Dennis the Menace

Found a whole file of old emails from Beano when I was clearing laptop memory space on Saturday. Then wrote an enormous blog of The Whole Story, which I forgot to email myself so will post tomorrow.

I'm a bit mixed up and confused at the moment. Had a horrific dream last night that woke me at 3am in a state of panic. He had to put a Friends DVD on for me so I could watch it while trying to calm down and get back to sleep. Yet more proof that He is angelic and perfect, and that I shouldn't be letting thoughts of Beano rent any of my headspace.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I want to go back to him or anything stupid like that, it's just... I feel there is still a little unresolved business there. After all, he was my best friend before, and apart from, being my lover. And it didn't end well.

Anyway, if I carry on with this train of thought I risk boring you rigid, so I shan't. You'll have to wait for the full story tomorrow.

In other news: quiet weekend, did some writing, bought some new perfume, drank too much coffee, fought some crime, looking forward to Brighton next weekend for His birthday.

Enough is Enough

I have put my foot down.

I am not going out this weekend. I am not spending any time with His family. I am doing entirely and precisely what I want to do, and sod everyone else.

In related news, I have written 2,735 words of the book today, at work, and this is what I shall be doing all weekend.

And when I'm not writing, I shall be decorating.

To me, the perfect way of spending this weekend. How it looks to anyone else is, quite frankly, not worth caring about.

Sometimes one has to be selfish. Otherwise, one will lose one's fucking mind.

Snow Queen

Reasons why today has been a good day:

1. It snowed last night, and I wore my big furry snowboots to work today.

2. Scarfee is back from holiday and we spent lunchtime wandering round the shops sneering at clothes and chavs.

3. He and I tackled the washing up mountain last night, so I can get home today and start doing interior-fashion-things to downstairs without acidentally falling over tottering piles of crockery.

4. I bought a copy of the only Jilly book I don't own on Ebay for 50p.

5. I'm half way through re-reading the first trashy novel I ever read (ten years ago) and it's still really good!

6. This time in 4 months I'll be on the beach in Spain.

The Young Woman and the Sea

When I lived in Malaysia, I used to sit on the covered balcony of my beach hut and watch the storms far out to sea. You could see lightning bouncing off the water, and the place where the sky changed abruptly from blue to grey. On a really good day, you could watch the storm move in towards you, until the first rainspots hit. Once they did, I would move inside and sit cross legged on my narrow bed under the window, watching the raindrops spatter on the glass, turning the sea black and the sand dirty brown. But afterwards, the sky would be bluer, the air crisper despite the heat, and I would grab my dive gear and go and sit on a wrecked fishing boat eight metres beneath the surface, watching the marine life settle and adapt to changes in the sea floor. I would sit there, air perfectly balanced, motionless, and let the fish get on with it. It was a meditation. Quiet and still, and otherwordly.

That’s kind of how I feel today. The mental storm of the weekend has passed, and I am sitting at my desk, having done next to no work today, eating a Jordan’s Crunchy cereal bar, and feeling… calm.

Full Casualty Report

Felt a need to separate the previous insanity post from this one…

The party itself was as bloody as predicted. I was forced to stand around the hall feeling spare-partish and blatantly in the way for the hour and half before it started, during which Him and His family were preparing food, setting up lights, refusing my help etc etc. And they didn’t even open the drink. Once the party stared, I spent a lot of the night sitting behind the DJ set-up with Him, downing glass after glass of cheap wine and avoiding all the ‘when are you having a baby?’ questions. I counted a total of eleven similar enquiries. To which I used my friend Zez’s advice of grace under pressure and just smiled politely and changed the subject.

Managed to get a few hours at home on Saturday as predicted, where we slept a bit, fought some crime, and then He got up while I lay in bed, read a book from cover to cover, and ate leftover sausage rolls that we smuggled out of the leftovers box. Sad to say this was entirely the highlight of the weekend.

Saturday night’s dinner party was again a minefield of social interaction. He and I caught the train up there very happy and cheerful with each other. My insanity had almost been forgotten, and the only thing still ailing us was our hangovers. Once we arrived at MIL’s, we got stuck straight into the wine with a serious vengeance. I was about to start pacing myself when she started opening her presents. Mars and Venus and Cuck and Riptorn has told us that they were clubbing together to buy her a new 'hifi'. They had neglected to mention that they were also buying her myriad other presents. Therefore the wedding picture in a sleek glass frame that we had spent so much time and effort choosing was discarded with barely a smile of thanks.

My feelings could be best described by the text I sent to my beloved Nambo: “How is it possible to be paralytic and still not be drunk enough? I need you to rescue me like you did at the wedding with pints of water and cuddles”. He replied with much laughter and brotherly sympathy. My poor Him was trying so hard to hide His upset and disappointment He was rendered almost mute. After all, however bad they make me feel, they're His actual family, so the pain must be multiplied tenfold...

The dinner itself was sabotaged mainly by the placement. Trying to mix children with adults at a long table of fourteen people is never going to lead to stimulating conversation. He and I were stuck in the middle with the Freak Northerners at one end (can’t be bothered to name them properly), children on both sides and opposite, and Mars and Venus, Cuck and Riptorn at the other end. Amused ourselves by getting horrifically drunk and teaching the children how to play ‘slaps’ and other inappropriate games.

Got home finally about eleven, after forking over £50 for food that was very nice, but primarily used as a tool for soaking up alcohol. Wrote off Sunday as hangover recovery, and did nothing more productive than fight some crime and watch Eastenders.

So… all in all an appalling waste of a weekend. Have agreed that we will never subject ourselves to such torture again. One more reason to add to the 'move the hell away - quickly' pros list.

Sanity: MIA

Got home on Friday to prepare for in-law hell. Promptly managed to have my first appearance-related-hallucinating panic attack in two years. In the mirror, my breasts were starting from my shoulders and stretching down to my waist, consuming my entire upper body. My arms were tree trunks, my legs even more so. My curves vanished and were replaced in my vision by acres of unwanted flesh…. Next thing I know I was locked in the toilet, retching and sobbing, unable to breathe, tears pouring from what seemed like my mouth, nose and ears as well as eyes. I’d forgotten how horrific that feeling is. Poor darling Him was standing outside the loo, shouting at me to unlock the door, furious with me for scaring Him by suddenly running from the room with my hand over my mouth.

A few years ago, this used to be a regular occurrence, but since Him it’s only happened a couple of times, and never when He’s been there. He knows about it, of course – I tell Him everything, and I did have one of my severe depressions for a few months during our first year together, so He knows I’m not always entirely stable… But it really has been two years since then, and even I’ve believed that I might be better… Which I suppose I am, but that was one hell of a relapse.

Afterwards I lay in bed shaking, trying to convince myself to get up, try dressing again, and get some make-up on. The party that had caused the panic still had to be attended…

In the end I eschewed valium (fear of flying supply) in favour of the oldest-party-outfit-in-the-world, which even my twisted brain knows I look good in (jeans, vertiginous heels, low cut black top, vintage blue velvet blazer, no jewelley). Put it on, didn’t look in the mirror (obviously). Slapped on enough make-up to make a drag queen wince, washed most of it off again, and elected for the natural-face-plus-dramatic-lips look. Took the focus off my puffy eyes and puke-green complexion.

Then, of course, as every brave girl does, I took a deep breath, pulled my shoulders back, slapped a smile on my face, a kiss on His lips, and sashayed out of the door. I am, after all, a master at being composed on the outside.

Tour of Duty

This weekend is MIL's 60th birthday, and therefore all fun and normal twentysomething activity is suspended from 1600 hours tonight until 2300 hours tomorrow night. During this period, life becomes a battleground for freedom of choice. Normal service will be resumed 0900 hours Monday.

The battleplan is to leave work at 1530, go back to base and change into full battle dress (carefully calculated to make me look like the boho princess I am, and guaranteed to make MIL's friends stay away from me and stare at me like I'm an alien life form sent to earth to steal their sons and show up their wrinkles). Then at 1700, transport arrives to deliver us to the heart of the battleground. Trenches will be dug, positions fortified (DJ tables erected, chairs placed behind them for me and Him, sides sealed against unexpected verbal attack from bores). Battle is expected to commence in full at 1930 hours (with a heavy barrage of 'You must be His new little wife. When are you going to start popping out sprogs and give up work?'). Return fire will be immediately issued with heavy payload (‘I feel that if one has the brain to do well in one’s career, one doesn’t need to sacrifice that to change dirty nappies. Besides, if I was at home all day, how would my husband find me interesting to come home to?’)

It is expected that the battle will rage until around 2330 hours, and it is unlikely that a clear victor will emerge, as I have the greater weaponry, but the other side has greater numbers. At this point a retreat will be ordered back to the trenches (His sister and brother in law, Mars and Venus’s, house). Alas, there are double agents in the camp, Cuck and Riptorn, who may try to obtain some form of cunning petty victory over the minds of Him and I, the intrepid heroes of this tour of duty. Caution must be taken at all times.

R&R back at base from 1100 Saturday until 1700, then this time to the new battleground of the dinner table. A call for diplomatic skills this, but these brave warriors of freedom have always been more skilled with heavy weapons than light barbs. Diplomatic talks are expected to focus on His and my plans to relocate to a new base 400 miles away or more, our refusal to have children, and our refusal to have City jobs. Sniper skills may be necessary, but the order is to shoot to maim, but not to kill (they’re family after all).

Retreat will be ordered at 2300 latest, with a return to base to have wounds dressed and shellshock psychoanalysed. Sunday will be a day of R&R after the heavy battle.

Relationship damage prediction: medium
Chances of survival: medium to high
Enemy casualties predicted: very high

Full casualty report and battle analysis will be issued 1000 hours Monday.

Over and out.

I Get What I Want and I Never Want It Again

All my life I’ve fought, clawed and manipulated my way to getting the things I thought I really wanted, and none of those things have ever actually made me happy. For example: working in magazines, McTotty, Beano, Evil Jon (he doesn’t deserve a name change), my first job in advertising…

The things that HAVE made me happy have been purely chance and accident. For example: working in Malaysia, meeting Him despite us living 100 miles away from each other and having nothing but one person in common in practical terms, falling into this job after being sacked from the job I really worked hard for but hated, taking a chance on one more house viewing when we were about to give up and finding our gorgeous house…

Maybe it’s a sign for me to stop trying to grab at the things I mistakenly seem to want, and let the things I need come to me.

And God/Fate/The Universe/Whoever, if you need any ideas then a fat book deal, a recording contract, and a £25,000 scratchcard win would be nice.

Thursday's Child

I had a very surreal dream last night that Jellie and I were being photographed by David La Chapelle, dressed up as the main characters in our respective novels. It was quite fascinating really, but a very strange image from which to wake up on a grey english morning.

I’ve got most of my actual work out of the way this morning so that I can concentrate on the book this afternoon. For some reason I find working on it in the office rather easy. I can’t actually get lost in the writing – too many distractions, and I don’t have the high heels I always wear when creating (it’s a superstition thing) or the enormous stuffed python I often wrap round my neck (prevents poor posture in front of the laptop, which gives me debilitating headaches), but when it comes to chapter planning, synopsis writing, and general character background work, the office is as good a place as any.

I’m taking refuge in the novel at the moment, because I’m hardly seeing Him. It’s MIL’s 60th on Friday night and He’s lost in creative DJ heaven mixing all the CDs and sorting out the playlist. Strange how it’s possible to miss someone even when you’re in the same house, but I do. Histrionic attention-seeker that I am.

I have started setting myself writing goals again though, which is very good for me. This afternoon I need to draft out the backstory of one of the characters I’ve been having some problems with, and then tonight I’ve told myself I have to sort out the house (I have this terrible feng-shui-ish kind of obsession whereby I can’t write unless I feel order around me – I must have the tidiest study of any writer I know), before writing at least one chapter. Baby steps…

I Have Been Granted a Title

No, not the aristocrat kind!

I have finally, finally, come up with a title for the book! Or at least a working title. It's a huge relief, after having total block about it.

I also spent all afternoon writing the revised plot summary, which looks good. With any luck, I might actually get some more of it written over the next few weeks.

V good mood now. Off to buy some wine to celebrate.

Terminal

I watched The Terminal last night. I was kind of expecting to hate it, but it was actually really good, and much funnier than I expected. Tom Hanks is one of those people that I always think of as being a bit annoying, but then when I see one of his films it always reminds me what a good actor he is. Don't get me wrong, there was a slight odour of parmesan to some of the scenes, but generally it left me satisfied...

Also, totally defied Valentines conventions by having a big row/dicussion about His family (we have the same argument about once a month). Concluded, as usual, that my family are better than His because mine treat me like an adult, and His treat Him like a 12 year old. This time it was triggered by them having opinions about our financial/work/living situation. As far as I'm concerned, it's none of their fucking business. Which He agrees with, in principle, but won't say to them. Eventual decision: we're aiming to action our plan of moving far far away by this time next year. Thank God.

The Valentine's Day Massacre

Honestly. Whoever said humans were an intelligent race should have tried popping into Clinton Cards this lunchtime, just to see the desperate pussy-whipped men in there who couldn't risk their honey's displeasure at a lack of pointless red heart-shaped crap. Absolutely bloody pathetic. It is beyond me how some women find it a dump-able offence not to be bought piles of useless ugly 'presents' on a day that was marketed entirely by Hallmark.

If I want to buy Him a present, I will do so regardless of what day of the year it is. Valentines Day is to romance what New Year is to partying - it's the one day of the year where you Have To Be In Love And Do Romantic Things, whether you feel like it or not. How completely stupid.

I may refuse to have sex tonight on principle.

Weird and Wonderful Weekend

There are times when I am really really glad that I don't tell my friends about this blog. It means I can post things about them that they will never read and be offended by. For example:

Spent all day Saturday simultaneously making furniture (trying to finish living room), mainlining Diet Coke, and bitching with Him about the 'dinner party' we were supposed to be attending that night chez Coxy and Sparky. Bitching mainly centred around the fact that when we had them over for dinner before the wedding, we cooked, bought booze, made an effort etc. They, on the other hand, texted three days before and said they couldn't be arsed to cook, so could everyone bring a bottle and money for a takeaway. Cheapskate lazy bastards. Concocted various ideas on how to get out of it, but in the end concluded that we probably should go, if only because Monsieur Coustard and Ellby were going, and they're always good for a laff. So along we went, Him driving and therefore not even allowed the social anaesthetic of alcohol, and amazingly, we had an absolutely fabulous time. It completely obeyed the rule that anticipation has an inverse relationship with enjoyment - the less you look forward to something, the better a night it always turns out to be.

Sunday morning, got up and wandered around for a bit, then got dressed and set off for Sainsbury's (oh the life of a married couple - it's so exciting). Got half way there, pulled out onto the huge scary roundabout five minutes away, and the car died. Had to get out and push with traffic whizzing around, and almost broke our arms trying to shove the bloody thing onto the central reservation. And you know what? Not ONE bastarding person stopped to help, or even called out and asked if we were okay. Nope, one complete c**t even shouted abuse at us for 'parking' on a roundabout. Yes dear, we just thought we'd pull over in the middle of traffic and stop and enjoy the view. Almost got killed a few times (quite literally) before finally heaving our darling car, Sharona, onto the grass and out of danger. I then, naturally, had absolute hysterics (about the nearly dying part) while He rang the RAC. An hour later, RAC shows up, takes a very cursory look, says 'it's fucked' and tows us home.

After that, we obviously needed a big drink and some warm food, so toddled off to Cafe Rouge for Gallic sympathy, red wine, and bouef bourguinon. Never let it be said that we don't know how to handle a crisis. Ended up having a wonderful three hour meal during which we said lots of terribly lovely things about each other, revelled in our expansive love for one another (doesn't happen often, but near-death experiences will do that to you, as will copious amounts of vin rouge) and rolled home plastered to fall asleep in front of The Terminal.

So.... weird and wonderful weekend just about covers it. Feel shattered today, but very alive. Which after yesterday I'm viewing as a huge advantage.

Oh, bollocks, just remembered I ordered a £150 exercise bike last night while pissed. Where the fuck am I going to put that?!

Nice Knickers

I've always had a mild obsession with underwear.

It started with my first pair of stylish My Little Pony pants when I was about 8, and has continued to this day. It's compounded by the fact that being rather *ahem* well endowed in the breast area (possessing, as Beano used to call it, a 'generous chest'), I am actually obliged to spend lots of cash on bras, otherwise my nightmare of becoming a proper fat Italian 'mama' one day with huge tits down my stomach will actually come true!

I've been through phases of 'sporty' underwear (when I was at school - held the chest in a bit to try and hide my assets from the girls who had none and the boys who wanted some), 'provocative' underwear (wore different brightly coloured wonderbras under my white school shirt throughout sixth form, along with tiny pants under my far-too-short skirt) and 'practical' underwear (I used to be a sailing instructor, gimme a break!), but now have happily progressed into 'lots of' underwear!

I have everything from practical sports stuff to tiny tiny barely there pants that you could 'consume in one bite' as someone once put it. I have over a hundred pairs of knickers, and that still, to my mind, isn't enough, and about fifteen bras. All of which are less than a year old (I chuck stuff as soon as it frays/greys/etc - no-one likes a girl whose underwear looks a mess). Oh, and don't even get me started on camisoles, shorties, etc etc etc.

Anyway, the point of all this rambling is that last night Mr Mastercard bought me nearly £100 worth of new scanties. I am a happy girl.

The Midnight Hour

He and I reached a kind of crisis point last night. It’s been brewing for a while. We were in bed chatting and mucking about when suddenly He took massive offence at something and the mood changed from playful to ugly within seconds. I burst into tears and was wailing “Five minutes ago everything was cool, now it’s turned to shit and I don’t know what’s gone wrong”. Which lately is the story of my life. But for the first time since all this weirdness between us, He actually talked instead of going all quiet and robotic and “Nothing’s wrong” when it blatantly is.

What we talked about is, frankly, none of your business, but suffice to say it led to crime fighting, talking long into the night, tears from both sides, more crime fighting, and a very very tired Mookmoo this morning.

But some things, of course, are worth losing a night’s sleep for. I feel completely loved and cocooned and good again for the first time in too long.

I’m a very lucky girl, really.

Randomness

Completely missed Pancake Day.

Oh, and I'm giving up fighting with Him for Lent. It's getting tedious.

Being on a diet always makes me feel a bit random and strange. Here are three things stuck in my head today:

Song: Damien Rice 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You'

Film scene: from Cruel Intentions, when Reese is coming up the escalator and sees Ryan at the top, all shot in moody colour, one of the most sexually charged film moments I've seen

Debate: Whether to dye my hair lighter or darker

This post is very appropriately titled, I've decided. I feel completely random. It's rather nice.

Grrr

I am in a seriously bad mood.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Fucking well fuck fucking everything! Especially fucking men and fucking coffee houses with no wheat-free food, and fucking builders spraying sparks into the road that you jump away from and then have a row with your husband over, and fuck fucking husbands most of fucking all. I don't know why I fucking bother sometimes, I really don't.

And that is all I want to say today.

Mookmoo's New Leaf

In the spirit of today's good mood...

I have decided to have a bit of a fresh start. I'm going to join the gym tonight. And from tomorrow for various tedious health reasons I also have to start eating a wheat free diet. So I have decided to give being 'Healthy Virtuous Mookmoo' a try for a little while. This is with the following motivations:

1. Better digestive health (look, just don't ask, okay!)

2. I have to wear a bikini in just over 4 months. DOOOOOOOOM!

3. Gyms are full of fit boys.

4. I can really irritate all of the following:
a) restaurant staff
b) my friends
c) my colleagues
by being smug and wheat-free and exercise-junkie-ish.

Do feel free to add any more motivations you think may work on my twisted little mind...

Oh, but the good news? I get to trough whatever I want today, because everything changes tomorrow!

Le Weekend

Bonjour mes amis.

Gorgeous weekend this weekend, so I feel in a very shiny happy mood today (hence the French - my happy language. As opposed to German, my snarly language [because the swear words sound more vitriolic]).

Had dinner at MIL's on Friday, an event for once entirely without bloodshed, and managed to return home in a positive mood.

Met the lovely Jellie for an afternoon of aimless-wandering, lard-eating, and vodka-drinking in our nation's capital on Saturday. Most fabulous, and not just because I gave my new dress its first outing. Then returned home to watch the gorgeous vision that is Mockley trying out life in the Orkneys for one of those lifestyle change programs on Beeb 3.

Sunday was spent whirling round the house like a dervish doing (boring) cleaning and (less boring) decorating. It's all looking quite lovely now, with the exception of three weeks worth of laundry (I've been too busy!) hanging all around the house.

Which brings us to today. Which has been fine. Work's work, so it's fairly predictable...

Anyway, a good weekend had by all, and Mookmoo starts the week in a good mood. Shocker!

Oh Bloody Hell

Just wrote a massive rant of a blog about shit male behaviour from Him, then remembered I promised Him that if He didn't try and locate my blog, I wouldn't slag Him off too much in it. Grrrr.

Suffice to say, if He has a problem with me earning more than Him at the moment, He should do something about it instead of sulking every time I get a little upset about spending half my life in the bank at the moment, trying to sort out the last wedding payments, and stopping our bills from bouncing. Honestly, there are times I feel like His mother rather than His wife!

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Bloody men!!

Crawling on The Floor Hungover

I have a terrible hangover today. I’m blaming Scarfee. We had a conference thing yesterday, after which we decided to drop into the bar conveniently situated in the same building as the conference for a quick drink. Two and a half hours and a large number of vodkas later, He came and met us, after which more vodka was drunk, until Scarfee’s boyf arrived to pick her up off the floor and take her home. He and I retired to the restaurant and had a nice Italian, plus some wine.

Then went home, tried to watch Shrek 2, and fell asleep. Keep waking up every hour and having weird dreams, which always happens when I have a vodka binge. It’s the first time in ages though, so I’d forgotten how foul it is.

Good news of the day: Supergran has agreed to lend Him and I her house in Spain for two weeks holiday in June. Hurrah! Just have to get work to confirm my dates, book some flights, and lose 2 stone to wear a bikini on the beach without Greenpeace being called in for the stranded whale I would be at the moment.

More good news: Jellie and I are going for some shopping and drinking in London tomorrow afternoon. V nice. Looking forward to it muchly.

And finally: why oh why is it that my skin always looks its brightest and best when I am hungover?! It’s like a genetic mutation. I feel like shite, but look lightly golden and glowing, as opposed to my usual sallow and foul morning appearance. hence no-one believes I am hungover and therefore I get no sympathy at all!

Oh God. Just remembered. Dinner at MIL’s tonight. DOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!

Shoes

Oh, and as an addendum, shoe shopping with Scarfee was v enjoyable, not least because I bought a beautiful pair of silk slippers (as in glass slipper, not bedroom slippers, obviously) with butterflies embroidered on them. Gorgeous.

Oh, and Scarfee was a good laugh too.

Crisis Talks at Cafe Rouge

We had a crisis summit last night at Café Rouge. On a digression before we reach the main subject, I love our local Café Rouge. Despite the fact that it’s a chain restaurant, the owner is actually French. So, especially on weekdays, it does manage to achieve the atmosphere of a proper bistro, particularly in the fact that we always linger long after our meal, and they don’t care. They even gave us a free bottle of wine last night (we go there a lot).

And so, in the candlelit, downing fine wine like it was about to be rationed, we had crisis talks about The House. Because guess what? He’s in total agreement about the non-creative, non-interesting look of the house.

We decided that where we went wrong was that with our old flat, the landlord had an, er, interesting sense of colour (pink carpeting anyone? No? Can I interest you in an orange kitchen then?) and our big furniture had to be neutral so as not to give you an instant migraine on entry. Whereas the new house is so neutral in décor as to be almost invisible, so adding our neutral furniture made for one big blob of beige, with our more decorative items looking like colourful measles on the blank background. Nice.

So suffice to say, we got pissed, went home, toured the house, and wrote on furniture things like ‘paint’, ‘move to opposite wall’, ‘replace and sell’, ‘burn’ (curtains in the living room – dire landlord’s choice), and then made a big list of all the new stuff we need. It was great fun.

And the best news of all is that He is surrendering His tiny music room to me as a study! Yes! I will finally have a room all of my own to lock the door and write in! Whereas He is overjoyed to swap and take the large spare room (despite the fact it does have a bed/chest of drawers/other guest room paraphernalia at one end of it) because He can ‘pace around more when playing guitar’. Fair enough. Doesn’t seem like a great reason to me, but I don’t care because six months of being selfless has paid off and I’ve now got what I wanted in the first place! Who says compromise isn’t an option?!

Household Management

I have decided that we have accidentally made our house too thirty-something, and I fear that this is the cause of our current lack of creativity...

He had a massive attack of self pity and musicians-block last night, in which He told me that He was seriously considering giving up music because He had lost enthusiasm and talent for it (not true). And equally, I have barely written anything lately, though my new writing room, reflecting as it does a bit more of my personality, is helping on that score.

It's not that I don't like our house, it's just that it's all got a bit beige and sterile. At least, that's how I feel about it today. I might have changed my mind again by tomorrow.

Oh, and incidentally, this isn't another Ikea-addiction attack, though it could well lead to one...

Oh I don't know. I'm in a very strange mood at the moment. The winter of my discontent. I would rather like to fast forward to summer when I'll be thinner, the wather wil be warmer, and the house will look bright and light instead of cold and sterile.

Oh fuck it. I'm in such a bored mood right now that even my blogs are bloody boring.

On a brighter note, Scarfee and I are going shoe shopping at lunchtime. Since we got paid yesterday, we felt it only appropriate to go and spend some of our hard earned cash on pretty footwear that we don't need. I feel better already.