window and take it in turns to read out sections of "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe". Elizabeth, who's surname I can't remember, had a voice so soft and calm that on hearing it all I wanted to do was curl up like a kitten and purr myself to sleep.

Stories over for the evening, we headed off down Western Road. That was the end to peace and tranquility and back to the sharp reality of Friday night. I shall go to more storytelling though, and am really looking forward to hearing James' next amusing banana related tale.

17 degrees

Tomorrow promises to be 17 degrees with bright sunshine, a perfect day for taking the top down and driving out into the countryside. First though, I'm going to meet up with Katharine who is on a dietary mission this week and can only consume grapefruit juice from what I can gather. I fancy a wander through the Lanes in search of a spring skirt.

I fully intend to spend the afternoon speeding off into the sunlight, sunglasses on and wind in my hair. I need to stock up on bedding plants so will be trawling nurseries and garden centres looking for plants which will do well in the current hosepipe ban.

Firle Place opens more of its gardens on Sunday as part of the National Garden Scheme, so I intend to head out there once I've leisurely soaked up the newspapers. Borde Hill Gardens and Wakehurst Place are holding bluebell weekends, so if I have time I will pop along to one and wade through the carpets of soft purple flowers.

I have that yearning for wide open spaces, long grass and lush green as far as the eye can see. Birdsong and picnics, that's what I need.

the thick of it

The holiday is over. No more quiet afternoons, curled up with a book. No more walks into town, or strolls around country houses, admiring the views. Back to work, the first day of term, and the thick of it.

It took me a while to get back into the swing. I sat, looking blankly at my screen, trying to remember what on earth it is that I do all day. Before I remembered, everything started up around me and it all came flooding back. Now it's as if I haven't been away.

But I have, and it was glorious. I spent days reading books, nose tucked in and surrounded by silence. I cooked roast lamb and made homemade strawberry ice cream. I drove up to Sevenoaks, discussing the soul with James, and walked through Knole, seeped in history. I walked down to the sea, and stared off into the evening, stopped off at the Sanctuary Cafe for a glass of organic wine, and got blisters on the way home. I ate breakfast at Bill's and found that I'd wolfed it down in seconds, eyes shining with glee.

Being back isn't too bad, only two more days to go and then I shall make a start on the patio. I need to weed the flower bed, plant up the pots and hanging basket and clean the decking. I'm looking forward to that lovely fresh smell of just dug earth, to planting up and sitting back, achey but content. But I must stop, it's no good to be wishing my life away, a part of me will admit that it's good to be at work again.

holidays

At last a whole six days off, an hour left and then I can walk out of the office and drive home with the welcoming thought that I have no more early mornings, no more emails and no more meetings until next Wednesday. What joy!

Tomorrow I plan to go to breakfast at Bill's before dropping into the library to fill up on books to last me the weekend. I've also got my new king size goose feather duvet to collect, a heart warming thought, and once I have I shall go home and snuggle in it for a while.

I have no plans for Friday, and the thought of all that freedom makes the tips of my fingers tingle with anticipation. Depending on the weather, I may take the top down and drive off into the countryside with a picnic to enjoy the spring flowers. I may go up to London and visit the National Gallery and the Tate Britain, or I may curl up with my new duvet and devour a book.

On Saturday James and I are off to Knole. I'm looking forward to strolling through the deer park and putting names to places having read so much about the house recently.

Sunday is more work on the house, one more door to hang and other bits to do. I will also cook roast lamb and spend the evening supping on delicious soft pink flesh and roast potatoes.

As for Monday and Tuesday, that's just too far off. I don't want to make plans, I want to relax and enjoy the first break I've had since Christmas and what will probably be the last free time I shall have before I move. I want to wallow in the peace and quiet and immerse myself in books, to wander the Lanes in the day light hours and walk along the beach, staring out at the waves from the city I love. How I love holidays....

doors shot

I ache, well my shoulders and arms ache. It's that healthy "I've been doing lots of useful things" ache that you get when you've spent two days trying to hold doors straight whilst chiseling, drilling, sawing and the like goes on around you. The house filled with sawdust and wood chips, despite the fact that much of the sawing took place in the garden, waking the neighbours who fancied sleeping later than 11am and covering the decking with snow-like drifts of sawdust.

In two days we hung three doors, it's not bad going considering how much work goes into it. I drank far too much coffee, vacuumed more times that I can remember and lugged doors up and down the stairs like a pro.

On Sunday evening, the third door hung, I hid away for a quiet beer in the spare room. It has changed so much in the last few weeks that I almost felt that I didn't know it at all. Soon the whole house will feel like that, my home will no longer be my home and before I get used to that I'll be gone, settling in somewhere new. It's exciting, and now I feel more prepared, after all at least I now know how to hang doors.

the best days of your life?

On my way to work yesterday, the radio informed me that my old school was closing. It came as a surprise, the last I'd heard the place was specialising in the Performing Arts and holding regular performances at the Gardner Arts Centre and as part of the Brighton Festival Fringe.

I began to think back to my school days, something I try to avoid normally as the last few years were not pleasant. This is mostly due to my raging hormones and desire to rebel in what, looking back, was undoubtedly more damaging to myself than anyone else. Those last few years burnt through all the memories, but they were still there, just slightly crispy around the edges.

There was the day my brother climbed up into the digger on the back playing field, managed to turn it on and started driving off towards the line of trees, with what I can only imagine was a manic grin on his face. At the time diggers, tractors and other large vehicles were his favourite things, since then his driving hasn't changed much!

My chums and I used to hang about twiddling our thumbs on long summer afternoons, until we invented The Game. It was a rather elaborate game of hide and seek, the details of which I can no longer remember, and it filled those summer afternoons with chases around the playing fields, huddled groups behind class rooms, and half-frightened whispers as we tried to work out who was where and if they were right behind us.

We used to hang out in the library, staring out of the large windows across the playing field and onto the downs, whilst writing stories. Some of these became novels, with pages and pages filled in neat handwriting and passed around, like a soap opera, each waiting for the next installment.

There was my first kiss, I was twelve and nervous and hidden in the prefects garden with Stuart Honeyball. And suddenly it was all over and he was off home for the holidays, whilst I was left standing there behind the conifers, all emotions.

I played a river-banker in the Wind in the Willows, make up pasted on with brush after brush, and was so jealous of those who were picked to be weasels as they got to dress in punk gear, with back-combed hair and more eyeliner than Robert Smith.

And suddenly the phrase "Those were the days..." pops into my head and for a while I wonder if they were the best days of my life, or simply a precursor for all those other fabulous days I've had since and will no doubt have more of in the future.

lost days

Birthday weekends are always messy, and this weekend was no exception. I left work early to go present shopping and have my hair cut, popping into the library on the way and stocking up with this weeks books. I found the presents I was looking for quickly, and so stopped for a cup of coffee before strolling to see my fabulous hairdresser, Peter. Trips to the hairdresser are always a treat, a time I get to spoil myself, relax and drift away. Friday was no exception and I left feeling revitalised and ready for anything.

Lyndsey and I met up for a quick drink at the Park Crescent, which turned into quite a few drinks and a short and giggly journey back to Lyndsey's flat where we gorged on pizza and pestered Pete until he eventually fell asleep, snoring his way through Jaws 3 (which I have to say, is the best way to watch it).

Saturday was a day of pain, drilling, sawing, pain, and a bit more pain. Whilst family worked around me, I sat on the sofa feeling sorry for myself and groaning under the agonies of the world. An ex-boyfriend once told me that he really enjoyed hangovers, something I not only could not comprehend but could also never foresee myself agreeing with.

Sunday morning broke with sunshine and blue sky, and I found myself smiling broadly after twelve hours sleep. I went to The George for lunch to celebrate Lyndsey's birthday with the gang. I sipped spicy carrot and parsnip soup and slowly drank a pint, what a glorious way to spend an afternoon.

But now it is Monday again and it doesn't feel as if the weekend ever existed. I long for the holiday break next week, when I will finally start to make a dig into clearing out my house. When I shall drive up to Knole with James, the top down on the car and my hair blowing every which way. Six whole days of freedom, it can't come soon enough.

is romance dead?

I suspect it serves me right for reading "Portrait of a Marriage" before bed. There I was, curled up under my duvet with my still-damp hair tied back, bears keeping my toes warm, gently chewing my lower lip and firmly focused for hours on the dreadfully romantic autobiography of Vita Sackville-West. It is a tale of love, for she had much of it to give and many trials and tribulations to endure.

All rather charming, it filled me with that gushing romanticism of my teenage years, fingers crossed that the star-crossed lovers would work it all out in the end. Of course when there are more than two star-crossed lovers; husbands, wives, lesbian and gay lovers aplenty, it does make it slightly more complicated. As the hours ticked by and pages turned, I found myself greatly reassured that, in comparison, my love-life has always been considerably less complicated.

When my eyelids finally began to close, I turned off the light and succumbed to intrusively romantic dreams of astronauts (I'm still not sure where that came from), and walking along dark grey London streets for hours. In the rain, naturally.

It was quite a relief to wake up and find the sun shining, if a little dimly, the bears mewling for food and the world once more as cold, hard and unromantic as it should be on a Wednesday. Perhaps romance is best on Tuesdays? Or am I just loosing the old-romantic in me?

new chapters

It has been a long time since my last post. Time has been rushing by in whirl leaving me feeling worn out and stretched thin, eager for the six day break over Easter when I can sleep in, read and venture forth into the world on refreshed toes.

The house is coming along with spare room, kitchen, and entrance hall now finished. New internal doors need to be hung, light fittings need to be installed and some further refurbishment in the bathroom, before the roofer comes to make a couple of days worth of repairs. After that the outside needs to be repainted and then it is finished, ready to be put on the market. It is an exciting time, a culmination of eight months worth of discussion and planning. Although I have been there over seven years, I don't feel any sadness to be leaving. It is time to move on, to start the next adventure. I have already redesigned a multitude of different new homes in my head, imagining the rooms progressing, changing like chameleons, depending on my mood.

I long for a garden, green grass under foot and summer evenings spent picking vegetables in the garden and grilling trout on a barbeque. I plan plantings, shifting through colours and heights in my head, arranging beds and features, light and shade.

I aim to move over the summer, hoping that the light and heat help to keep my spirits up; buoyant like gulls on a wave. Whilst all have moved around me, it will be strange to do so myself. To pack up the memories of the last seven years into boxes, only gone for a short time before opening them somewhere new, to stretch their legs and tumble out, new memories made. I am impatient and mournful all at once, but joyous and excited for soon I shall start a new chapter.

twitchy

I find myself in a quandary, twitching between the known and the unknown. This morning I should phone my IFA, make an appointment and discuss the in's and out's of mortgages. Instead, I find myself typing the number into my phone, thinking long and hard about the implications of said mortgage, and then putting the phone back on the desk and doing something else for fifteen minutes.

After fifteen minutes I find my courage once more, pick up the phone and repeat the above. This has now happened three times.

I can't pinpoint what exactly I'm finding so difficult here. It's a phone call, pure and simple. It isn't signing off on debt for the rest of my life, it isn't surveyors or lawyers, leasehold or freehold. Just one phone call that I am unable to make.

When I woke up this morning, fresh and aware at six thirty, I didn't feel any less brave than I normally do. I didn't shudder and wonder if I would spend the day huddled in a corner, frightened of my shadow. In fact, I felt remarkably chipper, ready to face the day. What has happened since then? Why this need for someone to "hold my hand"? Where has the love of adventure gone?

Could it be true that inside I am a coward? Heavens forbid!

There, that did it! Deed done, and ironically he wasn't there. Now I feel just a little foolish but I suspect that all adventurers need a kick sometimes.

interesting times

My Dad mentioned that famous Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times", whilst we ate dinner at Carluccio's last night. The past few days have certainly been interesting on many different levels, from the trials and tribulations of my dear friends home-buying antics, and on to today, where work has been a hotbed of gossip after the press releases over the weekend.

I'm not sure that "interesting" is necessarily a curse, but it certainly gives one to think on the stability of those things we take for granted. I like "interesting" in terms of the excitement that changes bring, that little bit of thrilling uncertainty that isn't enough to unsettle. I like the glimpses into the future that I can now see, little clues of what may lay ahead, of what possibilities there may be. It is an adventure, sitting here on the edge of new things, toes gently dipping into the abyss, and I do like an adventure every once in a while.

on writing letters

I have recently taken up the habit of writing letters, proper letters with a fountain pen and an inky finger. It is a past-time I did much of in my childhood and teens but not so much since hitting my twenties. For the last three days I have been patiently waiting for my special paper to arrive, directly from Bond Street. This afternoon, after a not too dull two-hour meeting, I got back to my desk to find the package sitting there, waiting for me.

As with all new pleasures, I did try to open it slowly but you can only open envelopes at reasonable speeds, it isn't like wrapping paper. Inside there are two beautiful blue boxes, and in those beautiful blue boxes are the soft, smooth, off-white paper and envelopes.

Old fashioned pleasures, in days when we live on technology as if it is part of our five-a-day, are a refreshing change. That feel of smooth writing paper, of the pen nip floating gently over the top in loops and swirls, of grammar and punctuation, full sentences and full words, it can't be beat. This evening I shall sit with a glass of wine, and write letters. I shall be calm, and peaceful and bare a little bit of my soul once more.

beauty

It has been a busy and sometimes worrying two weeks, with time passing far too quickly. I have found myself skipping through whole days without noticing and wondering what I did in them. On Saturday morning I decided I had had enough, and picking up my bag of library books, walked out of the door to breakfast at Bill's.

As I've said before, the best way to start the day is with breakfast at Bill's. I sat at a clean wooden table, ordered my coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon, and sat people watching for what, for once, felt like a long time. The food, as always, was delicious, and set a smile on my face that would last all day.

Once repleat, I wandered off to the library, to take back old books and take out new ones. I am researching Vita Sackville-West for the personal project on my design course. I started with a couple of people I wanted to look into, but having read Vita's letters to Virginia Woolf, I found myself hooked. There is something about her personality that fascinates me, something romantic that pulls on the part of me that loves old fashioned country gardens, foxgloves and neat green lawns.

From lunchtime my house became a hive of activity, with black plastic sacks filled with rubbish, and old junk. Furniture was moved, trips to the tip were made, crowbars were put to use and cups of restorative coffee were drunk. It is odd to see the house developing, to come back from work and see the hallway repainted, new curtains, new styles and yet to have it all happen whilst I'm not there. Going home becomes quite an adventure - what will have changed today?

I dined with mum at The George in Alfriston, of steak and chips and a well-rounded merlot. We talked into the early hours of politics and liberty, with a fervour that was refreshing. No headache kept me tied to the bed, and on the drive home the sun shone brightly into the car, flooding my heart with light and forcing me to look on the countryside with new eyes. It would seem that no matter how difficult some weeks can be, there is always beauty just outside. Sometimes I need to remember that.

jaunts

This morning a lovely thing happened to me. I walked down the stairs, and there, just inside the door, was a letter from a very dear friend of mine. In this letter was a remark about how lovely going on jaunts into the countryside with me is. I would have to agree, jaunts into the countryside are great and this year I am planning plenty.

Unfortunately the current state of gloom doesn't really inspire me to do more than shut my front door, close the curtains and sit down with the bears and a cup of tea to watch the raindrops fall in comfort. I have decided that February is a ghastly month and the end of it can't come soon enough.

It isn't helped by the vast quantities of money I have to spend on car insurance, road tax and MOT which all fall within the next two weeks. Of course, I love my car and I won't do without it (see country jaunts above, very important for such things), but it costs a lot of money, especially when it's all at once. My bank balance is soon to look terribly sad and I shall worry over it, I expect, for some time to come. I am a worrier by nature and I don't feel that things are right in the world unless I'm worrying about something.

Still, I shall look on the bright side. Spring will soon be here and much of it I intend to spend knee deep in flower beds, strolling along through gardens, over the downs and picnicing on blankets. Though all on the cheap of course!

afternoon tea

It's a little odd that having spent years protesting that I hate tea, that it's a horrible drink and tastes funny, that only coffee will do; I have been drinking a remarkable amount of tea in the last two weeks.

It all started on the day I got my hair cut (still loving it, I have to say). All dull with hangover, for some reason tea was the first thing that popped into my head when the girl, who was to wash my hair, asked me what I'd like to drink. I drank it, and looked about, and realised that the bright white lights didn't seem so bright, and I perked up. So much so that I had another cup shortly afterwards.

Since then I haven't looked back. Lyndsey is especially happy about this, as it means we can now drink tea together. Such a change from wine or coffee which is indeed our staple diet (with the occassional cocktail when the desire strikes us). In fact, I'm drinking a lovely cup of Twinings as I type. Delicious.

I now have lovely visions of summer afternoons spent in a hammock, or lounging on grass, picking at home made scones with whipped cream and strawberry jam, sipping from freshly made tea. Proper tea at that, in a tea pot, loose and dancing.

I really am becoming rather fond of the stuff. On the last couple of evenings, at the end of last week, before dashing off to theatre, or falling asleep at Katharine's dinner party (at the table, no less), it was tea that I grabbed in haste. I took a few precious moments to sup it, before dashing off, hither and tither, tripping in heels or pouting with lippy. I admit, I am a convert. I take all those remarks I made, about horrible taste, back. Let me make scones, I say, and all will be well in the world. And more tea!

green fields

There are days when my brain, constantly interrupted by the phone and people bursting into the office with pleas for help, beings to feel as if it is going to explode. Hundreds of different thoughts fly about, as if electrically charged, bumping into each other and starting little fires. I find myself talking faster, as if this will somehow help me keep up with my thoughts, words rushing out and all into one.

And suddenly it all stops, and I stare out the window at the blue sky and the green fields, and I have this extraordinary desire to run. Run and run and run, through the fields and towards the end of the sky.

I hate running. This tells me that I need to slow down, take a break, have a coffee or perhaps even tea, and banish these horrible thoughts of running forever. Bring back the stroll, I say.

oh brother of mine

After spending Friday night with James, watching Casablanca and drinking wine, I had a glorious Saturday to enjoy. It started with a mad hunt for painkillers and a glass of water, which Saturday mornings are wont to do, and proceeded with scrambled eggs on toast and a stroll into town to get my hair cut. I was very brave, I sat in the chair, gazing into the mirror and sipping a large cup of tea whilst inches of my hair were snipped off. I'm very pleased with the somewhat shorter but cleaner cut. In fact I'd go so far as to say that I think my bob suits me well.

Once dried and styled, I skipped out into the street and met James for another cup of tea and a wander around town. The poor fellow was feeling a little tired and out of sorts, probably due to the late night the night before, and so I let him wander home whilst I popped off to join the Library. It seemed a very strangly ordered place, with none of the books I wanted being listed in alphabetical order. I didn't mind too much, and had a good sort through the shelves, eventually taking three books by Vita Sackville-West which I need to read and inwardly digest for my Garden Design course.

I trotted off home, had a bowl of soup and waited for my brother to arrive, before tripping off to town again to buy a present for Mum's birthday and to pick up little brothers new Gresham Blake suit. I am a big fan of pin-stripe, and a great fan of Gresham Blake. I have to try very hard not to run up huge bills and walk out in style.

After yet another trip home and back into town, we went out for Thai at Mai Pei Ped, discussed families, the mob, jobs, cars, and other interesting things, before a perfect trip to Bar Valentino for more delicious cocktails and silliness.

All in all, a fabulous time with that brother of mine.