cold as gasoline

I don’t drink Guinness. It’s a meal in a pint glass. I. do not. drink. Guinness. Although 2 bottles of red wine can make a pint of Guinness seem rather appealing. So why not, I’ll have a pint of Guinness. Thanks.

Moving to London is a disaster, it really is. My brain is a manipulative little bastard. Last night I had planned one of my favourite anally retentive activities. Clean sheets night. You see, it’s not just clean sheets. It’s clean, crisp, ironed sheets. It’s machine washed, fabric softened pillow-cases and duvet covers. Once those are neatly on the bed, it’s time for clean Danni, fresh from her bubble bath and in her clean pyjamas. All day I dreamt about this. Thoughts of sliding under cool sheets, sinking into pillows and a still dreamless sleep. But, oh no, this is not what happened, not at all.

One farewell drink for a colleague turned into a lot of farewell drinks for my common sense. Like teenagers with a wad of fake IDs we cleaned out the booze isle of the supermarket and bid goodbye to our lovely colleague the only way we knew how. Getting drunk on the patch of grass they dare to call a park outside work. One drink, that’s what I’d told the brain, then it started to reason with me, in the process erasing the thought of clean sheet night, and my then unmade bed…

Wine wine wine and Guinness later, I navigated the mammoth four stop tube journey home. Memory returning slowly, biting me sharply on the ass, the unmade bed dawned on me. Clean sheet night was ruined and so was I. I made the bed, I made it, after I made toast, with mustard and ham and shortly before not taking off my makeup.  So much for my anally retentive order of events. No sliding into anything, no neat and tidiness, no bubble bath, just a harsh beam of light breaking through the blinds at 6am demanding a handful of nurofen and a cold shower. Goodbye lovely colleague, we will miss you. 

nutter.

It’s a simple fact of life that some of us have a weirdo homing device. What this essentially means is that people, like myself, who are in fact perfectly normal, are carriers of a mutant ‘weirdo gene’. Like the call of a wild pheasant, it sends out a signal to the more barmy members of the human race and says “talk to me”. It overrides your screaming internal monologue and says, “Yes, I, Danielle, am happy and willing to give you a spare second of my time and am, much to my own annoyance, so polite that I wont run away screaming”. 

In an office of hmm, lets see, nearly 30 people, why is it that a slightly odd man, roaming the corridors of our sizeable building, found me? More to the point, who let him in? He then tried to recruit ten minutes of my time to test out a new digital reading invention, which no doubt has robbed him of thousands of daylight hours, his bank balance and a sense of humour. He hovered around my desk, talking painfully slowly in a way that suggested I might not understand the higher level he normally communicates at. In the politest way I knew how, I managed not to be welcomed onto Starship Enterprise and suggested that my colleagues were more than likely too busy to participate.

Did they thank me? Did they sigh with relief, run over and throw their arms round me out of gratitude? No, of course not. Mutiny broke out in the school yard and the bullying began.

“Oooh, Danni, is that your new boooyfriend?”

It should be noted that I am fairly accustomed to this behaviour. Indeed, it is not the first time I have been a victim of their mockery, for they too know about my mutant gene. The previous story goes a little like this:

Colleague: “Danni, a really rather attractive man came to see you while you were away, about the office move”

Danni: “Really?”

Colleague: “Yes, he’s coming back later, he looks a bit like Jesus. In a good way.”

Well the Jesus part was true. Since the move took some time to coordinate, Jesus was to pop into our office from time to time and as such he became my boyfriend. Not really! pfft! Don’t get carried away. They called him my boyfriend.

I threaten them with mock emails to HR, swear that I will never unlock my alcohol cupboard (yes, we have one), but none of it matters. I am the youngest, doomed to be mocked!

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. 

you know something's wrong when...

…you’re singing ‘Poker Face’ by that personality free zone Lady Gaga and its whirring round and round in your head and your wrists are still pleasantly in tact. Make it stop!

Other things that need to stop:

Eating. I’ve done it again, I mean it was a simple introduction “arse meet wagon” and the arse/wagon relationship continued (not without its problems) for around 3 weeks. Three happily shed kilograms later, the marginally smaller arse fell, well and truly off the wagon. It fell merrily into a few bottles of red wine, somewhere near a crate of cheese, poached eggs atop garlic grilled asparagus, lasagne, more cheese, espresso and inevitably and quite rightly so, more red wine.  Today it stumbled toward an apple crumble, so cinnamony, buttery, toasty warm and inviting, that it took one look at my guilt ridden brain and told it to fuck off.

I must get out of the food industry, or my pleas to the heavens for skinnydom come, will be drowned out and suffocated by butter icing. I’ll turn tragically into someone who can’t quite manage to get the cake mix to the oven and inhales it before it so much as graces a cake tin. I have some willpower left, I think, but it probably need a serious calorie-free boost.

Last night my dad was on phone call duty. June is birthday month. Aunts, cousins, cousins-in-law, friends, foes, they were all there on the list. I’m in the kitchen (preparing the lasagne, obviously) and I can hear him nattering. It makes a pleasant change from his attachment to that guitar. I’m picking up on some regularities of each conversation. Most prominently ‘no, I wish I could marry her off, but she’s still here’. He’s joking, which is fine, what’s not fine, is that they’re asking.  They  are the South Africans, the prodigal tribal elders, whose own daughters, all by my ripe old age of 24 (I kid yee not) have been married off. The husbands have handed over herds of cows and goats and the daughters are now the mothers and wives of Africa. I’m glad there is an ocean and 12 hour flight between us. I’ve learnt many a lesson from my previous attachments (boyfriends if you must) and that is, I could most certainly not see myself married to any of them now. No offence lads, but you understand.

So now I face some interesting dilemmas. I mull over the possibility of an attachee, I mull over who the current options are (shudder) and think about what small amount of my time I could possibly devote to them, without, like my African counterparts, becoming their live-in carer. What brings these dilemmas to the forefront you may ask? Surely there are other things higher on the agenda? Why yes friend, there are, but you see, a friend of mine recently joined an online dating site and given that my dear mother once asked me ‘have you thought about online dating?” it meant that I definitely had to think about internet dating. Fortunately for me, said friend has sacrificed herself as the guinea pig, so we’ll just see how she gets on, wont we?

electric adventure

Perhaps all books should be confined to shelves. Left unread. I could reach up to that dusty top shelf and wrench down my common sense. It is clearly not the wisest idea to start reading “A Year in Provence” shortly after returning from that very region. Sitting at my desk, the London summer in full grey swing, life could not be further removed from the lazy days we spent crawling around the Provencal countryside from one vineyard to the next.  Four days in southern France were enough to tip me over the edge and have made the previously bearable London lifestyle seem utterly life threatening. I could use an anti-depressant today.

Provence is like no part of France I’ve ever been to. That is for the very reasonable reason that I’ve only ever visited the country to go skiing or gallivanting in Paris.  Today I’m rolling the names of Provencal areas and towns round my mouth like round, shiny sweets, savouring them, even the mispronounced sounds I make. Lubéron, Ventoux, Orange, Avignon, Vaucluse…I’m daydreaming about Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, the river bursting through the town centre, the antique shops brimful of rusted bar stools, wooden chests, anything you could dream up to furnish your imaginary country home.

The landscape for the most part rolls along and undulates deceptively gently. The hills are striped with rows of vines, cherry trees and lavender.

On one of our outings, we rented electric bicycles at wine co-operative Cave Terraventoux. Unlike the permanent residents of this region, pioneers of the Tour de France, our little collective of Brits have no predisposition to a cycling gene. Our genetic makeup however does allow for excess in its best forms.  With minimal effort on our part the bicycles took us through vineyards, the sun burning through the breeze and turning forearms a beautiful shade of lobster.  We stopped for a lunch of what I can only call cold omelette, but hasten to add was delicious and cured meat of various descriptions, and of course glasses of rosé and red Cote du Rhone. Our winter skin becoming more pink by the second. 

I think I better stop daydreaming and pack a suitcase. Afterall I was not built for full-time employment.