People are nice

Now that sounds like a rather limp-wristed title for a blog post (and indeed one that doesn't smack of any meaty story or topic). But what the hell. I've come to the conclusion that, on the whole, when we're not trying to bomb/kill/strangle/shoot/stab each other, invade each others' countries (or indeed have altercations about boundary fences) human beings actually want to help each other. In a nice way.

My recent examples:

My neighbour helping me push my ageing and somewhat gnarly car down the hill to get it started. On a very cold morning.

The lady in a garage being incredibly helpful, after I'd accidentally filled up said car with diesel, instead of petrol. (It turns out that Tesco will get you off their forecourt - and to a nearby garage - for free. But they don't advertise this in case their forecourts are suddenly overrun with dodgy motors). Please note, this is an unrelated incident to the one above.

My Mum, and a man she kind of knows, helping me push said immobilised, full-of-diesel car out of the way of the petrol pumps.

The AA man who turned up at the Tesco garage to rescue me who a) Didn't laugh, b) Didn't take me to the nearest garage like he was supposed to, but instead took me to another garage which was c) Open on a Sunday afternoon and d) Much cheaper. Oh, and he e) Drove me to a cashpoint after remembering that they probably wouldn't take cards.

The lady who helped me push the SODDING car into a layby down the road yesterday after it wouldn't start (again). In the mud. (Unrelated to the two other car incidents above, my life is a bloody barrel of laughs, I tell you).

And all that within a mere 48 hours.

Other examples of niceness I can think of right now:

A couple of who came to my aid when I keeled over in Gatwick Airport a couple of years ago (had had a couple of crazy days working full time, plus freelance jobs on the side, plus legging back to watch my Mum get her PHD then trying to fly out to see my sister, with not much sleep and even less food along the way). I still have no idea who they were, other than one of them was a doctor, and they left me their phone number along with my passport and boarding card. And called me an ambulance.

A black cabbie in London who offered my friend Lou a free ride home on cold dark winter's night in Holloway, because he saw someone following her and wanted to make sure she'd get home all right (she didn't have any money, and he would have refused it anyway).

A now very good friend who offered me his flat when I was heartbroken and homeless a couple of years ago (after a bad breakup). I think he'd met me twice at that point. He was working abroad so his flat was empty and I badly needed somewhere to stay. He never asked for any rent either. His only reward? Well, he now gets lots of phone calls about how to build fences/fix cars/mend things I've broken. Usually a couple of times a week.

Oh, but there are many more examples. And not just in my life, but all over the place. Try this one for starters.

Take a look around you, and wallow in niceness for a change.

The world is my in-tray

So I've been toiling over a hot MacBook for a few weeks now on a project. This involves me typing away in what's now the study upstairs, with a lovely view over the churchyard.

For the most part, I write in silence. I find songs with lyrics mess with the words in my head, and so does the radio. Then it's all too easy for errant words to end up on the page, in the middle of a sentence about Ethernets or suchlike. And no good can come of that. Instrumentals and classical can be soothing, but mostly it's just silence.

Anyhow, I had to rouse myself from a transcendic copy daze yesterday and nip out to get some more toner. For some reason I looked to see where this particular cartridge had been made: Malaysia.

This triggered off an exploration of all the everyday objects within my reach. (OK, this might in part have been a copy avoidance technique, mid-way through a rather dull white paper).

But this is where they all come from:

MacBook: 'Designed in California, assembled in China'
Mouse: China
External Hard Drive: Thailand
Blank DVDs: India
Landline handset: China
Stapler: unidentified (where does it come from? WHERE?)
Blu-Tack: UK
Paperclips: UK (in fact about a mile down the road from my Mum)
Black Sharpie: USA
Yellow highlighter Sharpie: China
Black Uniball Microline pen: Japan
Yellow notebook: Cheshire, UK
Lipbalm: France
Plastic beaker: Kansas, USA

So there you have it. Or rather, there it was. Stuff from all over the world, all over my desk.

But does that make a global citizen? Or merely a glutton?

PS: Try it for yourself, it's strangely addictive.

Storms of a different kind

I headed back to London last weekend, for a now annual Thanksgiving meal, tirelessly prepared by an American friend. I hope he won't mind me talking about this on here. No names will be mentioned, and the couple of people who read this blog, who will know who I'm talking about, I know have the discretion and loyalty he deserves.

It was fun to see everyone, if a little overwhelming (hell, I'm now used to seeing an average of 3 people a week, including the postman). I brought chairs, plates and cutlery, another friend provided the flat we were eating in, another brought a selection of vegetable dishes, yet another had cooked stuffing and bought a case of champagne... you can see how this is all working.

So, the table(s) groaned under the weight of the food. I think there were 13 of us in total, a mix of old and new friends, neighbours, ex-neighbours, and ex-flatmates. The turkey met a round of applause. The chef raised a toast (and nearly made everyone cry) by thanking us for being there (surely we should have been thanking him). We sang a somewhat confused version of the Star Spangled Banner and then we feasted... We drank. We laughed. We reconnected (or at least I did). We had a spectacular afternoon and evening.

Until his girlfriend kicked off. I'm trying to explain this in terms that are not derogatory to anyone, but the whole thing now just makes me rather sad. For reasons known best to herself, she destroyed all the goodwill harboured by mostly everyone within hearing (if not striking) distance. Before being told in no uncertain terms to go home.

Now this may sound harsh, but it wasn't the first time this has happened. Last year, the very same meal, in the very same flat, followed a very similar form (although that year it was gravy that ended up all around our host's home, this year it was red wine). In fact, the kicking off has become a 'when' part of any social gathering, rather than an 'if' (neither of which should ever have to be a consideration - be it pub, party or dinner at someone's house). And none which is fair on our American friend.

The following day was filled with multiple apologetic emails and tearful phonecalls, full of self-loathing and self-hatred from the (now, ex) girlfriend. Unfortunately, it fell mostly on deaf ears as she had, so to speak, well and truly cooked her own goose. Most friends are just fed up with tolerating her behaviour. And why not? She is a major pain in the arse. Quite often.

But surely underneath this obnoxious (and it was) behaviour, lies something else? Why would someone bright, vivacious, intelligent and caring, keep destroying whatever relationships they have, which they claim matter to them more than anything else?

A couple of us (including myself) have kept communication lines open, in the hope (and with very clear requests) that she goes to see her GP. Whether she does or not is up to her. Whether she manages to salvage any of the now broken friendships is again up to her. Am I pissed off with her? Yes. Am I worried about her? Yes. Will I shrug in a couple of weeks and say 'Oh, it's OK, everyone will have forgotten by now'? No.

Let's face it, none of us is perfect. And sometimes it's not the mistakes we make that define us, but rather if (or how) we redeem ourselves that does.

But we are all responsible for our own selves, and our own behaviour.

Until then, all bets are off.

A silent start

I awoke with a start in the night, a millisecond before the power went out. I just had time to think 'Whaaa..?" then

*BANG CRASH RUMBLE*

Holy mother of God, either a juggernaut has crashed into downstairs or there's one hell of a storm going on, I thought in the darkness, my heart beating a little faster than it usually is at 2am.

I got up to find the torch (no easy business in the pitch black with no contacts in). (Note to self, having a torch that isn't quite where you think it is, is a million miles away from having a torch that is definitely where you think it is). And thinking about it, it would have made bugger all difference if I had had contacts in. But I digress...

Then lightning almost blinded me. It was like Hollywood lightning - everything flashed up bright white, brighter than I can ever remember seeing it before. Then...

*BANG CRASH RUMBLE GGRRRRR RUUUUUUUMBLE*

Think Thor in a really bad mood, beating a gong the size of France. Then belching the belch of a thousand years. Magnificent!

I took in several rounds of this by candlelight (still hadn't found the torch). It took about 10 minutes for the storm to sound slightly further away (i.e. not directly above the cottage or about to knock on the door and invite itself in.) Then the fridge buzzed back on again. I blew out the candle and went back to bed, having rather enjoyed the entertainment.

Back to business, and straight back home again

So I drove to a client meeting yesterday. Yes, it was a long way away, but then again I choose to live a long way away from most places. I like it.

It was at a business park, close to a motorway junction... much like many others I've been to. You get there a bit early, spend almost as long as it took to get there looking for somewhere to park, then try and identify which of the many identical buildings you're supposed to be in.

Once you find it, you tell the person on reception who you're meeting, fill in an ID pass, then wait for around half an hour or so past the appointed meeting time, until someone comes to meet you with apologies of 'It's just sooooo hectic'. (Fortunately, the time was easily spent in small talk with another freelancer there for the same meeting, and our ushers - or suits - from the agency we're working for.)

Then you're paraded through an interminable rat's maze of floors and 'open plan' cubicles that each contain a grey-looking human, typing away at something. 'Phew,' you think, 'Rather them than I.' (I've done it, I toiled in the bowels of the IBM building on the Southbank for almost two years, then another 6 months in a business park around the back of Terminal 4 at Heathrow. Then close on 3 years for an Internet startup, then about another 10 years for various agencies - although they tend to have much nicer work environments, if not hours.)

After being ushered into a small room crammed with chairs, someone offers you coffee while someone else is still trying to connect a projector to a laptop. This goes on for a bit.

But now...

Coffee arrived, we opened our notepads and sat expectantly. The meeting host grabbed the nearby Star Trek phone to dial into a conference call with someone who was too busy to be there in person. The other freelancer helpfully pointed out the cable from the laptop was plugged into the wrong socket on the projector. And a presentation appeared on the screen.

"Oh, I don't have the presentation in front of me, just tell me what you see and I'll dig around in my memory banks..." said our invisible phone guest. Our shoulders sagged a little, including those of our host.

About an hour later, we'd got through about 20 relevant slides, and about 40 irrelevant ones. He dialled off, and in through the door burst our next Product Manager. She was actually good. Told us what we needed to know, didn't tell us what we didn't need to know, even cracked a few jokes. I think she even said 'bugger' at one point. Then she raced off for another meeting...

At this point, one of the suits said in a cracked voice, 'Um, could I have some water please?" (Two hours in a hot stuffy room can make you do crazy things like this). Water was duly administered, in thumble-sized plastic cups.

Our next presenter was wheeled in, clutching a piece of paper. "Um... I haven't received a presentation or anything,' said our host. 'Oh," he said ala quelle surprise, 'That'll probably be because I wasn't asked to give one, I just thought I'd be here answering questions."

He was duly shuffled off to find a presentation, then came back and spent the next hour and a half explaining, in the most miniscule detail, things human beings shouldn't ever need to know about technology.

We'd over-run by about half an hour at this point. Every time he took a breath, we all began to (tactfully) put caps on pens, and shuffle our papers. Then he'd start again. I saw the two suits looking at their watches, and mumbling things about the creative director having waited in reception for a while by now (us freelancers were due to escape - they, poor souls, had another 2-hour meeting lined up after this one).

Eventually our host brightly suggested that - although they needed to move on to the next meeting, why didn't I (and t'other freelancer) make use of this gentleman's time by staying on and asking any more questions we had? In my most polite manner - and I hope without sounding at all desperate - I suggested that he'd been so thorough, I simply didn't have any more questions. The other freelance very eagerly agreed.

So we made our escape... escorted back through the cubicles of grey things tapping away (we'd never have found the way out unaided). And fled into the dark, rainy evening. I greeted the Maxi like the old comfortable friend it is and then spent another two hours driving home.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not dissing the people that work in places like that. It just makes me appreciate how lucky I am that I can (mostly) do my job in a cosy cottage by the fire. (Or even on the most foul afternoon... under a blankie on the sofa.) I like to think I've paid my dues (I've done late nights, early mornings, 20-hour shifts, calling people back into work at 9am on a Saturday after I've made them stay there until midnight the night before, and in one case watching an entire summer go by through the office windows).

And yes, I earn less money now. But I wouldn't swap it for anything.

Homework

I have recently been asked to work on what could a huge copy project over the next few months. This is good, not only in that my coffers are now running low, but also because apart from a few meetings in that there London, I can do most of the work from home. In front of the fire. And then send it off by email. This was all part of the Big Plan and I'm very happy it's coming together.

However the downside is that they seem to think I'm on tap around the clock. On a couple of evenings last week, I was emailed copy amends late in the day, with a plaintive request to turn them around for first thing the next morning - and in one case by later on that evening.

This isn't a habit I want to fall into, especially as the latter meant I had to cancel a trip to see my brother. But so far the pros and cons seem to jostle fairly well together, even if it meant I felt like a bad sister. But hey, at least I'll be able to afford to buy him a Christmas present...

No offence, Part III

After a few days' respite, G returned to crack on with what's now known as 'That Bastard Fence'. The previous evening, I'd picked up a pickaxe and sledgehammer from lovely Lorraine's house in Brighton, one of the few items we left after previously ransacking her house for furniture. Lorraine also insisted on feeding me while I was there, despite having a tough day at a conference. She is one of life's wholeheartedly generous people.

So back to TBF... I'd dug a baby, kind of 'my first trench' wobbly ditch in the ground the previous day by way of trying to help. So G put the tools to use in the chilly garden while I worked very hard writing copy by the fire inside the cottage. Now this may sound like skiving but I can assure you it was simply a fair division of labour.

And the posts finally started going into the ground. The unending rain of the previous few days helped no-end on the... um... final couple of posts that weren't underscored by beelzebub's play-doh or whatever it is down there.

After shooting off to buy some slightly larger tacks, the majority of the wire was attached to said posts. And blow me down, I had a fence! We tested the fenced area by putting G's companion in it (Lochi, a lively and lovely German Pointer). After snuffling about a bit, he looking at the shut gate and started whining piteously. At that point we knew it was dog proof. Hurrah! Victory!

All that's left for me to do now is finish off the tacking and a bit of digging to stop anything unwanted burrowing in (likewise anything wanted burrowing out). Fed and watered G with spag bol and red wine by way of much appreciated thanks.

Logging on

I've never ordered logs before - but bearing in mind the cottage has no central heating, it was time to buy some warm for the winter.

Where does one start? Well, with googling local suppliers and focusing on those that seem to be reasonably priced, and who offer free local delivery.

I blithely placed an order for a 'full-load'. Then ran out of the logs that had been kindly left in the shed, and bought a small mesh-bag from a garage. The woodburner didn't like these logs. Too big. Too damp.

This was on a Friday, and my log order was due on the Monday.

So first thing on Monday morning, I called my logman (as I can now refer to him) to ask about the size of the logs, and explained that the big ones didn't seem to burn too well. In London, this would have probably been met with a 'you get what you ordered' mentality. In this case, he asked about the woodburner, the size of the logs I wanted, if I'd ever bought logs before, and if I was sure I wanted 'a full-load' in case I couldn't store it all properly. And did I want them stacked?

I opted for a half-load (non-stacked) instead of the full-load, to see how I got on. And while this effectively halved the value of the order, means he is now my logman of choice, for as long as I'm requiring logs. (Customer loyalty, see? Give good service and you get it).

He deposited all the logs in a big loggy pile next to the Maxi a few hours later. Which I then moved, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, into a pile inside the woodshed.

*Fill with logs, doooooown the steep bit, across the back of the cottage, uuuuuuup the less steep bit, across the lawn. Shed. Empty. Stack. Dooooown the less steep bit, across the back of the cottage, back uuuuuuuup the steep bit, fill with logs*

Darkness fell. Logs still remained by the Maxi. I continued on my wheelbarrow mission. Until the last log was, well if not in the shed (that ran out of room, thank heavens he suggested a half-load), but safely under cover.

I returned to the cottage and sat down. The heavens then opened. I sat smugly by my now roaring fire. "My logs are in, my logs are in, my logs are not getting wet." I thought. Then 15 minutes later I remembered I'd left all the washing on the line.

My kingdom for a sharpener

Spent the morning in a wild goose chase, or at least a wild axe-sharpening chase.

I had a blunt axe. And a load of logs. And no kindling.

Thought I... I will simply sharpen my axe, and chop the logs into little-itty bits.

So, I went to the Garden Store, who said "No! We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but we think Homebase might do."

I went to Homebase. "No!" said they. "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but the Builder's Suppliers across the way might."

After calling G, (apparently now a polymath on all things practical or otherwise, and being instructed to bring said axe down to sharpen on his friend's grindstone), I went to the Builder's Suppliers (across the way).

"No...!" they said in a now familiar refrain. Then they sent me to the The Outdoor Shop down the road.

"No!" Said also The Outdoor Shop (down the road). "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe. Try the Hardware Shop about 3 doors down."

I tried the Hardware Shop (about 3 doors down) to be told again, "No... but there's a Timber Merchant's up the road, they have a shop and if they don't have anything, they'll know what to do."

At the Timber Merchant's (up the road), I waited amongst overalled, elderly chaps who viewed me with some suspicion.

"All I want is something to sharpen my axe please, it's just a little hatchet really," I said as I blinked and smiled. The man took me to some chisel sharpeners in the corner. "Those won't do for you, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll be wanting a grindstone."

No offence, Part II

A new day dawned, sort of.

Sunday, rainy, grey. Also Remembrance Sunday.

After I lost the traditional 'wait until the first person cracks, gets up and puts the kettle on,' standoff, and G emerged from another night on the sofa, we watched a small party of people lay a wreath in the churchyard across the road, while a lone bugler played.

Strangely moving. Also moving to think that without all the pomp and ceremony, and aside from all the TV cameras, thousands of small groups of people across the UK mark those who fell to protect them, with a simple moment of silence.

After the bugler finished, and after the kettle boiled, we returned to the fence.

"I'm not working in the rain,' said G. Can't say I blamed him. I didn't want to work in the rain either. So instead, I brainwashed him with The West Wing until he fled back to his new pad in Dorset, clutching the entire series box set (minus series 7, which I was still watching), with a promise to return in a few days.

To be continued... (again)...

No offence, Part I

One of my current missions is to find myself a furry-faced companion (one that won't answer back, stops me looking like a mad lonely witch on countryside hikes, and which will curl up happily at my feet and gaze at me with adoration, etc).

This included a recent visit to an RSPCA shelter, during which I had to try not to cry. Several times. After talking to the nice people there and filling in a form, I've registered as someone who wants to rehome a dog. Coming home, I called the local RSPCA volunteer who would need to come and inspect the cottage, to make sure it was a healthy home for a dog. Fair enough.

The nice man I spoke explained the only obvious problem - why they require any fences to be 4 feet high. In his words, "Even if the dog comes from the worst home in the world, it's the only home he knows. So when he comes to you, he's in a strange place, with a strange person. And as nice as you might be, the first chance he gets, he'll try and get back to his home. And the last thing we want is for doggie to jump out onto the road and get run over."

I can't disagree with this at all.

Luckily, my landlords are doglovers too, and gave me the go ahead to improve the fencing to meet these requirements. (The fact they left me a dogbasket 'In case you want to get one' kind of helps.)

What we first thought to be a simple job of elevating the height of the gate turned into a somewhat bigger job when my landlady reminded me about the fencing around the back of the garden and garage. Definitely not 4 feet high, especially the bits that had fallen over.

So I called my (now) long suffering ex-flatmate. I believe my words were along the lines of 'Could you come and help me build a fence? It'll just be banging a few posts in, and a bit of wire, no trouble." G, bless his socks, came up the next day. We bought lots of posts, and lots of dogproof wire. Then darkness settled, so we settled down to a cosy evening catching up, thinking we'd get it all sorted the next day.

Can you spot the bit where this turns into a story? It's about now.

After removing the old fence (G's genius plan - tie it to the back of the Jeep, then hit the accelerator - worked a treat), he kept himself busy finding excuses to charge around with a chainsaw chopping offending things down. Well, anything down really. We (i.e. he) started to dig holes for the posts. (I was tasked with building a bonfire to burn evidence of the chainsaw massacre, probably to keep me out of the way more than anything else, wise plan).

*Dig, dig, clunk*

Oh bollox, hit a stone.

Move places.

*Dig, dig, clunk*

Bugger - another rock.

*Dig, dig, clunk*

Hang on a minute...

Yes, it turns out, after much more digging, that about 6 inches under the soil all around the back of the cottage garden is one huge solid lump of stone, rock, builders rubble, and possibly a subterranean motorway.

Darkness descended again. We resettled by the fire to consider the options.

To be continued...

JFDIY

I am now convinced that the whole reason marriage continues as an institution has nothing to do with love, religion or social structure. It exists purely as some flatpack-led conspiracy that makes most modern furniture almost impossible to construct unless there are two of you.

However, after balancing struts on a variety of objects including books and an old shoebox full of pens - and inventing a few new yoga poses, I can say with pride that having made my bed, I'm going to damn well enjoy lying in it.

Never stop learning

I’m a big fan of The West Wing. After catching a few sporadic episodes here and there on TV over the years, I saw the entire seven series boxset on sale in HMV last January, and bought it on a whim.

I still haven’t watched the whole thing (I ground to a halt mid-series five, when the writing floundered and – ahem – Rob Lowe left).

But I’ve picked up where I left off (it gets better again during and after the Sesame Street episode, and the sixth series is currently rocking). For the most part, it is excellently written, acted, directed and cast. I love the sharp dialogue, the interplays between characters, the subplots and the bigger picture.

I also love the fact when I watch it, I feel like I’m learning something – about American politics and how it all works. I still only have a vague grasp of half of it; the Primaries? Super Tuesday? What’s that all about then? What’s the difference between Congress and the Senate? Why does the Vice President seem to work in a vacuum to the President? Why do they only have two political parties? But it makes me want to find out more – about their system and ours – which can only be a good thing.

Now I’m not daft enough to suppose that this is actually real life (I am aware it’s a TV show) – but I think it’s probably a more accurate portrayal of life in the US political strata than say, ‘Yes Minister’ ever was for ours.

But how and when will I ever use this knowledge? Probably never.

Then again, I always used to sneer at Maths as pretty pointless at school, thinking (with an sulky teenage flounce); ‘When the hell am I ever going to need that? I’m going to be a writer.’

Well, the first job I was offered after graduating with a BA Hons in Journalism was… working in a bookmakers. It was pretty grim and it's fair to say I hated it, but it paid the bills until I lurched sideways into copywriting.

Never stop learning. You never know when you’ll need it.

Mr Nobody

It’s now four weeks since I first applied for a broadband connection.

Mr Nobody kindly connected my landline within 2 days. Well, I’m assuming it was Mr Nobody as Virgin Media swears blind it wasn’t them. My particular favourite was being told (repeatedly) ‘But you have no landline connected’. Whilst talking to them... yup... on the landline.

Oh, and when calling to cancel my account, being told that it had never been active in the first place.

Mere moments after that, Mr Nobody switched my landline off. Funny that.

Fields of reference

I’m way out of mine. My weekend nights used to involve a lot of wine, lazy chitchat, maybe cocktails, dinner at a restaurant and a late and bleary following morning. Also usually involving Messers Hunt, Lamb, Cripps, Fricker (and Mrs Fricker) and assorted other players.

Most people in this country don’t live like that. I was reminded of this when I went to a Friday night pub quiz with some friends (Natasha and Stephen) who rescued me from no-car-no-internet-no-work-no-interaction-with-people-week for a night. Hallelujah!

But I barely knew any of the answers. And the ones I thought I knew I got wrong. Serves me right. Turns out I don’t know my Lady Gaga from my Gwen Stefani, or my onions from my beans.

First duty Saturday morning was hollering at a pony-sized Rhodesian Ridgeback, until she got out of a cow-and-calf pen in the stables (before she ate all the calf shit, or was kicked in the head by the cow), then ‘escorting’ her back to the house.

Twice.

Then a new field - or at least a wet and muddy one, which I ran around in the rain, for an hour. With a hangover. With Tash, someone who is a potential Olympic althlete*.

And you know what? I bloody enjoyed all of it.

* Running ‘with’ in this case, really means running ‘quite far behind’.

Milk mates

A word of advice… When you’re six miles from the nearest shop, and your car doesn’t work, you should stock up on more cartons of longlife milk than you smugly put by ‘for an emergency’. Or at least have a friend nice enough to drop some off for you in the morning, miles out of her way to work. (Thanks Tash!)

Ladybirds

The cottage is under a plague. Not of locusts – but of ladybirds.

After a rainstorm last Wednesday, I went outside to the woodshed, to collect some wood. (Well, what were you expecting?) Turning around on my way back to the kitchen door, I was amazed by the hundreds, if not thousands of ladybirds crawling across the white clapboards. Astounded. In awe.

All was fine until they started heading indoors. I have red ones with black spots, and black ones with red spots. I have little ones, big ones, nasty buzzy flying ones and sneaky ones that come in through the gap by the kitchen window and also around the back door (as far as I can tell). The catflap seems impervious. So far.

On Saturday morning, my patience was breached by a battalion of the buggers on the kitchen ceiling, walls, windows and so forth. I went to war, armed with a dustpan and brush.

An hour later, I went to war again.

And an hour after that, again.

Personally, I was more worried about the ones I knew were there, but couldn’t find after I turned my back to find the dustpan and brush.

I stopped cursing the spiders, and began egging them on.

Spiders

Anyone that knows me, knows that I don’t like spiders. YES, I know I’m bigger than they are. YES, I know they’re probably more scared of me, than I am of them. YES, I know they eat the flies, blah blah blah.

I just don’t like them.

Well, if desensitisation has anything to answer for, its time is now.

Besides checking my bed (before I get into it), the floor (before I get out of bed), my shoes (before I put them on), my slippers (before I take off my shoes), the shower (before I take off my clothes), and my clothes (before I put them on), I’m fine.

Apart from, however, the behemoth that drummed across the floor towards me the other morning. I’ve seen smaller cats. A slight scream may have escaped me. Alas, I was doing so well…

All is not going according to plan

The day after my final drive down from London, The Maxi stopped working. Trying to start it resulted in a noise somewhat like a big old rusty chain tumbling around inside a dry washing machine – on spin cycle. Not good.

I swear that car has a perverse personality. On this occasion, it was saying ‘I got you down here, now do the rest on your own’. Awkward, sodding machine.

Luckily, one of the first questions I asked my new neighbours, was if they knew someone who would be sympathetic to the whims of an aging, cranky Austin Maxi. Luckily, they did.

With this number, I called the breakdown service. The Maxi was duly collected, and taken off (in disgrace) to a garage in Ringmer.

Where it has remained ever since.

They ordered a starter motor, and were sent the wrong one. They ordered a new set of points, and were delivered a set with one missing. So all were sent back, and they (and I) are still awaiting correct parts (the postal strike is not helping here). After they finally get delivered, the goddamn thing had better start or its days are numbered.

And still no Internet. It’s far too long and boring a saga to get into, as by the time this is published, hopefully it will be sorted. But HOW CAN IT TAKE A MONTH TO FLICK A SWITCH AND CONNECT ME?

No-one said it would be easy.

Thank God for walking boots and a bicycle.

The more things change…

…the more they change.

I’ve swapped an enviable riverside flat, in the most beautiful part of London (I think) for a small clapboard cottage in a hamlet in East Sussex (equally beautiful I also like to think).

Not to mention saying goodbye to the closest-knit community of neighbours I’ve lived amongst, and some very good friends I hope distance will make no difference to. You know who you are.

So, I’ve gone from; next door to a riverside pub (and three doors away from the next one on the other side – although that one was a bit rubbish), a cosy gourmet restaurant across the way, and the local convenience store five minutes down the road to…

A church. 14 houses. A pretty village green. Six miles to the nearest shop (which is also the closest supermarket). And no pub - not in this village, and not in the next one either.

Some of my friends seem to find this a bit shocking.

But did I mention being woken by the hooting of owls, instead of the rattling of trains?

Gentle sunshine dappling through the trees around the church?

The pale turquoise river that flows sometimes fast, sometimes slow, through the wide, flat valley towards the sea?

Have I mentioned them?

I think I have now.