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.

decisions, decisions

I've decided, I want a iBook. I've been debating on laptops for a good six months now and I've dithered from PC to Mac over and over again, with people advising me on both sides. But I've finally decided. iBook it is.

I think.

Or perhaps I'm still not sure.

Decisions, decisions...

wanted: one adventure

This afternoon I quite fancy an adventure. It has been a while since anything one could call adventurous has happened to me, now I have a distinct longing. Unfortunately I have a niggling feeling that adventures are not events that one can just pop out and purchase; "Shop-keep, find me an adventure!" They are the sort of events that just happen, when you least expect it, whilst you're hoovering or mowing the lawn or something equally domestic and dull.

The most adventurous thing that happened to me today is my left shoe falling off. I have a suspicion that it is slightly too big, so I've folded my sock over and over my heel which seems to have done the trick. You see, that isn't adventurous at all. In fact, it's not even worth mentioning, and I now feel slightly silly for having done so.

I don't really mind what sort of adventure I have, it could be swashbuckling, romantic, daring, the list could go on and on. What concerns me most is that an afternoon without meetings, a free afternoon with just my lonesome in-tray, should pass without even the slightest wiff of adventure. What a shameful waste.

sunshine, glorious sunshine

Today is turning out to be a splendid day and I put it down to one simple thing: sunshine. Without it, we all mope about, tired and depressed but not today. As I stomped around Stanmer Park at lunch time, I noticed the number of fellow stompers had grown dramatically. There seemed to be hundreds of us, lapping up the rays as our feet walked through the mud.

This afternoon I shall go home, cheery and chilled, to crack open the gin and welcome in the weekend. It's good to be awake again, basking in the glow.

soft boiled

I'm having one of those weeks when my brain feels like a soft boiled egg. Every morning I wake up and feel as if I haven't slept at all. My usual two cups of coffee slip down but don't even shake the sleepiness and I find I've mislaid all signs of intelligence, having probably left them by the sink. I plod through the day, unsure if whether anything I do is correct, but crossing my fingers and smiling. By the time I get home I'm bedraggled and confused, I mutter to the cats and cross my fingers that the next morning I'll be myself once more.

I have decided that the cure for this soft boiled brain is gin and tonic and sunshine. There's nothing like lying back in the sun against soft green grass, with an iced gin and tonic. I'd like to be listening to Madeline Peyroux, feet tapping softly and sunglasses shielding the bright light. In the distance I would be able to smell trout cooking on the barbeque, with the promise of freshly picked strawberries and cream. Bliss. Oh for spring, oh for summer, oh for gin!

bill's best beginning

Yesterday morning I got up at eight and strolled into town for breakfast at Bill's. It didn't take me long to decide that breakfast at Bill's is the best beginning to any day. I ate gorgeous scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on delicious home made bread and drank a delectable, creamy latte. I wrote notes for myself in my moleskine, and on looking up found myself surrounded by kindred spirits, moleskines out, heads down, coffees steaming.

After breakfast I took a turn around the town, before driving out to Newick for my Grandfather's birthday party. It was a lovely afternoon of food and conversation. I took special delight in the story of my meeting with Simon Button, a friend of my uncle James. At a very tender age, and literally knee high, I was introduced to Simon who stood at over six foot two in his stockinged feet. My eyes raised from floor level, my head tilting further and further back until I eventually fell over backwards. I'm not sure my eyes ever reached his face.

I drove home in the dark, before curling up on the sofa with a bottle of red wine to finish the day in comfort. A perfect end to a perfect day.

stanmer stroll

At lunchtime, Sue and I took a walk in Stanmer Park. We set off across the football pitches, wellieboots picking up the soft mud, and climbed the hill to the cap of trees. It's a long climb, much like walking up Coldean Lane, which runs along the same hill but further down. There were the usual lunchtime dog walkers, today it was spaniels, long soft ears flapping as they jogged along, sniffing tree trunks and picking up sticks to gnaw.

We walked under the bare trees, along the muddy paths and down the hill again behind the green houses and along beside the badgers, before heading back to work. It was a wonderfully refreshing walk, clean cool air and the joys of squelching mud under foot. We talked of holidays in the sun, hams cooked in Cherry Coke and the haunted underground tunnels in Edinburgh. We cleared our lungs, stretched our legs and felt as if we'd worked off at least some of the inevitable Christmas weight. And I remembered that even though the winter rips the leaves from the trees and drags away the colour from the world, it is still beautiful out there.

well read

Having recently commented that afternoons of reading books were to be a thing of the past, I was almost grateful on Friday when I came down with a cold. Once I'd got a three and a half hour meeting out of the way and dragged my sorry self home, all that I could face was sitting on the sofa, reading books for the rest of the weekend. Joy of joys.

There's nothing that quite beats sitting curled up, head rested on soft pillows, cats warming your feet with your nose in a book whilst the rain pours down outside. Ok, I was surrounded with boxes of tissues, cough medicine and painkillers, but I didn't have to move.

In fact, I didn't even have to cook as James came over on Saturday evening, with a Sainsbury's bag full of goodies and promptly made us a gorgeous pizza each. We discussed New Years Eve parties and the terrible script writing on a certain BBC drama. I drank a glass of warmed red wine, medicinal of course, and I managed to keep talking until gone eleven when I finally started wilting and crawled off to bed.

Of course, lovely as it was to spend the weekend engrossed in Rebus novels, dreaming of Edinburgh and the highlands, it meant that all those things I was supposed to be doing are still not done. They now hang over me, constant reminders, and although I was ill and so therefore couldn't possibly have done them, I feel guilt as if I've skivved off. It will be a busy week of catching up, especially as today is the first day of term. This evening though, I'm off to Narnia with Katharine. Needs must.

freedom passing

It's the last day of the holidays for me. Tomorrow it is back to work, back to early mornings of darkness and days in front of the computer. I will no longer be able to sit, engrossed in a book on the sofa for an afternoon, but will dash off to meetings and plan workloads.

I was going to spend the day in London, going around the National Gallery and the Tate Britain with Mum, but unfortunately Dad has managed to do some serious-sounding damage to his foot, and so has to be ferried to and from work in stockinged feet. I hope it recovers before they depart for snowier climes. My second plan was to go for a nice long walk, but the weather put a stop to that. Rain clouds hovering and drizzle dampening didn't fill me with enthusiasm, so I loaded up the car with the recycling and headed off towards Lewes. Once the boot was empty, I took a leisurely drive through Offham and turned left to Plumpton, running the car smoothly along under the downs, through Ditchling and up the Beacon to that glorious view at the top. Fields upon fields of green, squared off with hedgerows and thick clumps of cloud hanging low over it all.

This afternoon I braved a walk into town, managing to restrain myself and only buy two books. I shall spend the next few hours writing Thank You cards and curling up with a cup of steaming coffee and a book, the last peaceful afternoon of freedom.