Be sé bæðweg

Hello.

Yes, it's me.   

Writing to you from MY NEW GAFF.

Yep, that's right.  Inside a property that I am paying for, cleaning in, washing myself and all my clothes in, burping in, farting in and keeping neat and tidy.  Although when I say `paying for' I of course mean covering a 50% share of - the other half being that of the Chuppies.  As it is OUR place, so please excuse the `my new gaff' phrase I typed earlier but I am just so ruddy excited about having a little place of my own - scrap that : of OUR own - that I am sure you will excuse the odd mistake.  Even if I spend the remainder of this blogging post yammering on about the property as if it was just mine.

Which of course it isnt.

So, where to start.  Well I guess the moving in day would do just as anywhere for a good starting point.  Which took place on the 3rd of May.  Nearly two weeks ago.

The sun was shining.  The birds were whistling.  And me and the Chuppies were holed up at my folks for the morning waiting for the big `key release' moment from the estate agents.  Whilst we didnt anticipate getting the keys until late morning, excitement, nerves and a mild impatience at moving the ruddy fuck in, had led to us getting to the folks at just before 8.30am.  About half an hour before the estate agents even opened.  And an hour before our solicitors were going to transfer funds to `the other side'.  However, it felt the best thing to be down in a place nearby so that we would be ready to get the keys at a moment's notice, and so we drank a few drinks and waited.

The first contact came in at about 10am which was an e-mail from our solicitor confirming that the other side now had the necessary funds and that whilst the other side's solicitor wasnt actually in her office yet we should, hopefully, hear word within half an hour as to the release of the keys.  Bottoms clenched and smiles at rigor mortis level, we carried on with the wait until (lawks a mercy on high) the estate agents contacted me to let me know the keys were ready for collection whenever we were.

"Thank you" I calmly responded to the agent, before terminating the call, and then, with the Chuppies, indulged in lots of hugs and handshakes with the folks.

And then we were off.

The estate agents were just ten minutes up the road (by van) and so it wasnt long before the Chuppies had parked up in a nearby side road and I'd scampered out heading straight to the estate agents shopfront like a manic homing pigeon to its beacon.  Carefully noting the `Pull Door' sign next to the door, I'd deftly pulled it towards me and skilfully manoeuvred in - whilst tripping up the door's entrance step and dragging in half of the external matting in with me.

But this did not matter.  For whilst all the agents in the office were positioned (slightly scarily) so that they all faced the door and were looking on silently with hungry estate agent faces as I entered (slightly trippily) into their domain, I immediately recognised our agent - the one who showed us round the gaff back in February and the one whom myself and the Chuppies had (affectionately) nicknamed `Bum Fluff' what with him being so young and blessed with oodles of blond wispy facial hair - and rushed over to his desk.

"Hello, can I help you?" Bum Fluff warbled in a slightly concerned fashion, which might have been to do with the fact that all the house excitement and what-not had led to my (facial) cheeks flushing, my left eyelid to develop a tic and my upper lip to bead up with sweat.

"Er, hello, yes," I replied, trying all at once to calm down, but having no luck whatsoever.  So I carried on, "I'm here to pick up the keys for XX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX."

"O, sorry" Bum Fluff chuckled, causing his facial hair to whirl up dramatically, "I didnt recognise you at first!"

Bum Fluff then picked up a white envelope with `Keys' written on the front and handed them over whilst saying, "Here are your keys.  Congratulations!"

"O, great, yes, er, thanks, thanks very much" I gibbered, whilst snatching the envelope out of Bum Fluff's pasty white hands, and hotfooting it out of the estate agents.

Hopping back in to the Chuppies' work van, we sped at high speed (although within the legal limit of course) over to the property and parked up outside.

This was it.  We had the keys, the sun was (still) shining, the birds were (still) tweeting, and we were going to head in.

The moment was slightly spoiled by the Chuppies who grabbed the keys off me, opened up the property and ran inside to quickly use its loo.

But only slightly.  As, whilst the Chuppies rather noisily took to emptying out his bowels, I took a moment to walk round the gaff, admire it's roominess, stare a bit at the back garden, and marvel at the length of the garage and the fact that it had light and power, along with our little garden shed.  By the time the Chuppies had finished I had completed my tour and still could not believe the property was all ours.

I still cant.  It's not a mansion but, then, I never wanted one.

It's a little plump bungalow near the sea with acres of off road parking and a substantially sized back garden.  It is a bit dated (cork fireplace, polystyrene ceiling tiles and carpeting everywhere - which includes skirting boards and the odd bath panel!) and a little neglected (cobwebs and spiders ahoy!), but with the Chuppies' brawn (he's currently hanging a brand new front door and door frame) and London-Lass' brains, we're gonna make it lovely.

H*U*R*R*A*H

London-Lass is now officially a house owner.  Er, along with the Chuppies of course.

Yes, it's ours.

I can stop crossing all my fingers (and the odd thumb) as we've EXCHANGED.

On Tuesday this week, in fact.

And, whilst we had hoped to complete/move in next Friday, the vendor has not been able to meet this date (suspect he has needed to buy some extra time to clear out the property - there is/was a lot of old person bulky furniture in the place that needed a heck of a lot of shifting).

So, anyway, we are COMPLETING on FRIDAY 3RD MAY.

Which means I am now in a state of excitable panic.

Which further means that I can no longer type (dratted excitable fingers refuse to bend to my control).

Which additionally means that I shall lose my job.

Which supplementarily means that I shall forfeit my mortgage.

Which addendumoneously means we are doomed to a life of destitution, gulping down Meths outside shop doorways and exchanging sex for food and clothing in grim flea-infested hostels.



Meh - it was good whilst it lasted.

Contracts for the Signing

Just took a call from the Chuppies.

He's just come off the phone to our solicitor.

Apparently, he's got all the paperwork ready and contracts on our new property are ready to be signed.

Just got to work out now when I can take time off from work to do it.

As five days a week I'm based in the snobbiest part of Mayfair.  And the solicitor is located about 40 miles away in the gloom of darkest Essex.

But still ...

PAPERWORK ...

CONTRACTS ...

SIGNING ...


IT'S ALL VERY EXCITING!

You Must Be Joking

When is a door not a door?

When it's a-JAR.

(boom-tish)

What do you call a man with a seagull on his head?

CLIFF.

(I thank y'all)

When is a house not a house?

When it's a HOTEL.

( ... )

To explain : I hadnt realised that when me and the Chuppies spent the last six months house-hunting trying to find something that both me and the Chuppies could do up, and make our very own, whilst inviting the odd person over for shits and giggles (although hopefully not too much in the way of shits - could do havoc with our wooden floors) that we should also have been scoping for something that had enough room and of the right condition FROM THE WORD GO to have people over to stay (not just for one night, but several as a minimum).

The Chuppies' father and stepmother have made the gigantic assumption, you see, that as our potential future purchase (one which we havent actually moved in to yet, nor made any sort of a start in repairing/redecorating) will have one extra bedroom (i.e. it comes with two bedrooms) that it's all fine and dandy for them to stay with us for, as I said above, at least a few days whilst in the UK in a coupla months time.  We are also, apparently, hosting a massive house-warming type BBQ thingie.  And we shall also be putting them up at Christmas too.

Having not been used to this sort of massive assumption making in my family, I sat in silence whilst expecting the Chuppies to chime in and say that, whilst we will of course be INVITING people over for the odd meal, spot of lunch, cuppa tea, blah, blah, blah, we will not be in a position to host parties/have people staying over at our gaff since (a) we'll be using the second bedroom as storage/a general dumping ground, and (b) the place will be undergoing quite a lot of building/repair works until it will be sorted.  But he didnt.  Instead he just sat opposite the gigantic assumptors with wide blinking eyes not saying a dratted thing.

Now you may very well butt in here and say "But you didnt actually say yes to any of their demands though" and whilst that is a valid comment (and very well interjected, may I say) I fear that these are the sort of people that unless you blurt out a rather loud "No!" in their expectant faces they're gonna take our silence as some sort of quiet agreement and will be ringing on the door of our teeny tiny house in a coupla months time with two suitcases and a list of wants and needs that can only be fulfilled at an 'effin' hotel.

Hmm, mebbe I should have said to them that they should never assume anything.

As it only makes an ASS out of U and ME.

(boo-boom, tish)

Oooo

We've put an offer in on a property (that me and the Chuppies viewed the w/end just gone).

The vendors accepted our offer and the agents have ruddy well taken the property off the market.

We've instructed our solicitor.

We're sorting out our mortgage shortly.

The Chuppies is instructing a surveyor tomorrow.

And, er, that's about it for the moment.

Other than ...


... I AM SO RELIEVED/HAPPY/EXCITED THAT ME AND THE CHUPPIES MIGHT HAVE FINALLY GOT OUR TENTATIVE LITTLE MITTS ON A GAFF THAT I THINK I MIGHT VERY WELL SHITE ME STRIDES*





*I should like to qualify that this emotion is all to do with how I am feeling right now.  I understand that anything can crop up during the house-buying process (inc. the vendors going a bit odd on you, withdrawing the property from the market, etc.) so am aware that the above emotion might be premature.  However, I am feeling happy enough to soil my underwear right now, and that will do for me.

Now where were we ... ?

O yes.

Well, the Chuppies eventually agreed to a very very low offer on his flat.  Cos, you know, we were desperate to move on after having the gaff on the market for a coupla years.  And cos no-one seemed to want the place EVEN THOUGH anytime someone walked in it was all "Oo this is nice and big" and "Oo this is light and airy".  Even my hairdresser (who turns up at the Chuppies' flat to do my bonce every three months or so) was giving it all "Oo, I'd have snapped this up in an instant, o yes.  In fact I was actually talking about this flat with my husband the other day, saying that there's this lovely place in Chelmsford which we could buy to rent out ... "

But, obviously, she never did since, as mentioned earlier, the lowly offer (being the only one on the table after two years of marketing) was eventually accepted.

Anyway, that was all back last October.

And where are we now?  O yes, February.  The Chuppies had a removals guy round on Saturday who left a mound of flat pack boxes in his flat, copious amounts of bubble wrap and spools of brown sticky tape.  The Chuppies emptied out a sideboard that sits in his living room whilst I was there (which took an absolute age - so packed to the gills was it with odd bits of wire, headphones and unused batteries rolling around - never mind the odd important document that should have been filed away ages ago) and will be slowly getting on with the rest of the flat this week.  The buyer (a schoolteacher) was keen to move in during the half-term holidays but this has now been changed to the first week of the Easter break.

Which is fine by us.  As we have been extremely unsuccessful in acquiring a house since Chuppies accepted the offer on his flat.  And a few extra bonus weeks before the Chuppies is officially homeless (a.k.a. back home with his mother) is not to be sniffed at.

Despite recent news headlines, the area we are looking in, whilst rather quiet towards the end of last year, is now - I think you can safely call it - pretty ill, or `on death's door'.  We have exhausted every available opportunity to us in our price bracket (which, believe me, wasn't much) and, after desperately considering other stations along the rail line that might lift us out of the slump that our chosen area has been afflicted with, have realised that, whilst we are (more than) ready to move, and we are (more than) good for the money, with a good budget, that should get us something nice, there is nothing out there in our ideal spot and, short of murdering some innocent home-owner, have just got to sit tight and try not to get too stressed out.  We have registered with eight estate agents (to date) but it is a time (and town) of slim pickings.  We know the gaffs are out there (one need only check Land Registry sold prices to see the places we just missed out on last spring/summer) so it's just a case of wait, wait, wait. 

Just Dont

Stop it.

Whoever you are who thinks it's clever or funny to meld words together and come up with something that makes passive people want to nash their teeth together in rage.

This goes out to you.

Yep, you.

The pretentious half-wit who thought that it would be frightfully clever, and `on trend' to call an on-line seminar a WEBINAR.

I cannot take this anymore.

JUST STOP IT.

Mortal Contemplations

I remember once lying in bed as a nipper.  I was probably about 7 or 8.  It would have been in the summer as my bedroom was still pretty light with the curtains closed and I had only a sheet over me.

Struggling to get to sleep (cos you do when you're a kid and all you want to do is `stay up' - probably the most exciting prospect for me when I was young - along with eating cake and crisps), I'd turned over, grabbed the toy panda next to my pillow and started to think.

About cake.  And other nice things that I liked eating.

But, given the hour and the fact that I was nowhere near a fridge, my mind grew bored with the longing for Mars Bars, and suddenly started to REALLY ponder.

About me.  And mum and dad.  And about what I'd do if someone I loved died. 

And, it was at this point that I realised (accompanied by thudding heart and panic in my chest) :- 

THAT I WAS NOT IMMORTAL AND THAT I WAS GOING TO DIE.

Now I wasnt a depressive sort of a kid.  But I guess I was what you might describe as thoughtful/contemplative and, whilst my imaginings usually only went so far as dreaming about how much food I could buy when I was a grown up with my own money, they had never gone anywhere near the irksome subject of one's own mortality.

Until then.

And, as I lay there under my sheet, whilst listening to the sounds of my parents downstairs, it gradually began to dawn on me that this `dying thing' was definitely going to happen to me.  There was no way to change this.  It wasnt something that only happened to other people.

It was going to affect me too.  And there was no way to avoid it.

-o0O0o-

You join me now (some 32 years later) where I find myself concerned with the subject once more.  This may or may not be connected to the fact that someone (connected to my brother) may or may not have recently passed away but, nevertheless, I am finding myself once again pondering the topic in the early hours - although without a toy panda to cling on to.

Someone once said that by dwelling on our mortality we are the universe pondering its very existence (we are made up of the stars) but I do not find this comforting, in fact it makes it worse - the universe being sooo big, you see, and me being so wee could easily fool one into thinking that one's own death is rather small fry in comparison to the universe eventually ceasing to exist.  But it's not.  It is the fry of the largest quantities as far as I am concerned, goddammit.  Galaxies, black holes and nebulas I say knickers to.  I dont want to suddenly go `blip out of existence'.  I am the only person I have ever known to be.  It does seem rather a shame that as one begins to get used to their life, and all the weird stuff you have to put up with as a human being, the death knell tolls (sometimes whilst you're just opening the fridge to check on your supply of Mars Bars) and *wink* you're gone.

And why must it be done alone?  Whilst I accept we all will eventually have to peg it, it would really  be rather nice to have a companion to keep you company and experience ... well whatever there is to experience once the mortal coil has been shuffled off of.  Not that I am advocating mutual suicide pacts.  O no.  But when someone spouts on about how you came in to the world alone and coped OK with that so why should going out the same bother you?  I say to them - bugger off!  I have no memory of being born or, for that matter, prior to being a foetus - other than a weird *blinking* into existence from, say, the age of 2 or 3 where I am suddenly aware of me holding/looking at a large piece of fruit I won at a fete.  Probably wondering why it's not a huge and hefty Mars Bar in my mitts.  But I'm digressing ...

The difference is that when I do eventually cark it I shall be a fully loaded person with memories, hopes and ideas (dementia and other unsettling syndromes aside).  Which is one thought you dont want invading your brain at 3 o'clock in the morning.

I have tentatively broached the subject with the Chuppies but I dont think he quite gets what I mean about having a companion who can share in your death.  In fact, I think I have caught him (since our chat) studying me from the corner of his eye almost as if expecting me to jump up with a maniacally huge grin, two fully loaded guns, and spouting : "Well there's no time like the present - waddya say bucko?!".

It would also be rather handy-dandy to know if there is something more.  Could there be anything beyond the veil or are we all merely to become `worm food'?  Given that the Victorian loony, Thomas Lynn Bradford, was unsuccessful in his mission to find out, it's not looking particularly hopeful for anyone hoping for a stab at an afterlife when they kick the bucket.  In fact I'd say it's odds on that there is nothing more than this short burst of existence - our lives as brief and transient as a spark from a striking match.

My recent contemplations could also be to do with the fact I have just turned forty.  But typing that last sentence didnt feel right.  For I dont FEEL old (although how I look is a whole other bucket of bull juice) and am not worried in the slightest about my age.  I'm still rather fit and sprightly, am on the precipices of getting a gaff with the Chuppies on which we would need to take on a 25-year mortgage (which is a l-o-o-o-ng time) and, by the time this gets hopefully paid off, I will only be in my mid-60s (which isnt really that old either).

Some kind folk have pointed out that those who have had families and/or have led deeply fulfilling lives are less likely to find themselves tossing and turning at 3.30am wondering what it was all about and what on earth is going to happen at the bitter end.  To them I say - Cock Off!  I may not have kids nor conquered Mount Everest but I do class me and the Chuppies as a `family'.  And have a largely happy and content life.

Pah!  I guess it's only natural to be worried about this `pegging it' business.  After all none of us really know what is waiting for us on the other side.  The inescapable truth.

Christmas Cooking ...

Homemade Mince Pies (with extra brandy)

... extreme close up ...

Homemade Christmas Cake (with homemade fondant decorations/icing)

... from another angle ...

Homemade Christmas (Steak, Onion & Garlic) Pie with Le Creuset Bird Pie Funnel

... close up of the beak ...

Just Because

The Chuppies is about to acquire one of these :

Sleigh Bed (note the plump festiveness) (sigh)

His last bed offering has collapsed (on his side - ha!) and he has always fancied sleeping in one of the sleigh variety.

Naturally, given the gloriousness of the sleigh bed (that needs to be set off properly) I have been bookmarking and pigeon-holing bedding such as this :

Timberline Bedding from the Country Porch (festively plump)

 

















or this :

Lodge Bedding from the Country Porch (plumply festive)

and I have (to be polite) made one of these :

Homemade Christmas Stocking - pestive & flump

to, you know, hang on one of the very plump and swirly and festive end posts of the sleigh bed.

And also because there are only seventeen weeks to go ...

50 Shades of Shite

The heat was making her think of things.

Things she hadnt thought of for a very long time.

As a drop of perspiration wended its way down her elegant swan-like neck and trickled past her exquisitely crafted supersternal notch, she fanned herself quickly with a discarded copy of the Metro, whilst trying not to think of the things that the heat was making her think of.

"Hot isnt it?" boomed a startlingly macho voice to her left and, on lifting her head in its direction (and attempting to clear her thoughts of her recent reverie), discovered that the tone of the enquiry more than matched the voice's owner.  A pair of smoky brown eyes peered out mischeviously beneath two dark and sultry eyebrows, the broad masculine nostrils were flaring slightly and the mouth was curled in a semi-smile of curiosity.  The neck was strong and confident, the shoulders wide and flared and it was all she could do not to cry out over the size of his-

"I said it's rather warm, dont you think?" he said a little more loudly, whilst looking at her with mild amusement.

"Er ... yes ... I'm sorry ... it is rather" she replied, as she attempted to gather herself, and shifted slightly in her seat.  The tube train carriage was interminably hot and, whilst it usually left her tired and irritable, this evening her thoughts kept returning to the time when she took off all her clothes and mounted-

"It's got to be 90 degrees in here" he answered, "thank goodness it's quiet on the Central Line this evening."

It was a rather empty carriage for the time of night and aside from her and her fellow male passenger the only other commuters were far down the end of the train car and looked fast asleep.

"Yes .. a relief," she replied meeting his eyes for a few seconds and immediately wishing she hadnt.  The charge of electricity was unmistakable and she shifted in her seat once more in an effort to disguise the tremendous rush of emotions that had just coursed through her body.

It must be the heat she thought to herself as she briefly closed her eyes and willed away the image of his delightfully toned arms.  His chest was broad and welcoming and it was all she could do not to throw back her had and moan over the size of his-

"Would you like one?" he startled her once more whilst extending a packet of menthol chewing-gum in her direction.  "It might be psychological but the flavour of the gum has a way of cooling me down."

"O, yes ... thank you" she replied, moving forwards in her seat, whilst gazing at him once more through eyes too large for her elfin face as a thick hank of hair fell forwards from her ponytail on to her cheek.

"Do you mind?" he asked whilst moving his hand closer to her face and then in one smooth motion tucked the errant lock behind her hair and lightly grazed her cheek as he withdrew his hand.

His fingers were long and sensitive but masculine in formation and she bit her lip as her mind filled with images of bar fights, ballet dancers and pianists.

"I hate to ask but can you smell ...?" he began in a soft whisper as his eyes met hers once more and made her think again of things she mustnt think of.

"Smell what ... ?" she replied her chest heaving as her hands began to clench and unclench between her thighs.

He reached out to her face and, with both hands, gently stroked the smooth lines of her chin and spoke even softer.

"Fish."

"O that's me, " she responded.  "They were hard and icy this morning but the heat must have defrosted them and now they're leaking all over the place."

They both looked down at the sopping bags of shellfish between her legs.

"This darn heat" he observed.

"Yes. This heat" she agreed.

Shifting once more in her seat to steady her ruined bags of shopping she felt him reach out for her hand and gently guide it to his shadowy place.

"Is that ...? "she breathed, her pulse quickening, her brow perspiring.

"Guess ... " he encouraged whilst allowing her hand to gently probe the crevice.

"It feels like co-"

-but it was too much for her to finish and she collapsed back in her seat.

"Coq au vin? Yes.  Bought frozen from M&S this morning and now it's turned to shit."

Holiday Hell

In a couple of weeks (or so) I shall be staying at a massive property on one of the Gymnesian Islands for a fortnight.  The holiday accommodation is unusually large due to it being made up of two (yep, TWO) villas, each comprising enough air-conditioned bedrooms, ensuites and toilet facilities to please the fussiest of tourists (with the most irritable of bowels).

The property also comes equipped with a private heated pool, brick BBQ, table tennis and billiard tables, and is a mere 600 yards from the sea.

So where's the catch I hear you cry.

Strictly speaking, there is none.

I should by now be just counting down the days, thinking of my fortnight's escape from work and the drudgery of the Central Line, and ... er ... that's about it.

Instead I am rushing around in an mad-arsed attempt to get some sort of a summery kit together before I actually go.

Because I dont have anything to bring.

Not that I spend all my time unclothed.  Never mind the country's laws on that topic, my very own personal sense of decency blocks me from taking part in such heinous activities (for which we can all be thankful).

To explain : I actually do have a wardrobe (albeit of the small variety) and a dresser which is full of clothes.  However, the majority of them are not summery and, although I do love my traditional ensemble of jumper, jeans and boots (which are just the thing for a trip to New York, for example) I'm going to look a bit odd trying to carry off that outfit in the Balearics.  Not to mention sweaty.

So, having resigned myself to the fact that, yes, I am going to have to purchase some more in the way of skin revealing clothing (shudder) and that, yes, I may even have to bare my legs to the air (gasp) I am now buying, returning, ordering and exchanging as quickly as I can so that I dont end up bringing just one summer outfit. And a pair of sandals.

Which I know is what you're supposed to take.  Look at any magazine article about holiday dos and donts and you're gonna find a section somewhere about how you can take one dress with you but with a few deft twists of plastic, wire and feathers, can have enough outfits for the entire holiday.  Or something.

But I cant survive on bare minimums.  I need a certain amount of stuff to bring a sense of comfort in unfamiliar surroundings. And as I am Ms Winter Wardrobe and not Ms Summer Sizzler that has dictated the last few weeks of panic buying.  And the next fortnight's mix of frantic online ordering, crying, returning, swearing and exchanging until the day I arrive at the villa and, on opening my case, realise that everything I've acquired is actually unsuitable and I spend the whole of the holiday crying in the pool and wishing I was dead.

Still, it'll be nice to have a break.

Weird Shit

A coupla strange things have happened recently.  Nothing worthy of a mention on Strange But True? but bit bizarre/random nonetheless.

The first one took place a few weeks ago.  The Chuppies was busy in the kitchen making up a giant Victoria Sponge for a family BBQ.  A pair of marked down trainers (courtesy of M and M Direct) were due to be delivered and it was likely (although not a definite) that they might be delivered on that day.  As patience is not one of the Chuppies' strongest virtues the sponge cooking was being interrupted by the almost constant twitching of his kitchen window blind (to see down in to the street below).

"You know it's not a 100% cert they'll come today!" I yelled through from the living-room whilst turning up the volume on the TV to try and drown out all the panicking and impatient noises emanating from the kitchen.

"Yebbut it did say 3-5 working days when I placed the order - and it would be the fifth day today." the Chuppies responded curtly from the kitchen.

"Dont forget I had issues with Hermes before though?" I reminded him. "The pesky scamps kept on sending `failed delivery' reports without turning up at my address.  I had to wait three days before they actually delivered the stuff."

"Nooo - they're on their wayyy - they have to beee" the Chuppies whined before wandering in to the toilet to do a panicked pooh.

And, although I really didnt think the footwear was coming, since the Chuppies had spent the last hour or so on window duty, I suddenly felt obligated to step in whilst he was busy on the pot.  So I walked in to the kitchen and pulled up the blind ... and, lo and behold, a courier company was just parking up outside.

"Chuppies!" I called, whilst watching the driver leave the van with a large black box under his arm.

"Ye-e-es?" came the Chuppies' strangled reply.

"A courier's just parked up and has a package.  O, but hang on he's got a piece of paper with `Yodel' printed on it in the window.  Dont think it's for you."

"It might still be. Can you buzz him in if he rings our buzzer?" the Chuppies called back, before the frantic sounds of toilet roll rolling and toilet flush flushing were heard.

"Sure!" I said, but our security intercom was not buzzed, and the van driver was already returning to his van (without the package) and starting up his engine.

"It's OK - false alarm!" I called out, as the bathroom door opened.

"What?  What happened?" the Chuppies cried, still tugging up his trousers.

"He's going and our buzzer didnt go," I replied, "as I said it did say `Yodel' in the window. Obviously someone else in the block of flats were also getting a delivery today."

"He was quick though!" the Chuppies replied, watching the van drive off.  "Did you see him go in?"

"Well I cant see all the way down as we're on the top floor ... but he was rather fast." I mused.  "Here - you dont think he's just left someone's parcel outside the block?"

"Hang on - I'll just go downstairs" the Chuppies called whilst racing out of his flat.

As the Chuppies hurtled down his stairs I let go of the blind and chose then to ignore the absolute mess the kitchen had become.  `Whoever creates a mess in the kitchen always clears it up' is our rule, so it didnt make any sense to dwell on the fact that the scales were (once again) flour encrusted, that the sink contained water that looked like a turd couple had set up home with all of their turd children and the kitchen tiles were so sticky in parts you had to walk carefully for fear of losing part of one of your soles on the floor.

Therefore I sensibly ignored the cookery wreckage and headed back in to the living-room to await the Chuppies' return.  Which wasnt long and, as he burst through the flat entrance door a few seconds later, I noted that the black package which had just been delivered was under his arm.

"So it was your trainers?  And that Yodel driver just left them outside??" I queried.

"No - yes - well no, it's not my trainers - yes, the driver did just leave it outside - and, er, the package was for this flat anyway."

"Really?" I asked wondering what further gadget the Chuppies had ordered (but then subsequently forgotten) this time.

"Yes, although not for me - for a `Franco De Rosata' at this address - and I think they're `In Sympathy' flowers".

"Eh?" I spat out, whilst watching the Chuppies fiddle with the Interflora box a bit and tap at the message card on top.

"I guess we should open this up and try and find out what's going on," the Chuppies commented, obviously meaning for me to do all of that but, for some reason, not quite getting round to saying so.

So I carefully lopped the message card off the top, to find that the flowers inside the box were twelve white lilies.  After locating the order number I contacted Interflora and, after spending a few minutes on the phone, ascertained that they'd been ordered by a group of staff from a local company who I guess had not kept up-to-date with Mr Rosata's personal details - hence the delivery mistake.

Whilst on the phone I also let Interflora know that their courier company was crap.  If we hadnt been in and spotted the delivery driver's arrival, the package would have just been left outside the flats - that's not delivering items, that's just abandoning them.  The Interflora dude thanked me for my feedback and said it would be passed on to Yodel.

After chatting on a bit further, the Interflora dude eventually advised that a second order would be created.  The bloke (whom the flowers were meant for) lived quite a distance away from the Chuppies' flat so it would be quicker to send out a brand new order than arrange for a collection and a further delivery.  So as the flowers we'd received were now surplus to requirements the Interflora dude advised that we were welcome to keep the flowers - although only if we wanted to of course given that they were .. you know .. connected with DEATH and that.
 

- o0O0o -

The second weird thing took place about a week ago.  I was travelling over to the folks courtesy of c2c.  The journey takes just over an hour from London and, although it was right in peak rush hour, the carriage was (as is generally the way on this line) relatively quiet.  There were a few people on the platform as my train taxied in to a platform at Fenchurch Street but as we entered the train and fanned out there were plenty of seats for everyone.  I'd squeezed down a row of three seats to take the seat nearest the window and the space right next to me remained unoccupied for the next 3-4 stops (this sort of thing is unheard of on the Central Line).  

And so it was, whilst looking out of the window and listening to my tunes on my iPod, that I was only half aware of someone finally setting down next to me just as we were leaving Upminster.  Whilst I didnt look round at my next door neighbour, as the air had taken on a noticable `male taint' (not `man musk' - i.e. the whiff of someone who's unwashed - just, you know, that unmistakable scent of a man that some men carry) I assumed the passenger next door to me was packing charlies (and not breasts).  

A few stops further down the line my next door neighbour left (taking his male taint and charlies with him) and my journey continued on for another half an hour to the end of the line.

And, it was at this point, that I noticed something strange.

As my train pulled into the final stop I got up to squeeze past the other seats in the row in order to exit the train, and spotted something laying on the seat next to me.

Not a newspaper.

Or a food item.

Or, even, a mislaid ticket.

Nope.

Somehow, the bloke that had been sitting next to me had managed to leave behind

....

these :-

Now I'm sure that if this had been a film, the moment I caught sight of these dolls would have been accompanied by a taut blast of music.  But, I tell you, even without a spooky violin screech, they still put the wind up me and, although I should have probably picked them up and handed them in at the ticket office, I just couldnt bring myself to touch them.  

So I left them there.  

And hurried off the train.

Whilst trying to stop myself from worrying about voodoo dolls, DEATH and that.

Rabid

Imagine you're living in a block of terraced houses.  But you're not in one of those nifty end of terrace jobbies that allows you (usually) a little bit of side access (with mebbe a little garage-y thingie) and the blessed relief of not being sandwiched between two other houses.

Nope, you're smack bang right in the middle of the terrace.

With the neighbour from hell living right next door to you.

And, whilst the neighbours on the other side of your house are mild and quieter than the dead, the general hubbub and carrying on from the neighbour on the other side makes it seem as though you are surrounded on all sides by crazed furies.

I'm sure you can recall this post about the neighbour in question.  You know, the one who had taken up unbelievably loud shaggity-shagging following the separation from her husband of a coupla months.

Well since that posting, the din next door has got worse.  Although this is not wholly due to our neighbour's vagina.

O no.

Whilst the rumpo has continued apace (although slightly diminished in the way of frequency and volume) we have had to endure an endless round of barking coming from her dogs (a couple of dachsunds who she lets out, and then leaves, in her garden for hours at a time whilst they whine and make merry hell in a pleading manner to be let back in).  There is only so long the dogs can bark for before they are reduced to sounding like that bloke off of Coldplay (i.e. pathetic `yodelling') which, unless you are stone deaf or - in the case of my neighbour - riding some young buck like Seabiscuit, you cant fail to hear ... and want to do something (anything) to make it stop.

This is in addition to the ever increasing piles of dog turds in her back garden, and the mysterious hammering, grinding, scraping and banging (the non-coitus kind) noises which seem to kick off from 9pm and run to just past midnight most nights.

In short it's been like living on the film set of Pacific Heights.

So one evening, a coupla months ago, after hearing her poor dogs cry and whine in her back garden for an age yet again, I called round to her house.  The whole property was in darkness but as her dogs were going like billy-ho out back and her cars were parked out front I went along with the assumption that somewhere in her house was someone and rattled on her door knocker until that someone answered.

Which someone eventually did - but only after (which I caught through sounds and shadows from her living-room window) the back door was opened and the dogs let in.

"Yes?" the neighbour enquired after taking her sweet-ass time about opening up her front door.

"Hi - I'm just next door." I started.

 "Yes ... erm ... London-Lass isnt it?" she said, yawning a bit.

"Yes that's right .. and you're ... " I began but then faltered as her name (which is stupid) had slipped my tongue.

"Sapphire."

"Yes, yes.  Well, erm, I had to call over to check that everything was OK. Your dogs have been outside for a very long time and it sounded like they were getting quite stressed out."

"O, them!" the neighbour gently chortled.  "They ... they're OK.  I've been out of it with a head cold and was upstairs and fell asleep, but they're all right now."

At this point, she sneezed.  But not very convincingly.

"Right OK, just wanted to make sure that your dogs were OK.  I should point out that it's actually not just tonight I've heard them and they do sound very stressed out."

"O ok ... well, er, thanks for that," she replied, and after watching her fake another sneeze, I walked back to my house.

Anyway, after this conversation, there was (as you're probably expecting) absolutely no difference in the barking/yodelling/general noise levels from next door and, so it was, late one night I found myself a couple of weeks ago, stiff as a board in my bed, listening to the canine yodelling from the garden next door and knowing that something had to be done otherwise it was going to be another broken night's sleep for me.

After tossing and turning for a bit longer, my mood began to shift from mildly irritated to properly angry, and my thoughts had changed from trying to count sheep to slicing up the shepherd.

Finally I'd had enough.  My rage was at boiling point as a result of over half a year's worth of noise pollution from next door.

As Scotty from Star Trek was apt to pipe "She cannae take it cap'n - SHE'S GOIN' TE BLER!!!!"

Which I did.  Dressed in old woman's nightie (check), hair mussed up from tossing and turning (check), glasses wonky from being thrown on my face (check) and feet in weird boot slippers that looked like they came straight off a jumble-sale (check).

The conversation that then took place that night I am not proud of.  Having always been a fond fan of the English language and all its weird eccentricities, I tend not to use swear words in every day language when other phrases will do just as well (not that I'm averse to peppering a sentence with a carefully chosen curse word - it helps, if nothing else, to make one look big and cool).

However all of the above was forgotten.  Never mind about Ray Milland having his Lost Weekend - London-Lass had her Lost Ten Minutes.  As I stood on my next door neighbour's doorstop, my tongue and gums chomped and gnashed on a fruity load of bollocks and fucks and, let me tell you, venting my spleen never felt so good.

And since my outpouring of fury?

Next door has been as quiet as a morgue (almost).  The shagging would appear to have moved to another venue (since there is hardly any rhubarbadoodle type stuff to be heard), the dogs are naturally still let out (but let in again after only a few minutes), the piles of turds have been cleared, the weird night noises have stopped and I can now sleep at night.

So much for reasoned debate.

In my neck of the words, rabid is obviously the only language which my people heed.

Trials & Tribulations of House Hunting Part 999

So after all the excitement and hope contained in this post we ended up with nada. 

Zero.  Zilch.

As in the effin' signing son did not come back with an offer after the viewing.  Just some vague message about how he's got the cash, is ready to move but is in no real rush, and how he's now gonna look through a huge list of potential other properties even though Chuppies' was his favourite by far and that he couldnt get over the size of the rooms available.

Blah, blah, blah.

So he's naffed off.  Like all the others.

Leaving me and the Chuppies to lick our wounds, realise that we havent had a sniff of interest since that viewing, and that, yes, it was time to once again reduce the flat price and ultimately our house-moving budget.

Good times.

Although there is one potential piece of tentative hopefulness amongst all the doom and gloom.

Whilst our budget is now plumbing the depths of despair (i.e. where all the derelict husks live) we have spotted (and subsequently viewed) an `Ok sort of thing' which could definitely tick the majority of our boxes (once you've sat down and thought about its potential).  It's been sitting on the market since November last year and has gone through two price reductions since it first appeared.  Plus it's chain free.  Naturally as we have not received an offer on the Chuppies' flat we cant actually do anything about the `Ok sort of thing' but the Chuppies has put a call in to the estate agents today re. massively reducing the price of his flat (we're talking over £10K) as we've both got tremendeously itchy feet to get on and get our own place - even if it's an `Ok sort of thing' (but with the potential to be something rather nice).

Stay tuned for an update ...

One of `Them'

You know how it is when you're travelling down a motorway, or an A road (say), and suddenly the traffic slows up ahead and you're unable to work out what on earth all the braking and general slowing down is for.  You crane your neck but cant see any roadworks or signage, and there's no obvious sign of a blockage ... when suddenly you see flashing blue lights in the distance and realise what all the slowing down was about.

Yep.  So that everyone can have a jolly good old look.

Ok - well perhaps that's unfair.  Not everyone in the line of cars would want to look and, no doubt, there are some in the slow-moving queue who've ended up (much like yourself) caught in the trap of crawling past something rather grim - even though you'd rather not be doing 3mph past an overturned car and its accompanying detritus but instead would really like to be racing away from such an incident (safely within the speed limit of course) so that you're not reminded of your own mortality or how much life turns on a dime, etc., etc.

However, there would have to be some in the line of cars - also known as `that sort' - who would have voluntarily slowed down to have a good old gawk thus dictating the speed of the queue for the rest of the traffic on the road.

And, after this morning, I think I may have turned into one of `them'.

It was the usual Monday morning on the Central Line.  Relatively hot and busy train carriage.  I'm sat in the middle of everyone reading `Reddit' on my mobile and the air is thick with perfume and farts.

I'm just about to open up an interesting thread on scary stories when suddenly all hell breaks loose.  I look up and become aware, amidst the cacophony caused by the other passengers screeching, that we are sitting at a station and all the doors have just closed.  Except the one to my left (which is a few passengers away from me) which had failed to close round a ladies leg and is instead snugly holding the well dressed pin so that it is sticking right in to the carriage (at the bottom of the carriage door).  In order for the leg to be so low, however, the person (who the leg belongs to) has to be sitting on the platform floor and I look up mildly (and placidly) to see that, yes, I was right, there was a woman sitting on the platform edge, other leg dangling down in to the gap, and coat and bag strewn behind her.

The screeching must have started as the door failed to close, I calmly calculated, as I watched the woman looking a little embarrassed but injury free on the platform edge.  The screeching continued on, but then raised a notch as the woman tried, but failed, to release her limb by wiggling it a bit and it was shortly after this that a couple of women nearest the door bolted up from their seats and attempted to pry the door open - followed by nearly everyone else in the carriage with looks of determination on their faces.

Nearly everyone except me.

I placidly remained seated throughout but carried on watching.  I guess this might have been the point I sold my soul to the devil.

Naturally the passengers' efforts to release the door were in vain.  The only way to get those doors open again was either through the driver's control or if Dr David Bruce Banner had been one of the tube train passengers and was really angry.

Nevertheless they continued to struggle with the door (whilst hooting and hollering at each other) until the driver did actually release the opening mechanism and, after much laughter and brushing down of the previously trapped passenger, the usual silence (and smells) resumed and the tube journey continued on without further incident.

So, there you have it.  I am a rubbernecking pillock.

Feel free to pelt me with tomatoes.

A Good Sign ... ?

So, after sacking the previous firm of estate agents (cos they were carking crap), we're now with a brand spanking new firm of agents (with the flat at a brand spanking new *reduced* price).  As well as serving as a fresh start for the property, this should hopefully also prevent all those folk who have `Property Bee' at their fingertips from finding out that the flat has been on the market now for over a year (which we'll just keep to ourselves).

`Property Bee', for anyone interested, is a nifty piece of software which when used in conjunction with a property listing website will allow you to peek in to the property's marketing history (at least, for as long as they have been with that firm of agents) and most of the time give you a better insight (than those who dont have the software) as to whether to come in strong with any offers or play it safe.

Or, so the theory goes.  Have yet to try it.  What, with being stuck in the position of `seller' for the last 365 days (or, at least, the Chuppies has).

Still, you know what they say.  It `only takes one' ('n all that).

And, after being with our new agents for a fortnight, we (blow me down) had a viewing yesterday.  It was all very sudden.  We got a call from the agents at 10.30am and, just under an hour later, had a chap (with his dad) mooching about the Chuppies' flat and asking all sorts of analytical questions varying from the level of service charge (expected) to what direction the sun rose and set in the sky (unexpected).

These questions, along with the chap and his father (after the viewing) general hanging around outside the apartment block, having a mooch about the garden at the back and strolling round the street outside, has kind of made me think that we ....

... might ...

hear something back from the chap.

Additionally the father was deaf (with his son - the viewer - niftily interpreting mine and the Chuppies' responses back to his dad using sign language) and, just as they were leaving and almost out of my view (although I do tend to catch everything - in a past life I suspect I was either a bat or an owl, or just a nosey old crone) I saw the son give the `thumbs up' gesture to his dad.  On researching BSL, the `thumbs up' appears to either mean `OK' or `good' - but whether this meant that they were done viewing and were ready to go, or whether this meant that they'd viewed the flat, they loved it, and were going to put in a (generous) offer sometime this week, who knows.

Furthermore, the chap on leaving the flat with his dad did thank us for showing him around at the last minute adding that he'd `be in touch' (whilst winking) but does that mean the same as when a chap finishes a date with an `I'll give you a call sometime' (whilst having no intention of doing so), or does it actually mean that the chap's gonna be ringing the agents this week to put in a firm offer on the Chuppies' apartment and we can finally start house-hunting on the coast?

Trying to speak logically (and without all the hysterical emotion building up inside me) if I were to look back at yesterday's viewing, recall their questions and all the `hanging around' outside after their visit, I'd say the signs are good, money's in the bank and job's a good'un.

However, given we've been in this boat before where people have viewed and seemed interested but then sodded off it might not be enough to go by the signs.  For, although the chap (and his dad) seemed genuinely delighted by the floor space available in addition to the amount required annually for maintenance and service charge, there is still a good chance that he will just disappear (like all the rest) and I'll still be checking Rightmove listings in my 60s.

Drat it all.

I think it's time for some chocolate.

One Should Always Expect the Unexpected

When you spend £13 on a bottle of nail polish (I know, may the Gods of Indulgent Spending strike me down now) you dont expect that :-

• the polish will go on as well as oil will mix with water and that the only way you can get any sort of semblance of an assumed nail polish finish is to coax and whisper to it whilst you nudge it from the sides of your fingernails where it seems to constantly want to set up camp for the night
• it will look totally different to how it does sitting innocently in its overpriced bottle
• your fingernails, on drying, will resemble tiny sections of Westminster City Council pavement (albeit in a mildly sparkly but generally weird looking way)

Likewise when someone says they're making homemade carrot, chilli & coriander soup, as a diner you'd be expecting something akin to fresh orangey /spicy colours - not steaming bowls of pooh brownness (which is what it always turns into after cooking, processing and then cooking a bit more). 

Even if it tastes rather yum and keeps the Chuppies regular.



I also didnt expect that at the tender age of 39 I'd have to take time out every weekend to examine my neck in the mirror (specifically the right hand side) for plucking.  With tweezers.  It pains me to admit that even though I havent yet reached the age of 40 (although that little celebration is looming for me at the end of this year) my neck has other plans and has taken to sprouting an almost constant batch of whiskery tufts that are very difficult to get to and generally take so much time and effort that the Chuppies (without fail) will always end up walking in on me mid-pluck (after wondering where I've got to), leaving him wide-eyed and frightened and me old, cronish and ashamed.  That is, until I see the funny side of the situation, and then take to chasing him round the flat whilst brandishing a recently plucked tuft in my tweezers and daring him to touch it.  Ha ha.

Similarly I didnt expect that after over 12 lonely months on the market, the Chuppies' flat (his pride & joy) has still not sold.  So we're moving on to a different firm of agents with a different (slightly lower price).

Fingers crossed I shant be typing the very same sentence this time next year.  But, at least I'll know, that if I am, it wont be whilst wearing nail polish that makes my fingernails look like tarmacadam.

O.M.G.

I've gone weird.

I'm hoping it's hormonal or something else equally minor that's gone a bit batty inside me but in a very temporary fashion.

But, as I presently stand before you, I've gone a bit odd.

When it comes to the opposite sex, that is.  For you see I keep getting these urges/yearnings.

Not the sort where I want to drag them home and hump them.

O no.

The kind where I'll be sitting opposite the odd chap, say, on the tube, or walking past the occasional one down a street, and I'll suddenly find myself ... `mooning' ... over them.  And it's driving me insane.

I should point out here that I'm very happy with the Chuppies, goddammit, but if a damnably attractive swarthy looking dude passes London-Lass at the moment, it's pound to a penny that she'll be staring at him all googley-eyed and making a fool of herself.  Even worse than this is that occasionally the chap will look back at London-Lass (in, what I hope, is a similarly appraising way) which leaves me feeling shocked and starts up a mantra in my head along the lines of : `I love my Chuppies, I love my Chuppies, I love my Chuppies...', although a tiny part of me yearns to rush back home and write down in a diary :-

"Saw cute guy in London today.  He smiled at me.  O.M.G.  Awesome!!"

Take this morning's encounter in Boots.

I'm at the self-service checkout and about to price up some items.

And, yes, I know we're supposed to hate self-service machines, but I bloody love them.

Mebbe it's cos they give me that feeling of `control' (which is minor, brief and soon forgotten once you get one of their `Please seek assistance' errors) or perhaps it's cos as a nipper in the 70s I nursed an ambition to be a check-out girl (this was when you actually punched in the item amount in to the till's number pad which looked to me, as a kid who loved pressing buttons, or doorbells in DIY stores, great fun).  Or it might even be to do with the fact that you havent got some arsewipe standing right behind you tutting and sighing as you take one millisecond too long to take your change at the regular checkout.

But whatever it might be I was at one this morning and about to purchase a few items - wetwipes for my desk, chewing-gum for my mouth, sponge for my morning ablutions, drink for my office colleagues and contact lens solution for my eyes - when I noticed at my self-service checkout that the bags that were hooked up and waiting at the side to be filled were tiny.  In fact so small were they that, if you dropped in a coupla packs of gum and a packet of handkerchiefs, you'd have no space left at all.  Next to these (well, OK, dropped on the floor next to my self service checkout) lay a pile of Boots bags so enormous you'd be tempted to use one as a suitcase (if not for the fact that it's flimsy, bound to fall apart when joining the rest of the airplane's cargo and you'd probably get looked at as a bit of a loon on trying to check it in).  Anyway, faced with these options, the Boots suitcase had to do but, after picking one up, and hooking it on the bag hooks, the self-service checkout wasnt happy and asked me to remove the item from the bagging area and try again.

Turning round, I spied a handy self service checkout attendant and beckoned him over.

"Hi ... erm, sorry," I began, being my usual clear and forceful self, "but I was just wondering if you had any regular sized bags."

"Regular?" the checkout attendant questioned, looking down at my till.  It was at this point I noticed he had deep, brown eyes.

"Yes, well, er ... " I faltered on, immediately regretting my choice of regular but struggling for another word, "you see, these bags are tiny-"

I held one up to show how tiny they were, although not sure why I did this as the bags were evidently small from their perch next to the till.  I think I was just trying to make amends for the word `regular'.  I was also very aware at this point that he had spikey gelled black hair.  And a delightful pinch of aftershave about him.

-"whilst these are huge."

Again, I was doing the picking up the bag thing, but in my defence the large Boots suitcase did need picking up and, it was whilst doing this I noticed that whilst the bag was large it was a very awkward shape, all long and thin - suitable for transporting, say, a small piano keyboard, but not really appropriate for a handful of Boots toilettries which would leave a large part of the bag all flappy and weird looking.

I also noticed at this point that the Boots attendant had come in close - in a sort of huddled semi-rugby type fashion - and almost looked like he was going to put his arm around me.

But then didnt.

Goddammit.

"I'm afraid there arent any other bags.  Ridiculous isnt it?" he began, whilst I marvelled at his general swarthiness, "them being a multi-million pound company ... "

"Ahh ..." I responded, in an attempt to be understanding, sympathetic, savvy and ironic all at the same time.  But probably coming across as a very short, rather old woman, with very little to add to the conversation, other than being slightly, and rather unsettlingly, love-struck.

"Yes, hardly any bags for the customer ... " he carried on, still standing very close, in a suave olive-skinned type way, "and not enough till rolls for the checkout girls either."

It was at this point he laughed slightly.  Allowing me to check out his teeth.

No fillings, no food between teeth, no cheese breath.

The man, in short, was a god.

"O really, " I breathed, mere centimetres from his lithe latin youthfulness.

"Probably best if you just price your stuff up and then bag 'em at the end, " the assistant finished.  Whilst smiling.  Into my eyes.

"Ok thanks," I sighed, as he walked away back to his post, whilst I quickly priced up my items and bagged up the goods at the end.

Although that didnt actually happen.  Suddenly all a-fluster was I with the assistant's recent closeness, that I knocked all of my items on to the floor, managed to then not pick up any of them with grace or speed, and then rolled them once again on the floor as I attempted to do the final bagging up.

However, due to other customers joining the self-service area I believe this all went unnoticed although, on leaving my lane, I had to hide the fact that my skirt had now become half-hitched in my knickers (this had been somehow achieved during the items rolling round everywhere process and which, with a pair of recently sweaty hands, I was now unable to un-hitch).

Anyway, in order to leave the area I had to walk past the assistant's post and I was almost fearful to look at the Latin love god in case he blanked me, kissed his lips or rolled his eyes.

But he was looking at London-Lass.

O yes.  And smiling too.

So I smiled back.

And he winked.

Which I shall record in my diary later with lots of love hearts, poetry, simpering lines of text and yearning thoughts.








Blimmin' heck what's wrong with me?  I'm nearly 40, not 14.

(reckon it must be the house-moving business)

Suffering Suckatash

Well, after all the frantic finger-crossing, wood-touching and lucky charm-rubbing ...

... the woman naffed off.

Yep, you heard right. 

Although she'd loved the Chuppies' gaff, whilst we've been waiting for some sort of an update from our agent she'd put an offer in on another place that was more expensive than the Chuppies and even though it was very low (i.e. with much more of a gap between her offer and that of the property's marketed price) it's been effin' accepted and off she flies ...

... weeeh ...

meaning :-

• The Chuppies' flat has now been on the market for nearly a year without selling - this is after (significantly) dropping the price twice. 
• The Chuppies is about to convulse in to a puddle of depression.
• And I've chomped my way through ½ of a packet of Ginger Nuts without realising.

So it looks like a third price reduction is in order but this has to be the final one - any lower and we'll be heading towards the price the Chuppies originally bought the place for five years ago (and when it was a bit of a neglected shit-hole - if you'll pardon the parlance).

Drats.

Precipice

Good word.

And the only way I can describe current events.

For, you see, me and the Chuppies are currently on tenterhooks (another good word) waiting to hear if a certain person might still be interested in proceeding with an offer they put in on the Chuppies' flat a wee while back, but which I did not blog about at the time as

(a) it was rather low
and
(b) we initially refused it and said `try harder'

but now, on reviewing our finances, it would appear that we are back up & running again on an `all systems go' basis and, if she is still looking (which through our estate agent we believe she is), and hasnt found anything yet (which again through our agent we believe she hasnt) we would be very interested in picking up where we left off.

Anyway, our agent is `on the case', he reckons one way or t'other he should be able to come back to us with some sort of a response by close of play today, and in the interim I'm bricking it.  And the Chuppies is kacking his Chuppie trousers.

Cos it's a bit of a precipice we currently find ourselves perched on.  Are we destined to fly off from our perch-point with an offer behind us, get on with instructing solicitors, mortgages in principle and go looking for a house of our home?  Or, will we end up getting a "Ha ha too late suckers, I've found something cheaper, so arseholes to you!" response, leaving us to plummet to the bottom of the tiresomely high flat-selling-mountain and start the whole process again.

Gah - it's all I can do to prevent myself from chewing all my fingernails off (except they're all nice and painted and long now), or my toenails (except they're in my shoes and smell a bit funny), or start eating my hair (except I havent done that since school and is now so short I'd probably break my neck in the process), or breaking wind loudly at my desk (except I dont want to frighten my boss).

Anyway, I dont ask much of my blogging readership (in fact nothing at all apart from the odd visit and, maybe, the odd comment - but no pressure) but if anyone reading this post wouldnt mind briefly crossing their fingers, touching a bit of wood or even stroking their lucky rabbit's foot it would be very much appreciated.

(gulp)

Pepper

Someone who thought he was Dappy got on my tube train last night.  With a coupla mates.

Although, you know, it was a good stab at the whole street dude/urban youth thing.

The hat was there (perched high on head and pulled to its fullest extent, as below) :-

Marvellous stuff.

along with the clothing, the manic street lingo and the general attitude.

Which I silently endured, after the `dappy pack' hopped, on for the rest of my journey home (about four stops).

Conversation between the `dappy pack' went thus :-

Dappy (or `D' for short) : "Man, o man, this has been the longest day of my life bro."

Dappy Pack Member 1 (or `DPM1' for short) : "F*ckin' ell man, you see what that pig did?"

Dappy Pack Member 2 (or `DPM2' for short) : "I told him, I said `Put your hands behind your back, man, otherwise they'll smell 'em', and what did he do?"

D : "Bro let us down.  Man, when I see him he's gonna get majorly fattered."

DPM1 : "He just turned round to that cop guy and held out his hands. I bet he's gonna start saying names nah."

DPM2 : "O man, I never thought of that. Fuck, yeh."

D : "Listen we dont know what's going down .... Hogan will know.  Get Hogan."

DPM1 frantically dials on his mobile, whilst D and DPM2 hold their heads in their hands, being careful at all times not to dislodge their stretched hats.

DPM1 : "Hogan?  Yeh, man, we've gone ... you heard anyfing?  He what?!!!"

DPM1 starts shaking his head whilst D and DPM2 hold their urban breath.

DPM1 : "O Christ. I knew it.  F*ck's sake!"

DPM1 terminates the call, rolls his eyes and chuckles slightly.

DPM1 : "He's busted us all!  Hogan said they're waiting for us at the next station.  Man, it's all gonna go to pepper then!!"

It's at this point I spot D sliding on a silver nuckle-duster and DPM's 1 & 2 pulling down their stretched hats and pulling up their hoods.

I guess that, at this juncture, I should have quickly stepped in to the next carriage, but I was so amazed at what I was hearing/seeing that I just sat there instead (whilst quietly blinking at the recently produced finger weaponry).

And, as the train pulled into its final stop, I watched the `dappy pack' get off - only to walk (in a quiet and subdued fashion) straight into the arms of some waiting police officers, a few station staff and (what appeared to be) some very angry looking parents. 

D was the first one to cry, with DPM's 1 & 2 breaking down shortly after.

But then, I'm not surprised. 

They could have only been about 10.

Silly Stupid Girl

Life is odd sometimes.  I've often thought this. 

Take the Ancient Greeks.

Not that they had anything to do with my morning's commute I would hasten to add, but I thought it worthy to bring the Greeks up as (a) they were wise, (b) cultured and (c) believed that there were other things to life than that would appear at first glance.  The so-called random pattern of events that take place in every day life were in actual fact governed by the Three Fates (Moirai) - with one spinning out your life cord, one measuring the length and the third, and final, one cutting it.

Naturally this was just a belief system, but when something odd happens you do tend to think "Eh?" and then, after a bit, you think "Hmmm.", and then a little while later you chuckle and say "Those pesky Greeks!" (but this might just be me).

Which is what I did this morning.  During my Central Line commute.

However, before I go on, I have to fill you in on a portion of my old schooldays from 1977-1984.

I went to a small infant/junior school round the corner from my old house in which my class contained around about 30 kids or so.  Most were poor and a little bit `under-achieving'.  However, a few shone (me being one - well, sometimes you've got to blow your own trumpet), one boy who seemed to know everything about everything without even trying, and another who was a maths genius but was also blessed with the face and athletic build of yer typical heart-throb hunk (well, as hunky as you can achieve as a 12 year old boy).

The last time I saw this dude was my last day at school (aged 12) and whilst he was hungered after by the majority of girls in my class I was more the plain/freckled/plaited sort, or `late bloomer', if you will.  However, we used to have this `thing' going on - cant quite work out what it was but he would more often than not dodge all the more conventional looking girls (with skinny bods, lustrous locks, and complexions that would tan) to seek me out (the pale, freckled, bookworm) for shits and chuckles.  Well, OK, we didnt actually pooh on each other but we sure did chuckle.  And talk.  Quite a bit.

Although that was it between me and the boy - there was no innocent hugging, kissing or anything like that - but I do remember him grabbing me in a feverish embrace when we were playing kiss-chase at the age of 6 - although, again, nothing occurred as, so roughly did he grab me, that my head ended up wrenched away from his head and all he could do was nuzzle one of my shoulders before running off leaving me bruised, moist from the nuzzling and a little shell-shocked - no wonder I didnt want anything to do with boys again until the age of 26).

But returning back to the boy - he would always respect my views and seek my advice on all manner of things (in an oddly grown up fashion) - no matter the subject - and would brood silently if another boy picked on me or decided I need paffing (again I am sifting this from my memory banks so he might not have been quite the Mark D'Arcy character I recall).  In addition to this, everyone at school (including some of the teachers) assumed we had been `going out'/were `going out'/ were about to `go out' (probably, as a result of him seeking out my company) although, as I say, we hadnt/werent/werent about to.

Anyway, during our last day at Junior School, I remember him squeezing my arm (as a sort of silent `goodbye' gesture) whilst giving me this `look'.  Which he did whilst we were separated away from all the crying boys and crying girls who suddenly realised that Junior School was over, Senior School beckoned, and life was forever more about to be crap.

Notwithstanding the above, I was only 12, and he might've actually just been fooling around in the classroom, tripped and steadied himself by grabbing my arm - and then, perhaps, gave me a look as I had half my packed lunch on my face (I had a tremendous appetite as a kid).  But my memory has this stored as a `moment' and sometimes, 28 or so years down the line, I do sometimes wonder what happened to the boy I had this `thing' with (fabricated or not).

Which was why, yesterday afternoon, whilst having a quiet moment in the office, I took to seeing if I could find any trace of my old classmates on-line.  There were a few ex-classmates that I managed to track down (most of which seemed to be living extraordinarily happy and rich lives with lots of companies and properties to their name - the bastards) but couldnt find a single sausage on the boy in question.  Now I understand that not everyone leaves a trail of their existence on the Net - although it is pretty unusual these days and just effin' typical that it would have to be the `boy with whom I had had a thing with'.

Until my Central Line journey this morning.

I was just about to open up `Angry Birds' on my iPod Touch when, suddenly, and without warning, the `boy with whom I had had a thing with' plonked himself down on the seat opposite!

Leaving me gasping in his wake like a recently netted halibut.  Although I think I managed to hide this behind a hurriedly concocted commuter cough.

For, 28 years or so later, it was definitely him.  OK, the hair was grey(ish) but the skin was the same hue (olive), the green eyes were still there (both of them) and the face (whilst altered from the 12 year old boy I remembered) was still recognisable, if a little tired-looking.

But then it was 7.20am.  And the interior lighting of a Central Line train carriage can lend anyone (even people `wot you once had this weird thing with') an air of exhaustion.

So what did I do?

Did I seize the moment and make a tentative cautious introduction (in case he didnt recognise me) and see if we could have a quick chat on the tube?  Just to recall old times?  And then leave him alone if he got scared?  Or couldnt remember me?

Nah.

I just sat there.  Pretending to play my `Angry Birds', whilst all the time painfully aware that a relatively important part of my schooldays was sitting opposite me in a high powered City suit, wearing an expensive-looking watch and shiny shoes.

And then, as more people shuffled on, any opportunity to make conversation with him was quickly stolen and I slumped back in my seat to continue annihilating pigs with my birds that were rather angry.  Until I started to get this sensation that I was being watched.

And looked up to find that a pair of eyes were locked on me through a tiny gap between two standing commuters.  The `boy what I had a weird thing with' was staring at me between a pair of curvaciously covered ladies and I think (although memory can play tricks) that from the slant of his eyes he was smiling.

Either that, or he had a sneeze coming on.

But I'm hanging on to the assumed smile, goddammit (much like I hung on to the assumed arm squeeze), as it was just a few seconds after I spotted his eyes that the train pulled in at one of the City stops and he got up and left.

Leaving me certain of the following :-

• I may be 40 years old but inside I am still a silly stupid girl.
• I miss my Chuppies (he's away this week with his family skiing).

I Think The Chuppies Has a Little Crush

.. and it's not on me.

It's on this woman at his workplace.  Who is turning 40 this weekend and is holding a 70s themed birthday party - to which we are both invited (including a few of the Chuppies' other workmates and their respective other halves).

However, unlike the rest of his office crowd, the Chuppies has been working himself into somewhat of a froth.  As to how he is going to get some fancy dress sorted in time. 

This is, even though it is not imperative you wear fancy dress, and no-one else from his office is bothering to dress up. 

Additionally, we're not talking about hiring a costume here either.  O, no, the Chuppies is thinking about ruddy well buying the dratted thing.  Which would be a big fat waste of money (and the Chuppies, ever since I've known him, has never been frivolous with his cash - ever).  Unless he were to start taking to dressing like Shaggy from Scooby Doo in his downtime whilst watching the tele.  Or in the bath.

But there's also other things he does that seem a bit symptomatic of a crush.

(and, yes, it is `a crush' and not `crushing' - whoever started that particularly annoying turn of phrase should be taken outside and shot)

You know, like, lots of mentioning of her - which I believe is technically termed `mentionitis' - and this is often accompanied with a smile (although no dribbling, touching of himself or dreamy looks - yet).

And cooking for her (he made a batch of brownies one weekend and brought them in to his workplace especially for her to taste). 

And other stuff (cant quite remember the exact details here but there definitely has been other stuff going on that's very pertinent to my case).

To make it worse, this woman is really nice.  Yep, sweet, friendly, and darned attractive (a naturally pretty sort but without all the vain/shallow nonsense that is the usual accompaniment). 

In short, if I was a bloke I'd probably have a crush on her too - when I met her at the office summer party she was extraordinarily sweet (and a bit of a babe, to be frank).

Hmm ... now I've got this all written down I now dont know if it's the (suspected) crush that's bothering me so much as the whole `comparing myself and coming up short malarky' that's got me all cross & bitter.

Cos look :-

Woman Crush = sweet
Me = largely bitter

Woman Crush = naturally pretty
Me = look at me in a darkened room, with squinty eyes and with a pile of makeup on my face and I might just pass ... for female

Woman Crush = youthful looking (surprisingly so, couldnt believe she is actually turning 40 this weekend which means we were both born in the same year)
Me = holding on to the image in her head that she is still vaguely youthful but knowing in her heart (and also from looking in the mirror) that she's a dirty old bag of wrinkles

Woman = babe
Me = Babe (the pig)

And so on.

Pah - it's tough.

And - one more time - it's not `crushing'.

Thank you.