cardboard cutout

Our house is made of cardboard. Either that or the bricks have holes in, which allow sound to travel magically through it. This was all well and good when my dad possessed only a starter-kit for the amateur guitarist. Alas he has now in all his elderly wisdom upgraded to the obesity amp. The thing is enormous, and the Fender sign and long line of little dials appear to mock me with their shiny new-ness. Bastards. I guess I’ll spend this weekend at Homebase getting the necessaries for sound proofing my room.

I’m escaping the house a lot lately. Finding my own place is proving tricky, so running away is my temporary solution. Requirements for said place of own, are basically that it needs to be a bargain, but preferably the kitchen should not be in the bedroom. This, it seems, is a pretty big ask in the city of London. Bah.

Escapes include Paris last weekend and up up and away to the north of England this weekend. Paris was of course entirely fabulous, a bit of a university reunion, our trio harking right back to the dynamics of old. Prancing about the city is always fun, I really love it there, it has a glamour about it, that we went to many lengths to ruin. My travelling companion and I astonished the French with our eating and drinking capabilities. The novelty of French cheese and wine could not possibly have worn thin in 3 days, so much so that we single-handedly stunk out public transport from Paris back to London, bags bursting with the stuff.

Anyway, after New York and now Paris I’ve become obsessive about moving abroad. I keep being tempted to move to Paris, with friends holed up in the city already. Then again, I don’t speak French, at least not in a way that is comprehensible to people living in France, minor problem! The plan is to get my rear end out of Britain by 2012, that way missing the joys of London public transport during the olympics and giving me some kind of goal. Both very, very good things.