Destroy It Yourself

I have no qualms with admitting that while I’ve been blessed with reasonable intelligence from my generous parents, this advantage is nicely counter-balanced by the fact that I’ve been denied a fair amount of common sense.

This particular handicap is something of a burden in day-to-day activities such as crossing roads or making a good first impression, but it doesn’t usually result any serious harm. However, when faced with a world of DIY, I can’t deny my loved ones the right to feel a little anxious.

One such situation arose two weeks ago when Suz and I were faced with resetting the boiler in our new flat. The sensible option would of course have been to wait until we could find a knight in shining armour who was up to the task, but a combination of feminism and the horrifying prospect of going out in public with greasy hair lead us courageously into battle with the house’s electrical circuits.

After a good 20 minutes of stabbing various buttons, as directed by a set of instructions which might as well have been written in hieroglyphics, there was still no sign of life from inside the boiler’s impenetrable exterior. So, after deciding that it probably wasn’t “just really quiet”, we opted for the traditional remedy of leaving it alone for half an hour to see if that did the trick.

When that sure-fire plan didn’t work, we decided this really was a job for the professionals and phoned the helpline who were of course helpfully unavailable due to the fact that it was 5pm on a Sunday.

15 minutes later, fuelled by sheer panic at the idea of a cold shower at 6am, the scene was a little less rational and a little more dangerous. I was sprawled horizontally with my back on the freezing cold kitchen surface and my head in the underside of the boiler, about to flip a red switch labelled ‘Loop valve’ – while Suz had located two screwdrivers and was reading a warning which said TURN OFF ALL ELECTRICAL ACTIVITY BEFORE DISMATLING THE BOILER COVER. It was during this scene of chaos that I had a glorious brainwave, left Suz debating whether to loosen the first screw, and began my hunt for the fuse box.

After flipping a number of switches to a less than productive end, I slumped back to the kitchen but hesitated just outside the door. On the wall, to the right of the light switch was a square box the size of a placemat. In the centre of this was a circular rotating dial, to the left was a list of descending numbers and at the top was a label which read ‘Thermostat’.

Professional Females Flee Granny-Robbing

Picture the scene. Three twenty-something ladies, seriously hungover, mildly hysterical and trying to descend the stairs at Earlsfield station, ladened with an entire entertainment system.

We looked like we’d just robbed an old lady’s front room. Shaking with silent laughter and barely able to walk for needing the loo, we glanced at each other through tear-streamed eyes. I lead the getaway party with my cousin’s digi box in one hand and a Sainsburys bag containing a mess of cables in the other. On my tail was Emily, clutching a HD Samsung DVD player while attempting to dodge the oncoming station traffic. And finally, bringing up the rear was Suz, hidden behind a bulky ‘90s Panasonic TV, unable to see the steps in front of her and desperately grappling for the banister, with the weight of her oversized bag weighing down her one free arm.

All we needed were a pair of black tights to wear over our heads and we’d have made some pretty convincing criminals.

And God said, Let there be Broadband

After two weeks in our new flat without TV, internet, a kettle or a microwave, we were beginning to sympathise with the lifestyle of the Amish. And what’s more – we were quite enjoying it.

We spent our evenings reading and conversing (for those of you unfamiliar with these activities, please refer to the complete works of Jane Austen) and spent many a happy evening cultivating our friendships with fine beverages and good humour. But one evening when Suz began to read the dictionary and we decided it might be fun to take up knitting, the realisation dawned that perhaps we’d spent too long away from 21st century civilisation.

Which meant it was time to face the long postponed task of getting our phone line reconnected.

Now, Suz has endured many traumatic hours on the phone to various Eastern-based call centres in the past two years – including one incident when she was told repeatedly to open a particular web page for instructions on how to get our internet working again, and another when the very nice lady on the phone asked “Can I call you Susan?”. Understandably, she did not respond well to this, given that her name is Suzannah.

So with this in mind, and the fact that Em was leveraging her custom with o2 to get us a deal on broadband, I stepped up to the challenge and called BT.

As expected, it was an excruciating process, involving four different “customer service” operators (one of whom - a chirpy youth named Becky - very kindly cut me off), a rigorous (and I’m sure hugely unnecessary) credit check and one lengthy conversation in which I eventually explained to the charming elderly man on the phone that we already had a phone line which we would simply like reconnecting and therefore would not be needing another one.

After what seemed like two years of my life later, we got there. And in fact, we are due to go live at 8pm this evening. Might want to look out for another blog in the next couple of days...

The Move

Apparently there are three lessons in life that I will simply never learn: nobody wants to hear Christmas songs in October, electrical equipment will not “eventually just fix itself”...and you can never underestimate how much crap you can accumulate while residing in one place for eight months.

It’s the latter of these which concerns me most today. Or, more accurately, three weeks ago - when I awoke to the realisation that in three hours Mum would be here to help us move house and I’d passed out the night before in an alcohol-induced state of certainty that I really didn’t have much to pack.

The only preparations we’d actually made involved picking up three Walkers-branded cardboard boxes from Somerfield, throwing all expired items out of our fridge and writing an extensive list of everything we own, grouped according to box size. Which is why we found ourselves at 8.45am, frantically stuffing bra padding, wet towels and beautifully ironed shirts into black bin bags.

By 10:30am the flat looked like an industrial waste site and we’d already navigated more pitfalls than were necessary. We hit the first of these when I assembled one of the flat-packed Somerfield boxes only to watch it immediately crumple to the floor. Unsurprising, given that there was no tape holding it together. Even after a quick dash for brown tape, it took three attempts to pack our crockery into one precariously assembled box - the final attempt being thwarted when we attempted to move it, to no avail, given that it contained every item of kitchenware we owned aside from two spatulas and a set of scales. Ah.

But after some skilled Tetris-style attempts at filling the boot of Mum’s Renault Scenic, followed by three trips to Earlsfield, we found ourselves in our lovely new front room, dwarfed by a mountain range of suitcases and trying to decide where to point our furniture in the absence of a TV.

The prospect of unpacking is always a little daunting considering the amount of time it took to pack (or the time it would take to pack properly – bin bags and bra flinging excluded). The sensible starting point was obviously clothes or kitchenware – something big which would clear a lot of space. So naturally we began with photo frames and candles. Well, it’s our natural female instinct as homemakers to create a comfortable and welcoming environment. If we’d been men, I’m sure we would have gone straight for the bedroom. Or the bathroom – they can be very precious about their washbags.

I always do that

I think it’s fair to say that, despite the occasional moment of blondeness, I’m a fairly balanced, coherent sort of person. I’d like to think I’m capable of rationale thought and that my actions have roots in logic and reason. But then there are times when you find your body acting completely independently from your brain, leaving a serious question mark hanging over your sanity. Things like watching the stairs and still falling up them, calling your boss ‘Dad’ or pouring boiling water on your cereal. But for me, the action which causes the most concern is what I call involuntary lying.

Have you ever found yourself walking away from a conversation and realising not only that what you’ve just said was categorically untrue, but also – and even more bafflingly - that you had absolutely nothing to gain from the lie?

For example, a while ago I was leaving Waitrose when I realised I’d forgotten to buy toothpaste. As this is something of a necessity, I turned around, located the item and ended up back at the same checkout I’d left 2 minutes earlier. “Me again!” I said brightly “I just forgot something”. And then, for no reason at all, I followed this with “I always do that.” I don’t always do that! In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done that! Truth be told I’m a pretty together person – I’d even go as far as to say I pride myself with superior organisation skills.

So why lie? Not that I’m supporting deception of any sort, but if the benefits outweigh the deceit, a lie does seem somewhat more justified. But in this case it certainly didn’t need to be told, and in doing so I managed to successfully transform myself into walking ‘dumb blonde’ propaganda in the space of a couple of seconds. I might as well have emptied the contents of my wallet onto the desk and asked her to count out the £1.45 I owed for the toothpaste.

But after expressing my concern to the panel, I was completely comforted with reassurance that I’m not alone in this, and that in fact we are all just mad.

I blame the pastries

It’s a common understanding that everyone has their own way of dealing with life events like loss, confrontation or falling over in a public place. I’ve also found this to be true of consoling oneself after a demanding day at work.

The more sensible among us release their tension through sex, wine or ranting to their other halves. I however, more frequently turn to the rapidly-backfiring comfort of food. But not only is this adding a concerning number of centimetres to my already-squidgy areas, it’s also adding an extra 30mins a day to my journey home.

I once read that the average Londoner spends approximately 139hours per year commuting. So, on moving to within a 10minute walk of work, I was naively smug about that fact that I was one of the few lucky exceptions to the rule. This was until the fateful day that I was finally coaxed into Somerfield by a combination of a gruelling day at work and a sign which read “All pastries now just 40p”.

Please don’t judge me here readers – I can usually muster a little more self restraint than to be enticed by an offer on sugary carb-based products, but the night before this particular day I had consumed so much red wine that I almost sent a morning email to a senior male client with ‘xxx’ typed after my name.

Anyway, needless to say it's been downhill from there. Almost every day since then I’ve spent approximately 40mins in Somerfield, trying to decide what I can cook for dinner that will be so overwhelmingly delicious that all of my work trauma will simply fade into non-existence and leave me bathing in a reverent glow of food bliss.

Unfortunately, when one’s brain has been addled by unsuitable levels of alcohol or sleep-deprivation, this decision is not an easy one. In this instance, I find myself either in the fresh produce aisle, staring at things like saffron, Indonesian coconut milk or seared quail, under the inaccurate assumption that I am capable of cooking something remotely complex. Or I’m attempting some sort of hideous Supermarket Sweep effort – flying round the aisles in a panic with arms laden with un-complimenting dishes, picking up and flinging down fishcakes, meringues, tinned spaghetti, and self-raising flour….all because I’m so completely terrified at the prospect of not enjoying my dinner.

And so it continues, and probably will forever. Unless I find a different route home. Or a different job. Or until I am found, slumped in the corner of my kitchen, clutching a glass of wine in one hand and two eggshells in the other, shaking a tear-stained because my Soufflé won’t rise. Surely then it’s time for an intervention?

The Evils of Skiing

There's no denying it - skiing goes against all the basic attractions of a holiday: It's freezing cold, your alarm goes off at 8.30am, and at least four hours of each day involves some pretty strenuous exercise. But that aside, it's actually brilliant fun. However, I have discovered four consistent evils of such a holiday, which I think are worth passing on to better prepare anyone who's thinking of going:

1. Goggles
Nobody, I stress nobody, can pull off goggles. If you're lucky, you'll end up looking like an extra from a WHAM Christmas number one, but the majority of us just resemble a large bug. Or throw on a neckwarmer pulled up to the eyes and you're a Dalek.

2. Arrogant children who are faster than you
This is unavoidable, as they have no fear. And rightly so; they've got half as far to fall as adults do, and their bones will repair twice as fast. But be assured, they will learn. It might involve a strategically placed ski pole, but they will learn...

3. Button Lifts
They take you nowhere and it's virtually impossible to look mature or remain upright whilst on one. Especially when it turns a corner and you become another victim of the crossed-ski pile-up. It's like being back in the playground, having proven yourself inadequate for the see-saw. But regular lifts aren't faultless either - there's always one which looks slow and reliable, until it's about 2 meters behind you, when the bastard gains speed, drops two foot and takes you out from the calves.

4. Ice
There will come a point when you think you're getting the hang of this skiing lark and feel ready to execute some expert posing. When this moment comes, don't EVER take your eyes off the piste. There will always be a patch of ice hidden just below the powder, ready to whip away a ski just when you're at your most smug.

Doomed by Darcy

This is a message to all my nearest and dearest. There is a very strong likelihood that you may not see me again for some time. You will be greatly missed. I, on the other hand, apparently will not. And therefore, I will be contactable only via the knocking down of my front door, dragging me out from beneath a pit of duvets and prising the Ben and Jerry’s from my desperate clasp.

Yesterday, my worst fears were confirmed. Until recently, the main thing seeing me through my current state of singledom was the naive assumption that maybe, just maybe, my knight in shining armour would one day turn up at my workplace and whisk me away in a fantastic Officer and a Gentleman style exit, ready to begin our rose-tinted life together. Admittedly, this is a bit far-fetched, but the sentiment has always been there, leading me to hope that I might not have to endure my days alone in front of the TV with a bottle of wine and the rest of last night’s curry.

But I now have verification that this is never going to happen. It has officially been confirmed. Not by a friend over an emotional and enlightening three bottles of wine. Not by the insensitive, overpaid columnists of today’s glossy magazines. Not even by my Mother (who will always tell me the truth no matter how much it hurts). It has been proven by scientists. Actual professionals. With research and evidence and statistics. And it hurts.

According to a group of researchers in Edinburgh, women like myself who envelop themselves in the beautiful world of Rom Coms are more likely to die sad and alone. Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but they may as well have. Apparently, these sensationalised chick flicks fill their viewers’ minds with unrealistic expectations of love, causing them to sabotage their relationships for not being ‘perfect’.

Unfortunately, I can see their point (hence the duvet-hiding and potential death-by-ice cream). But some of their other findings are just ridiculous, and quite frankly insulting.

For example, and I quote: “Researchers found fans of films such as Runaway Bride and Notting Hill often fail to communicate with their partner.” I resent that. Runaway Bride happens to be one of my all-time favourites and, if anything, I have the longstanding female problem of communicating too much with my partners.

Probably the most extraordinary claim was that: “Marriage counsellors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect”. Who are they kidding? Anyone who had ever had perfect sex please raise their hands. Most of the women I know consider simply achieving an orgasm an accomplishment. And besides, I was under the impression that after about ten or so years of marriage, sex becomes more of a chore than a pleasure…and one which would be happily substituted for a ten-minute shoulder rub and an hour of ITV Drama.

So really, either way I’m screwed. Either I live out my days as a spinster, watching repeats of the Rom Coms that lead to my demise, or as an old married woman whose husband gets more aroused by Jeremy Clarkson speeding round a racetrack than by the sight of me in a lacy undergarment.

Right, that’s it, pass me a spoon…

The Most Beautiful Bride in the World

I used to wonder how one woman could see another in a wedding dress for the first time and proclaim, with such conviction, that she is “The most beautiful bride in the world”: a statement which is both highly unlikely and overwhelmingly cliché. We’ve seen it in films, time and time again…the initial intake of breath, hands clasped dramatically to chests, relatives beaming with pride and grandma scrambling for her travel tissues. But I’d always secretly assumed that in real life the scene would be more rational and downplayed than the melodrama we see on the screen.

I was wrong. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. I allowed myself the naïve assumption that I could withstand the emotion of it all. And thus, I went in unarmed…

The fitting was for my beautiful cousin Hannah who is marrying a wonderful man this September, and I was under the assurance that this was THE dress. So I sat alongside various female relatives in the airy reception area and waited for her to appear (obviously whilst scanning the hangers for my own wedding dress - hypothetical, of course, and assuming that I won’t die sad and alone. Although given my current romantic status, this is an alarming possibility).

She didn’t so much appear, as float: descending down the carpeted hallway, commanding the awed attention of everyone else in the small boutique. The dress was inexplicably beautiful, lovingly detailed and perfectly shaped…but it was the beaming smile on Hannah’s face that had my eyes filling in seconds.