Listed

What is it with making lists lately? I’m unstoppable! To do lists, what-I’ve left-at-home-prior-to-my-move lists, whats-missing-in-my-new-room list and most importantly the top 5 list.

Let’s start with the news. After one Bruce Spingsteen massacre too many, I decided it was time for me to leave my dad and his guitar collection behind and become a fully-fledged grown up person. As it happened an old friend from university had a spare room in his flat, and voila, he is now my prodigal roommate and I, a prodigal Londoner.

All’s well in the new abode, my evenings suddenly stretch before me with possibly, well, with viewing possibilities. The television is my new best friend. Last night with the prodigal roommate out of the house I indulged in some light hearted documentary fun. I started with BBC 3s “Baby Beauty Queens”, which predictably looked at pushy parentals and teeny tiny pageant princesses. Actually, that’s a bit of a generalisation, one of the mothers wasn’t pushy at all. Her economic situation provided a stark and bleak contrast to the thousands of pounds the other mothers were forking out on miniature Marc Jacobs.  One of the other mothers proudly announced that by age 7 her little darling had already had plastic surgery. Huh? Then we are dragged kicking and screaming into a beauty parlor where one little girl is spray tanned from top to toe! God it was compelling, I even cried, which in my book is the mark of a good program.

Then, I was only minutes into a Sheryl Crow documentary on the biography channel, when the roommate returned. Apparently, embarrassment should have ensued. What's wrong with a Sheryl Crow documentary? Said I. Nothing. Said he. In a way that suggested I had not only lost the moral fibre of my being, but should have the remote control surgically removed from my hand. Nevertheless, it was very informative. Although I suddenly feel that the Friends character I am now mostly likely to be, is Ross.

I was about to be done with this story, when I remembered what else happened on roommies return. We made a list. Yes, the top 5 list. The top 5 people in this world that regardless of the status of your relationship at that specific point in time, if you meet them, all previous agreements are null and void.  It was terrific, and the most taxing activity my brain has had to do all week. They’re now complete and up on the fridge, although we have agreed, you may update them from time to time, but are still only allowed a grand total of five. Oh and I bet you want to know who made the cut:

My list: Javier Bardem, Billy Crudup (in Almost Famous), Dan Carter (of New Zealand Rugby fame), Ryan Gosling and John Cusack (in High Fidelity, nah, in everything actually)

Roomie’s list: Kaley Cuoco, Kate Beckinsale, Elisha Cuthbert, Louise Redknap (of football WAG fame) and..hmm, I’ll have to look on the fridge when I get home, can’t quite recall numero 5!

The big three oh!

So the best friend and I got talking, as we do. In a moment of conversationary lapse, we decided to make a list of things we need to do before hitting the big three oh! As the list started to take a shaky shape, I questioned the ‘bigger’ things on her list, and as she rightly pointed out, she still has 7 years. Wow, said I, that is quite a lot of time. She then also rightly pointed out that I only have 5 years left. FIVE. No, not seven, five. That’s not long, and I can assure you, there is lots to be achieved.

Like what? Well we didn’t get much further than me screeching “FIVE” at her, with my knuckles turning white,  car swerving violently around a bend in the placid English countryside. So here’s where I get to thinking, if I make a list, it had better be achievable, however it can’t be too achievable, otherwise the overriding naffness will inevitably mean I don’t do it.

Regardless, here goes something. Here is the magical list, what does this woman want?

A vintage car for one thing. I have always wanted  a gas guzzling, red car like the one at the top of this post.(I would also like to solve my technical retardation that prevents me from posting the picture here and not at the top of the post!!) Although in the event that I could afford such a lovely vintage set of wheels I will gladly have it in any colour, except orange. It does nothing for my complexion.

It would also be nice to learn French. Why French? I year you yelp. Because because because, it eludes me still. Spanish seems almost (if not entirely) within my grasp, but oh! French! No matter how I try, those garlic infused chaps across the channel can make neither head nor tail of me trying to order so much as a cup of coffee.

Then the other thing is I want to live and work in New York for at least a year. Now this little plan is thwarted by everything, unstable job markets, the acquisition of a work visa (I’m sure this is not as difficult in actuality as it is in my head) and my complete inability to save anything, least of all money. Hmm, perhaps someone with lots of money could sponsor my existence.

I guess then, I would also like, before my thirtieth birthday to meet someone with lots of money to sponsor my existence. 

If possible, I would like to make a start on my novel. Now this makes it sound like there is actually a concrete idea for this novel. But, ho! There is not. Nope, I just want to write something of significance…not asking to be Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Otis Redding.

Number 4, Film Director – except German or Silent.

Wait, that’s not me…

 

sunshine bitch

They’ve been hibernating all winter, I know it, because I can tell you, I’ve not seen them until now. Not to talk about the weather, but it’s a fairly pivotal part of this bitter anecdote. Safe to say, summer has arrived, actually, in England it never arrives, it stops over. I digress. This week summer has stopped over and in London it has tempted out a different breed of female. I suspect that somewhere on the outskirts of the city there is to be found a hibernation camp, kitted out with spray tanning , hair salons and celery. Preparing hordes of  women, who never set foot on the street in winter for their grand debut.

They’re thin. Not just skinny types, but these perfectly slim mythical beasts who haunt my nightmares. I am by no means gargantuan, but this heat has made any form of public transport near deathly, the head and humidity swarming around you, while you resent the fact that other people on the underground need to breathe. Then Little Miss Immaculate hops on, all Carrie Bradshaw breezy in heeled shoes that your mother would have warned you, ‘could take someone’s eye out!’ She has clothes to die for, flitty summer dresses dance around her and you could be forgiven for thinking she has a personal assistant following her with an air conditioner. You of course are simply sporting the short-sleeved versions of your almost entirely black (heat attracting) work wardrobe, oh and a pair flip-flops.  

On a positive note, the lovely weather inevitably finds me and my entourage (of 1) in the beer gardens of our tiny town. These, unlike London attract an entirely different calibre of lady beast, with hair pulled tightly back for a face-lift effect and more than just a pair of legs on display. They don’t make an altogether pleasant change from the flawless exhibitions of the city, but at least I don’t feel like the one of the lesser cuts of creation.

Perhaps it’s time to reintroduce my stomach to the age old art of starvation and the masterful ways of the sit up? My legs could probably use a stretch, but they argue vehemently that they’re by far thinner than the rest of me and would like very much to be left alone. I’ve just read the small print, it turns out bitterness and cynicism were a package deal that came without a money back guarantee. The only way to suppress them is with a nice large glass of cabernet. Well if I must.