No Rest for the Wicked or Seasonally Challenged

Well hasn’t this just been a busy old month? Apparently the extra week in January has allowed me to cram as much stuff as I possibly can in without realising it, and I can firmly say having a delayed payday really drags the whole thing out. I don’t think we’re quite at the ‘eating beans for every meal’ stage just yet, but I am definitely ready for this month’s wage packet. Admittedly, we probably haven’t helped ourselves purchasing not only a new Dyson but also a new sofa (the most grown up things ever). However, although it is outgoings that we could have maybe done without, I am pretty positive about them because not only did we get everything on sale (and cheaper than we thought to boot) but I was hella grown up and asked pertinent and sensible adult questions because I am a Boss. Even TMM was impressed with my polite but no nonsense attitude. I’m not actually too sure how long that will last when I actually have to be home to let the delivery men bring the sofa in, but as Woo pointed out, I won’t actually be expected to do anything other than open the door and stay out of their way, so hopefully everything will be fine.

I have fallen pretty lucky though, and really shouldn’t be complaining about the apparent millieum length of January. Due to some jammy holiday accrual, I managed to wangle a week off right in the middle (Mother’s birthday – it’s now tradition that we go and stay with her for week) as well as a couple of spare days here and there that are still to look forward to over the coming months.

The holiday itself came hot off the tail of the works conference down in “that Lundun”, which I have to say was probably the best one yet. Working for a global company does mean that you get some perks – one of which is they basically pay for you to go and have a big party to celebrate how everything’s gone in the previous year. Despite working there for nearly 5 years, this is only actually my third conference as I deemed myself to be far too anxious and mental for the first two. The company have really upped their game this time round though and I’m glad I went. Approx 2000 people converged on Battersea Power Station (sans the flying pigs) in their best frocks and suits for a bang up meal and as much free wine/beer as they could handle. Our office travelled down on Thursday, split over the office supplied coach (which was free so my obvious first choice) and the personally supplied train (which you had to pay for so wasn’t even considered), and those of us travelling on style on the coach enjoyed some good old fashioned games of eye spy and a sing a long. We arrived at our hotel at about 3.30ish and bundled up to our room, believing we had plenty of time for prinks and prep. (Spoilers, we had slightly less time than anticipated and barely made it through by the skin of our teeth).

We scrubbed up pretty well though!

Still, we made it to the venue with plenty of time to spare and stocked up nicely on the free bellinis whilst gawping at the pretty awesome scenery. There isn’t really much more to tell from the night itself; we were all very well behaved. There was lots of dancing, a few selfies with Radio 1’s Greg James and everyone commented repeatedly on how much they liked the meal. We were even back at the hotel at a decent time, though we did order dominoes and didn’t actually go to bed until 2.30am (I shared a room with two of my team and we ended up tucked up in two pushed together single beds singing Three Little Bears). The journey back was a tad more subdued, but nobody threw up or cried which I’m taking as a win, and after finishing in the office I was able to go home, nap hard and pack for the week in Wales.

God we are cute

Sadly Mother’s house is still somewhat in disarray, and much to my chagrin she is proving resistant to my idea that we sign her up to DIY SOS. I am convinced that between the freezing internal temperatures (I don’t care what she says, 13 degrees inside is not balmy), exposed floors and lack of a functional shower in the house, we could have Nick Knowles knocking at the door in no time, but she remains unconvinced. We were going through various fancy home magazines and dog earring the corners of everything we like though, so it’s a definite step in the right direction.

However, we still had a splendid time (as we always do) and it might even be for the best that it’s so cold, because if her house was warm I really would have no reason to ever leave it again. We were very helpful whilst we were there though (or so I like to think), and got involved in all kinds of tasks. We blitzed the workshop like absolute demons and managed to not only arrange everything better, we got rid of about 3 bin bags of rubbish, a couple of charity bags, found some jumpers we’d all forgotten we had, and thankfully didn’t find any rodent corpses hidden behind any of the racks. I did however sneeze very dramatically all over the place and got terribly snotty, once again proving that I am deathly allergic to cleaning. We also made some great progress with Mother’s build up of Christmas decorations (considering she hasn’t been able to decorate for about 3 years, she’s got an excessive amount), and in style of Netflix’s very own Maria Kondo (“but does it spark joy?”) managed to downsize to only 4 small cases and 1 big one box.

Mother and I also spent the afternoon making a Christmas Bauble Wreath (read – Mother did and I just sat next to her making helpful suggestions and smashing bits of bauble up happily), and I am definitely classing this as my first craft installment because I have literally fallen at the first hurdle on that front and am already behind on my craft blog schedule. TMM managed to get through about 3 books so he was in his element and once again it was very clearly indicated to us that we are definitely made for the leisurely lifestyle of retirement in the country. We didn’t hold up quite as well on leaving this time as perhaps we have before; I cried whilst Mother was making us packed lunches, she cried when I hugged her, we all went to the shop to get some final bits and then bawled unashamedly in the car park for a while before setting off. I managed to pull myself together by Aberystwyth though and by the time we got home I’d only teared up twice more so that’s good.

There’s still plenty to do though and I’ve got lots to look forward too; I’ve had letters from both the dentist and opticians demanding my presence (oh joy, oh rapture), TMM’s sister is fit to burst with a new little one and we’ve got a holiday to Greece to meet up with some old friends to plan (don’t worry, there will definitely be a post on that later because I am actually the worst person in the world at planning a holiday and will have lots of hilarious anxiety ridden anecdotes to share). I even managed to finish a jigsaw that has been sat on our table for OVER A YEAR last night which I’m seeing as a very positive omen for the year ahead. We’ve made it through Blue Monday and it’s all downhill to summer now; things can only get better from here.

Advertisements

Viva la Pluto!

So…does anybody else get panicked by the amount of stuff they don’t know? Is there anyone else who gets that sense of panicked dread at the thought of never being able to fully grasp all there is to the universe and life as we know it? Is everyone secretly and constantly living in fear of the huge black hole of unknowingness that sits in the centre of our beings?

Just me?

It turns out that, much to nobody’s surprise, I am a massive nerd and love learning things. Now don’t get me wrong, I hated school as much as the next person, and I am in no way interested in useful or sensible information
like the mathematical principles behind algebra or politics. Instead my fancy lies in the completely irrelevant and useless. If it’s something that will help you get a point in an obscure pub quiz, I want it; if it’s something important like how to do my job, my brain is mostly unarsed.

Basically what I’m saying is that I like to hoard impractical and often pointless facts like a squirrel hoarding winter nuts. I tuck them away smugly and then bring them out in conversation to wow people with my seemingly endless general knowledge. It’s odd though, because I can’t say I active control what is retained and what’s discarded. For example, I can never ever remember what cilantro is (coriander for those of you who don’t know – I had to google) even though I really want to, but I can consistently regale the banana fact without hesitation (you all know the one #GrosMichalvsCavendish). Who knows what the stringent selection trials these poor facts have to endure to be adopted by my brain, or the apparently frivolous categorisation process that means they get to stay in there.

It seems though that the thoughts I have are reminiscent of Wikipedia tunnelling. You know when you look for something innocent like how hot air balloons were invented on a passing whim and then 5 hours later find yourself sat in the dark reading about some horrible serial murderer from America in the 1970s? Without even realising, Wikipedia has taken you on an endless rabbit hole adventure of weird knowledge that you didn’t even think you were interested in (this happens every single time). I feel my brain is very much tuned the same way; it will suggest something innocuous and then before you know it, I’m deep in an existential crisis about how much information I’ll never know and desperately googling some inane fact about elbows..

Tuesday night was a prime and perfect crystallisation of this. Unsuspectingly, we’d gone o bed, happily looking forward to a nice early night. Tucked up in our warm marshmallowy duvet, I’d turned to TMM and asked casually “do you know what ducks eat?” It was a question that had popped up in the last half an hour at work and obviously been rattling round in my brain pan, just waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

TMM hummed and hawed for a moment, and then shuffled up to have a quick look on his phone. After a moment of furious researching, he
knowledgeably informed me that it depends on the duck categorisation (diving or dabbling) and it typically varies between grass, insects or small fishies. This seemed acceptable and he put his phone down to snuggle in just as I piped up “did you know hippopotamus translates as sea pony?” He side eyed me curiously. “Or something like that. I know it’s not sea pig which is what it should be.” There was a moment of silence and then TMM shuffled up again to grab his phone. “River horse” he declared triumphantly and I nodded sagely. “I knew it was something like that”.

From there, we spent an engaging couple of minutes having the standard Greek vs Latin debate regard the pluralisation of animals (always solved when someone shouts out Octopodes proudly), before delving deep into a favourite topic of mine – Megafauna. “Do you think that hippos were giant during the Pleistocene era like sloths?”

I am lowkey obsessed with giant sloths and fascinated with the thought of ginormous animals just living their best lives. Look at this veritable super group of massive animals – image stolen from http://www.lifegate.com

TMM sallied forth with a valid point that maybe hippos were in fact smaller, and then dropped a scientific bombshell which I really think should have come with more warning.

“Isn’t it the case though if things evolve to be bigger, it takes 100s of years, where as if you evolve downwards it can happen almost within a few generations?”

(My eyes went wide here people. Admittedly, since then we can find no evidence to either verify or deny this claim, but I had a great time googling and have decided to make it my mission to find out the truth once and for all. It did however allow me to discover the fact that no other animal has a chin, which is just fantastic. And yes, I can sense everyone else’s whelms being very much under.)

“Do you reckon there are pygmy whales then? Like, the size of a cat or something?”

Spoiler, there is such a thing as a Pygmy Right Whale, but it’s still pretty massive. The world’s smallest whale is a dwarf sperm whale which still reaches up to 9 feet, which dashed my dream of having a tiny pet whale in a tank in the living room.

This though, of course, lead onto the etymology and definition of pygmy, especially compared to dwarfism (because where else would it lead?). Turns out that, very very basically, a dwarf animal is likely to be an isolated case of a-typical sizing, where as a pygmy is part of a specific category of small animal (such as pygmy goats).

By this point we were both practically asleep and TMM proceeded to gently smother me when I sleepily tried to engage him in conversation regarding the stupidities of the English language- “like why do we gave so many words for so many random and odd things but read and read are the same? And why is it boot and foot? It should be foot and but!” (Admittedly, this section doesn’t transfer over to the written side of things so well, but you get the idea).

This whole exchange is but a glimpse into the convoluted and wild ride that I like to mentally travel (often dragging a mildly confused but game TMM). I mean, who has time to try and learn how taxes work when there’s things like this to be thought about? I think people are stating to realise though, and last night I was given the task of looking into planet density by my colleague, which then devolved into a heated picture spam battle over the planetary status of Pluto.

Tumblr knows the struggle

Now, I know this has been a bit of a bijoux offering this week, but I really have been very busy, very tired and under strict instructions not to talk about Christmas. Poor Woo is of a similarly un-festive mindset as myself and although willing to speak about it in person, she resents being forced to edit blog posts on it, which I can understand. (We did have our annual Christmas craft day on Sunday, which was a lot more successful that the great craft and cheese debacle of Christmas 2016 where we ate our own body weight in dairy and cried over origami, It was really the final straw though and now we’re going to ignore it until the last minute.)

As such, this may be the last time you hear from me until after the big Ho Ho Ho (I will more than likely be far too busy stuffing my face with festive foods and doing some serious family bonding over board games to blog) so I will leave you all with seasonal good tidings and a promise to see you on the other side.

12 Days of Tradition

12 Trads Blog

IT’S COMING PEOPLE! CHRISTMAS IS ON IT’S WAY! I don’t want to panic you or appear overly dramatic, but it cannot be denied. Halloween is over and done with, Bonfire Night is a distant memory and people are gearing up for the Big Ho Ho Ho. Shops are filling up with suspiciously smug customers who have already made a dent in their gift lists, fairy lights are popping up like festive moles all over the bloody place and I have already seen one child walking to school in a Santa hat. People are starting to get excited and there is a whiff of festivity in the air.

Honestly, I can’t say I’m enjoying to that much. I am one of those grouchy grinches who repeatedly insists that there are only 12 days of Christmas and not one of them is in November. I’ve already spent countless hours wordlessly screaming into the black void of Christmas music and I’ve had to haggle hard with some work colleagues to keep the festive radio station playing to a minimum (we’ve compromised on an hour a day until December 1st, though this has already been ignored and Tuesday was a whole day of Mariah Carey and Wizzard). I have also categorically refused to even touch the wrapping this year, but thankfully TMM has take my childish refusal with good grace and tackled the ever growing pile with a positive attitude and a healthy amount of recycled brown packaging paper. I have deigned to come from my lofty heights to make a couple of pompoms for decoration, but that’s it.

Look how cute these are. Though be aware, this is just a fraction. The whole left hand side of the living room is lost to the Present Pile now.

It is unavoidable though, and no matter how much I bury my head in the snow, the undeniable seasonal cheer is seeping in. Various Christmas adverts insist on thrusting themselves into my eye line despite the fact I never actually watch live TV anymore, and I’ve witnessed the Kevin the Carrot hysteria second hand. Apparently Aldi were forced to put a limit of no more than two carrot families per person (though god knows why anybody wants that many stuffed felt carrots, as they will undoubtedly end up in a cupboard or under the bed within two months before making their way forlornly to various charity shops/bins before this decade is out). I do have to admit to possibly encouraging the craze and agreeing to make a baby carrot toy for one of the girls at work, which in itself was a challenge. Never having crocheted before I feel maybe a carrot was a tad ambitious, but after 1 broken crochet hook, countless swear words and some near misses with tears of frustration, I was able to gift him as promised and apparently he is now much loved. To be honest I think he looks a little like he’s screaming, but as long as she’s happy with him, it’s all gravy.

It’s not a great photo, but I still can’t help but think he looks like a carrot version of The Scream. As long as someone loves him though.

It’s coming up to the time of festive traditions though, as people start to talk about their Christmas routines and everyone starts to fall into the same old patterns of preparing for the big day. We had the ultimate pleasure of taking Molly to the local Christmas Fair (one of my favourite events) and boy am I glad we don’t have to do that again for a few months. She tutted her way round the stalls complaining loudly about the lack of local people (despite the fact that it was the busiest I’d ever seen it), pushed in front of various other elderly people without any regard for social convention (though thankfully in her excitement she missed the Tombolo which really is more trouble than it’s worth) and spent a truly repulsive amount of money at the jam stall. She evilly eyed up the woman with the golden charity bucket, who despite being there every damn year is apparently a complete stranger (Molly insisted on repeatedly saying to her “I don’t know who you are”) and griped about the coffee being stone cold (but refused to let us get her a fresh cup). By the time we got her back to her house, both of the other couples that look after her had turned up (a fortuitous event that has never before happened). We all had to have photos and the she got completely overwhelmed and just shouted at everyone until we all went home. A truly festive afternoon.

I have heard of some rather more positive seasonal traditions though, which I think would be much nicer to adhere to (no offence to the local Christmas Fair, obvs). There are a lot of European and Scandinavian practices that have popped on my Facebook feed over the last few years that I would love to adopt. This year, a lot of people have been pointing me towards an Icelandic tradition that is part of a season called Jolabokflod (Jólabókaflóð) which roughly translates to “The Christmas Book Flood”. Iceland publishes more books per capita than any other country and sells most of its books between September and November in preparation for the upcoming holiday. This has led to people exchanging books as presents on Christmas Eve and spending the rest of the night snuggled up reading them and snacking on festive foods. Obviously this speaks to me on a rather emotional level and TMM has already made the executive decision to appropriate this idea this year (I can’t say I’m too upset).

I’ve also seen articles relating to a movement in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where people purchase new coats and leave them tied around lamp posts and packed safely on benches for homeless people with notes tied to them that say “I am not lost! If you are stuck out in the cold, please take me to keep warm”. Austrians also like to help, and apparently buy extra Christmas trees to leave outside their houses to ensure the local wildlife has a nice festively themed haven. If these don’t warm your heart, I don’t know what will.

Denmark and Norway have given us Hygge, a massively on trend movement that thrives well in the wintery season. All about comfort and relaxation, it’s there to help away fight away the winter blues and seasonal low moods. It’s all about the aesthetic; including lots of heart shapes decorations (which will please my mum no end) earthy colours and natural textures – bringing in some much needed greenery inside for the holidays. If you’re looking for a cosy little Christmas, you don’t need much more than a little bit of Jolabokflod and Hygge (which sounds like a great law firm).

The last one I’ve seen recently which I thought was cute is a Nordic folklore about the Nisse/Tomte, which in very rudimentary terms is basically a Christmas goblin. Originating in pre-Christian times, it is a spirit that looks like a little gnome or gonk and is often linked specifically to a family or clan, thought to be of the farmer who originally cleared the land to live on. Believed to possibly be derived from Norse niðsi which translates “dear little relative”, they live in the homestead and act as a guardian. They will look after the family and animals and protect from misfortune, but are short tempered and easily offended – they will steal stuff or kill life stock and basically they will eff shiz up if you don’t treat them properly. However, over time their legends have evolved and they are now widely linked to Christmas. Their purpose and appearance has been heavily influenced by the commercialised ideas of Father Christmas and they now visit houses to deliver gifts to worthy souls. I like the notion of a little house spirit keeping an eye on things and enjoying the festivities as much as the next romantic.

Not to be a lefty snowflake (though I suppose it is the season after all) but I would like as much European influence this Christmas as possible. It’s a time for celebration and coming together (I feel the urge to burst into song) and with everything that’s going on elsewhere, I think it’s important to share our histories and traditions before they’re lost. And let’s face it, anything that keeps me in the mood has got to be worth it.

I Think, Therefore I Am (Useless)

Vest

So considering I had serious blogging plans for the whole “5 Facts” USP (or “unique selling point” for those of you who haven’t had business meetings involving Wilson, a lot of tea and an underlying quiet desperation to escape the humdrum of normal life and run our own sustainable and completely original company) I’ve done a grand total of 3, and most of them focused on fruit and fungi.

However, whilst assisting (though possibly not actually that helpfully) TMM’s sister and her brood move house this bank holiday (more of this later), I had course to ponder a couple of things about myself, and as such was led to the novel idea of doing a couple of facts all about me. Blogging is, by it’s very nature, a bit of a narcissistic exercise, so you can’t really be surprised we’re here again.

Taking part in Monday’s move really drove home a couple of personal truths that, whilst they have always been lurking beneath the stylish surface I cultivate, shoved themselves somewhat rudely to the forefront of my mind. None of them are particularly startling or world shattering, but it’s always nice to discover something about yourself I think. Every new experience gives you a little more data on who you are and what you’re capable of; and whilst it’s clear that typically my experiences prove that I am about as useful as a chocolate teapot, I enjoy the learning curve.

The first and possibly most relevant fact that revealed itself during the whole experience was that I am definitely more of an ideas girl than an Action Man. This might seem a tad obvious really – I make no excuses for my inability to see things through, but I caught myself more than once thinking “gosh, what I would do if I were moving – what opportunities!” Now let me tell you, no matter what codswallop I thought to myself then, if I were the one moving, it would have gone nowhere near as smoothly as it did for STMM (Sister of The Man Muffin). Watching her and her partner (and the Muffin parents) navigate moving everything they owned into a new house in one day whilst simultaneously shepherding a strong-willed one year old, two dogs and me was like watching Swan Lake. It was graceful, smooth and completely lacking in the usual amount of tears.


I was about as helpful as Thea but nowhere near as cute, even if I did look spiffy in my dungers.

If that had been me, I can promise you there would have been at least one box thrown down a staircase in anger, two full blown crying fits and numerous enforced time outs. Whatever floaty-light ideas of finding the perfect place for every single thing in my possession or being able to streamline my life I might have had are, to be frank, complete bollocks. Whilst it’s true that everyone likes a new start; a clean sheet, a fresh slate, the chance to do it right this time; I can quite confidently say that it would never live up to the ideals I had for it. I have such wonderous and exotic ideas, but am completely unable to put them into practice, and if I do, they inevitably end up with me in a strop and TMM having to swoop in and finish them. I am that perfect contradiction of being completely unable to finish a project and yet I am driven insane by lack of resolution. I aim to start so many good things and ultimately end up with none of them. They say (whoever they may be) that it takes 28 go’s at something to turn it into a habit. I say they’ve got an unnatural amount of willpower if they’re able to do anything more than 5 times without giving it up as a bad job and retreating back to the safety of the couch.

Still, there is a bubbling undercurrent of belief that if and when it finally does come time for us to up sticks and find a new nest, I will be prepared. Let’s see shall we?

It also became abundantly clear on Monday that I am possible the most awful co pilot. I suspect poor TMM has known this for a while, but tried to keep quiet about it so as to not harm my feelings. It’s not that anything particularly drastically terrible happened whilst we were going about our business, but there were a couple of points when I was reminded of how truly better for the world it is that I can’t drive. For example, it is a universally known fact that I am geographically challenged and would get lost in a paper bag. Knowing where I am at any given time is always about a 20/80 divide in the negative, and it has often been joked about that if TMM were to just drop me off at the side of the road one day, I would wander for about 2 days without seeing anything I recognise before just dying out of ease. I am completely unable to provide any directional guidance, and have on more than one occasion got us lost by saying “go left” “this left?” “that’s right” and watching bemusedly as TMM turns right. It’s been decided that’s it’s just better for everyone if TMM puts the SatNav on and enjoys a good argument with her rather than putting any kind of pressure on me. However, considering my completely lack of situational awareness and the fact I will typically be reading when in the car rather than paying attention to anything else, I have this bizarre habit of keeping my eyes on the road when feeding the driver. For some unknown and unnecessarily built-in reason, I have this fear that whoever is driving/being fed will take all their attention off what they’re doing to eat the food I am proffering to them and as such I must closely scrutinise the road to ensure we are safe from danger. The trouble is this usually results in me shoving French fries wildly into TMM’s check whilst keeping a weather eye out on the cars ahead, causing him to lose concentration, and being positively counter-intuitive for the whole “road safety” thing I’ve got going on. How we’ve survived this long is a testament to TMM’s ability to adapt.

My final fact for this week is one that came to me whilst I was lying in bed on Monday night. Tired from all my dilly-dallying about and collapsed out like a puppet with cut strings, I glanced down at myself and was struck with the mildly concerning thought that I couldn’t actually remember when I’d put my vest on. Not that I couldn’t remember choosing it in the wardrobe, or the physical act of dressing myself, but the actual starting point of my association with the vest.


Just me, living my vest life.

You see, I have an unhealthy relationships with vests. They are one of the best items of clothing anyone can have and I suggest everyone, regardless of age or gender should own at least five (Primark thin strap ones if we’re looking for recommendations – they are the cat’s meow). Whether you want something light and casual for a summers day or a sensible layer for the darkest depths of winter, they can provide what you need. The trouble is, vests have become such an integral part of my life (my parents are firm advocators of vests too – they know the importance of keeping your kidneys warm at ALL TIMES) I sometimes forget that I’m wearing one. It becomes like a second skin; a soft cotton hug at all points in the day or night. Or day and night. Can you see where I’m going with this? It’s just that if you put on a vest to sleep in, sometimes it’s easier to just keep it on when you get up the next day. (Especially now it’s getting a bit chillier, I will 100% sleep in one and then throw a jumper over it in the morning so I don’t have to have that upsetting experience of exposing my busters to the harsh cold of the early morning.) Sometimes, when you’re slobbing about at the weekend, you might put a vest on Friday night and keep it on for Saturday. And then if you’re only going to bed, what’s the point of taking it off to put another pj top on? Suddenly Sunday rolls around and you’re only nipping to the shop so you just throw a hoodie on over it. Before you know it, 3 weeks has passed and there’s a mild concern that the vest might have actually fused into your skin (PLEASE NOTE – I have never worn a vest for 3 weeks. It’s not that I couldn’t because I definitely would, but I’ve not fallen quite that far. Yet.) I know this is mildly horrifying and definitely something I was supposed to grow out of at University but there’s somethings that are just built in, and in this case, it’s the vest.

There are other things I’ve realised about myself this week, whilst pondering possibly blog points; including but not limited to my disproportionately large amounts of knowledge regarding completely useless things and my firm belief that I could be an Olympic curler, but I think perhaps now it’s time to close. I’ve got projects to start, car journeys to derail and vests to wear.

Birthday Bonanza

Blog Birthday.PNG

Well that’s it folks, I have officially joined the 27 club. My birthday has come and gone and I am now firmly in the realm of “being responsible” and definitely no longer young enough to accidentally commit a crime but still avoid jail time (which is an irrational but very specific fear I have. My mother has promised that if, god forbid, I should end up embroiled in an accidental life of crime and sent to the Big House, she’ll come bail me out with a file baked in a cake and a Thelma and Louise style getaway – hopefully sans the cliff dive – but I’d rather just try and avoid the whole thing altogether if possible). As I pointed out to a colleague, if I were a rock star I could totally die now and join the hallowed halls of the Forever 27, though thankfully I’m boring as sin and highly unlikely to shuffle off this mortal coil through excessive drug use or car vs. tree related incidents. I’m pretty much planning on seeing this year out in the same style as the old one.

As always though, I’ve had an excellent birthday haul so kudos to all who we’re involved. You’ve all done very well and should give yourselves a nice pat on the back. Admittedly, I may or may have not started opening some presents on the previous Monday, but I did have to go to the dentist and gifts were coming through the letter box with tempting regularity, so I don’t really see how I can be blamed for getting carried away. Also, I’m a grown up now, and can open my presents whenever I please, so there. I would like to thank my dad and his lovely lady friend for their promptly posted and delightful gifts which made me smile after having to go and be super brave with hygiene specialists.

I also had to open some presents early when we went to see TMM’s clan (because I wouldn’t see them on the day and it would have been rude not to show my gratitude) and as per they excelled themselves present-wise (not to rub it in but I am 100% their favourite child, soz not soz). I got not only a yummy tea, but also a fancy box of Ferrero Rocher (TMM successfully demonstrated how he’s been unhealthily influenced by my family by not being able to help quoting “you’rr spoiling us ambassador” every time I offer him one), charming gin related paraphernalia, bath bombs, summer wreath kits, a puppy fuss (the last one now since all the puppies have gone to their new home and not one of those homes was mine, boo hiss) and a snotty kiss off beautiful baby Thea.

My work colleagues also did extremely well, but to be honest I didn’t give them much option as I had very handily provided a laminated and regularly updated daily countdown from around the 163 day mark. Whilst the Friday wasn’t the most enjoyable of days (stupid busy work), the gift giving was top notch and the presents were smashing. Some of you may have already seen Leroy the Llama mug, who is now my designated tea vessel of choice, though he provides much hilarity when he pokes my eye every time I get near to the bottom of my brew. I also got Sydney Sloth the phone holder who has helped with finger cramp, and a selection of others joys including but not limited to; a lovely framed print of a flamingo among pigeons, fancy neon coloured booze (my favourite kind) and some rather gorgeous lilies that proved themselves to be almost fatal to some old dear on the bus home. I also got two books from my boss (who requested a special shout out, so word to her) that give the definitions of lots of weird and wonderful words that have had us in fits of laughter when we probably should have been busier doing what we’re paid for. We have educated ourselves though, and have some excellent new words to add to our vocabularies, such as “Kinabra – the Greek word for the stank of a billy goat” (please note, the italics are a direct quotation) and “Kakopyge – someone who has ugly buttocks” (pg. 136 of The Penguin Dictionary of Curious and Interesting Words by George Stone Saussy the 3rd). Sadly none of us have managed to shoehorn them into a telephone call yet, but we’ll keep trying.

Look at my beautiful things. LOOK AT THEM.

TMM did his level best to spoil me rotten whilst adhering to the proviso he wasn’t to get me much. He not only made me pancakes in bed, he didn’t make me move until about 3 o’clock and then treated me to a new Lush face mask, some Primark jeans, a showing of Deadpool 2 (with Ben and Jerries’ ice-cream!) and a lovely Starbucks lunch. (This in itself was fun because I had hibiscus iced tea which is simultaneously the most hipsterish thing EVER and the tastiest drink I’ve had in a long time. The lovely Barista lady was a complete doll too, and did my a nice little happy birthday message and got my name right (though the more I look the more it looks like Eleanour, but still the first bit is right and that’s what usually throws people). I also got taken to the stage version of Thoroughly Modern Millie which was excellent (if questionably racist in sections) and have consequently spent the last two days fake tap dancing around the house, saying “oh terrif” with unnecessary amounts of enthusiasm and telling TMM how thoroughly modern I am. Admittedly, he’s been doing pretty much the same thing as he is definitely a modern woman, so its worked out well.

img_20180519_164451_7011445203371.jpg

It’s nearly Eleanor, so we’re definitely accepting it as a win.

*Speaking of, if anybody missed our Eurovision dress up last week on my Instagram last week, you really need to go and have a look. TMM went as Conchita (the winner a few years ago, with the amazing eye makeup and perfectly sculpted beard), and I have to say I have never been more proud of my make up abilities. TMM is a pretty hunky looking chap, it can’t be denied, but I literally don’t think I’ve ever seen a more attractive woman. His cheekbones take highlight like a champ and I found myself staring dreamily at his profile whilst the light glinted of them. It was like Xena Warrior Princess with chest hair. I couldn’t even bring myself to be annoyed at how pretty he looked, because I was too busy being deeply in love with his beautifully shadowed eyes and cow-like eyelashes.

Team were as good as they always are and newest edition Yoga Martin BBQ’d like a master (I’m pretty sure the BBQ was planned anyway, but I’m just going to assume it was in honour of my birthday and give him my birthday kudos blessing like the magnanimous delight I am). Turns out I am now all about barbequed fish like you would not believe and having it three times in two weeks is really as good as you could want it to be. There was much hilarity with axe throwing (which I definitely not good at), archery (which I watched from the side-lines shouting out helpful safety tips), air rifle shooting (which I enjoyed but hit absolutely nothing with) and I left with twice the amount I’d birthday cake I’d arrived with, a delightful doodle book/wonderfully pleasing coloured pencils and a date to walk with llamas in June (YASSSSSSS).

In true Indian wedding style (the perks of having a far flung family) the celebrations will continue throughout the week, and I know I’ve still got a My Hermes (family couriers of choice) parcel on its way from dearest Neens. We’ve also planned a trip to visit Mother and the rest of the Welsh Massive at the weekend too, though admittedly Hans the Devil Chariot is still beeping endlessly so we might be slightly frazzled (read – murderous) by the time we get there. It’s definitely worth it though, because I have siblings to squeeze, cousins to cuddle and a game of Cards Against Humanity or two to enjoy.

Now before I sign off, I thought I’d just leave you with some fun facts and notable events from my date of birth (other than the obvious *twirls*) that might help you in a pub quiz one day.

1) 1536 – The Execution of Anne Boleyn (cheery)

2) 1885 – 1st mass production of shoes by Jan Matzeliger in Lynn, Massachusetts (this fact pleases me immensely and I’m not sure why)

3) 1897 – Oscar Wilde released from Reading Gaol (Reading as in the place, not the act, which confused me more than it should have done for a minute)

4) 1928 – 51 frogs enter 1st annual “Frog Jumping Jubilee” in Angel’s Camp, California (I mean, why not)

5) 1939 – Birth of James Fox (phwoar)

6) 1948 – birth of Grace Jones (who terrifies me ever so slightly)

7) 1962 – Marilyn Monroe sings “Happy Birthday, Mr President” to John F Kennedy (My Mother did a great rendition of this down the phone to on my birthday)

8) 2018 – Meghan and Harry get married (you might have seen it mentioned briefly on the news)

9) 2161 – Syzygy: 8 of 9 planets aligned on same side of sun (something to look forward to)

I hope you all get at least one of those stuck in your head for next year in honour of me. TTFN.

Wedding Bells and Techical Hells

Wedding Bells Title

THE SUN IS SHINING, THE BIRDS ARE SINGING, and I’m rescuing confused wasps left, right and centre. (Unlike nearly everyone else I know, I have a lot of love for a wasp. I feel that they get a lot of bad press for just living their lives and I relate hard to their spikey nature and urge to sting anyone who looks at them funny). Whilst there have been a few near misses with the weather, we have had at least two days of mostly blue skies and warmish sunlight so far this week, and I’m starting to feel mildly hopeful that winter might soon be over. Obviously I’m not getting too excited; no doubt next weekend will herald blizzards and terrible conditions to punish us all for getting too hyped up with the sun we’ve had, but I’m embracing it whilst I can.

Admittedly, my positivity has taken a slight knock these last couple of days though. Once again, Hans von Manshaft has deemed it necessary to give up the ghost. Poor TMM left the house on Wednesday morning to go to work only to discover a glaring alarm light and large puddle of brake fluid on the pavement and very much not in the car where it was supposed to be. Considering I don’t even drive, cars are very much the bane of my life and I am resentful that after all the money and attention we’ve given to Hans, he still thinks it’s appropriate to break every couple of months. I can’t help but feel soon might be the time to heed Mr B’s advice (“should have got a Dacia”) and send Hans off down the river in a flaming Viking boat. Until then, I am once again a complete and total “Bus Wanker” (opposed to usually, when I’m only part time) and poor TMM has had to resort to begging lifts from kindly work colleagues by doing his best puppy dog eyes.

We’re also currently contending with a broken fridge, which was a bit of a kick in the teeth after we had just stocked it full with the weekly shop. TMM has manfully defrosted the whole thing (there’s cool boxes of miscellaneous freezer surprise tuppawears all over the place) and we’re desperately clinging on to the faint hope that it might have just been a blocked fan. To be fair, if it is in the final death throes, it is really not the end of the world. We live in rented accommodation which, whilst not being the best for everything, does mean that broken household appliances actually fall under someone else’s remit. The only problem is that we had to speak to our landlord not so long ago to get the washing machine replaced, and being the nervy little buggers we are, there’s the slight concern he’s going to think we’ve started trashing the place for lols. However, I would rather end up with a new fridge than not, so if it’s not fixed by tonight, I’ll be pulling up my big girl pants and giving him a call.

Though if I’m being honest, it might have to wait until the weekend because the house is currently a pigsty and I can’t have anyone coming round to replace anything when I can’t even remember the last time I vacuumed…

On a much more chipper note, we did have a very lovely weekend attending the wedding of TMM’s younger brother. We are now officially the only unmarried and childless pair of that family group. Coincidentally we are also the oldest, which possibly says a little about our mental ages, so the baton falls to us to start actually (and in all grown up seriousness) planning our own nuptials. Though we sharn’t be planning the children (we’re definitely sticking to cats). Whist I am not the best wedding guest you could ever want (Introverts and Social Anxiety R Us), there’s always something nice about attending the ceremony, and I teared up at least 3 times throughout the day – which is definitely a winning sign. Everybody looked beautiful and TMM’s sister once again excelled herself at the flower displays and buttonholes. (She’s already been volunteered to do ours, thought I’m not sure if she knows it yet). I also felt slightly smug when I got a little thank you in the speech for doing the place settings and somebody whispered “she handwrote all these?!” in amazement.

TMM, I and baby Thea looking our best

TMM and I also excelled ourselves on the dance floor, which I think was a surprise to all involved. Admittedly, I love a good boogie as much as the next person, but I was quite content to sit on the side-lines this time. However, TMM took part in (and lost) a few drinking competitions with his sister. A foolish endeavour as everyone involved soon realised. She is actually a demon when it comes to pints and has never entered a contest she didn’t smash. Consequently he was a lot more easily influenced by the lure of the banging tunes. By 9pm, I had being lassoed and wrangled in and I actually don’t think we stopped dancing until 1.30am. Sensibly though, I has transferred to flat shoes early on in the evening and woke up the following morning with feet as fresh as a daisy.

It did become abundantly clear though that the TMM family share one very specific trait (other than having the worst luck with cars) – trying to keep them in one place for more than 5 minutes is like trying to keep hold of a bag full of eels. They’re basically weasels in people suits; adorable, but as tricky as hell to keep track of. TMM kept dragging me into dance circles before vanishing through doorways and reappearing twenty minutes later on the opposite side of the building deep in conversation with someone. His sister seemed to have some kind of teleportation device and popped up for the beginning of every song only to disappear and leave people bewildered and dancing with the faint outline of where she’d just been. The groom, doing his best groomly duty, managed to be in every conversation group I saw whilst also successfully wrangling various tiny dots who were zooming around the dance floor with all the gay abandon of, well, a kid at a wedding. I shared many bemused and slightly hysterical glances with the respective partners of the TMM clan each time we lost one of them, though Nan Pat did reveal with much glee that she used to do the very same thing to her husband, so at least we know their keeping up family traditions.

Poor TMM was slightly worst for the wear the next morning (he’s not used to such hard-core partying) and spent most of Sunday napping whilst I did a bit of DIY and finally dyed my hair. I’d been keeping the pink until the wedding because I’d, completely incidentally, managed to get it to perfectly compliment my dress for the occasion, but after 3 months with one colour I was starting to push the limits of my comfortableness with commitment. However I am now feeling fresh and funky with my new lagoon/atlantic blue shades. Though I do have to be honest, the general shape of my hair is somewhat less than satisfactory. I’m currently in the horribly awkward stage where it’s not long enough to do anything with, but not short enough to be cute and punky and I’m left looking a little bit like Wendolene from Wallace and Gromit. I’m having to keep firmly reminding myself that I need to stick it out, because if I get it cut I’ll only end up in this situation again in a month or so. Better to push through now and come out of the other side a stronger and more stylish person, rather than shy away from an inevitable event. Hopefully it won’t take long to grow out and soon I’ll be able to model a fashionable and adorable bob in all the colours of the rainbow.

In honour of the happy couple though (and in continuing from last week’s hilarious post), I’ve done a little digging in the Royal Imperial Dream Book to find some topical snippets. (I’ve decided I want to really get my £5 worth from this book, so you might want to strap in for a lot of these little epilogues over the next few weeks). Please excuse the dodgy camera angles – I was in charge of my own photography and you can very much tell.

Drunkenness.jpg

Drunkenness. This one kind of makes sense. Everyone makes friends when drunk, and whilst TMM might not have felt so chipper about it the morning after, I think on the night it sounds about right.

Wedding and Weeping.jpg

Wedding & Weeping. This one felt suitable for all aspects of my week, and I thought it was handy they were right next to each other. Somewhat unsurprisingly, to dream of nice things such as weddings results in sadness and despair, and to dream of crying is actually a positive omen. Either way, I’ve got a bit of good and a bit of bad to go off.

And so I fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new

Well it’s all been very exciting up this neck of the woods recently. With “The Beast From The East” making it’s way unrestrainedly through the country, there has been snow related chaos nationwide, so much so that I got to go home a whole half an hour early yesterday. I’m not complaining – I love a good snow day as much as the next person, but sometimes it does make you wonder how Great Britain was ever composed and disciplined enough to control an empire when we struggle to sufficiently grit major roads. Admittedly though, I think as a country we’ve been doing much better this time round than we have in previous years. I’ve barely witnessed any winter hysteria and the only person injured so far is TMM (and that was less of a physical concern and more of a personal slight – some young scrote threw a snowball at his testicles). To be honest, the best thing about the whole situation is the highly sarcastic and derisive nature we as a nation approach the snow calamatists with. *

* Sadly, I don’t think “calamatist” is a word, but it definitely should be, so I’m just going to go all Shakespeare on it and see if I can get it into the dictionary. Calamatist – noun – from Calamity – a person drawn to melodrama, overreaction and hyperbole.

It is communally known truth that we are unlikely to get any more than 2 inches of coverage, and that compared to the rest of the world, we get off incredibly lightly, and yet there still appear to be some poor souls who lose all sense or reason and flood to the nearest super market to clear the shelves. It seems not to concern them that most of the things they stock up on are perishable, or unlikely to be of any use in an emergency (I mean, who is stockpiling 0% fat yoghurt for this situation?!). I’ve found that these few idiots bring the rest of us together though, in a beautiful conglomeration of ridicule and mockery, as we all tut, shake our heads despairingly and share passive aggressive social media posts.

Things have seemed a littler perkier though, despite the unnecessary weather front, and I’ve decided to reflect such positivity in my blog this week. Over the last few posts, I feel like I’ve delved more deeply into wistful and morose introspection that I intended, and perhaps now is the time to try something a little more uplifting. Visiting my Mother last weekend has lifted my spirits and I think the Welsh country air has given me a boost. I’ve heard birds a’tweeting and seen daffodils spring into bloom and spent more time thinking about the things I love.

Love has indeed been in the air a lot recently. With all these designated celebrations and my numerous anniversaries (I don’t care what anyone says, I’m keeping them all. Why would I bunch them all into one specific date when I can spread the festivities? Since we’re not supposed to be doing presents, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to keep our first date, engagement and soon to be wedding anniversary separate). We’re apparently not the only lovebirds around the place either; Bucky keeps bringing his boyfriend home. It’s more surprising than not at the moment if we come home to find Mr Biggles (some big ass white cat from over the road who likes to help himself to our heating when we’re not in) not sitting at the top of the stairs, giving us his big eyes from behind the bannister. Considering how unhappy Bucky was when the other cat was with us (there was a lot of shade being thrown about and sad singing from under the bed) he seems rather taken with Biggles. For a while, we weren’t even sure Bucky was aware there was another cat in residence, but after we drooped him in front of Biggles and he did his sexy “let me rub myself all over the carpet in a sultry manner” in front of him, we’ve come to the conclusion they’re dating. They do make a rather pretty pair (I can’t stop myself singing “Ebony and Ivory”) and it bodes well for my dreams of becoming a crazy cat lady.

20180301_161009.jpg

Bucky, lying supine on my lap and dreaming fondly of his Biggles.

To this end, and in honour of such affirmative emotion, I’ve been thinking a lot about things I love. Specifically, those unexpected little things that you discover throughout your life and that weave themselves into your subconscious. Odd bits and bobs that somehow always seem linked to a happy memory and fill you with a sense of wellbeing without ever being obvious intruders. Little happiness burrs that latch on and have a delightful habit of making you smile without you realising. I’ve been making notes of mine for a while; just scribbling them down so that when I’m flicking through my notes later, they’ll pop up and remind me of something wonderful. A lot of mine focus around the senses and I’ve been a lot better at identifying them since using the sense technique to help with anxiety.

(It’s a cute little 5-4-3-2-1 coping mechanism for helping yourself to remain grounded. You pick a sense and name 5 things you can identify with it. Once you’ve done that, you pick another and name 4, and so on and so on. It’s easier to start with an obvious one, like 5 things you can see and work onto the harder ones. By the time you’re really focusing on the 1 thing you’re smelling, you’ve become a lot calmer.)

1 x Smell – Honeysuckle

The waft of a honeysuckle plant in someone’s garden always makes me pause for a moment and inhale deeply. It’s like an automatic trigger and it makes me stop whatever I’m doing, regardless of what it is, where I am or who I’m with, just in order to get a good lungful. I don’t even think it links to a specific memory or certain time, it just always makes me feel warmer when I spell it. I think it helps that it’s such a beautiful and evocative word, because we know how I feel about those.

2 x Taste – Hot Tea & First Mouthfuls

This one is a little weird, because it’s not actually the flavours but instead the actions involved. Making a cup of tea and taking a moment to just sit, warm cup in your hands, and take a few sips is possibly one of the most calming things I think anyone can ever do. I’m not sure if it’s a British thing (I still categorically believe you cannot call yourself British is tea isn’t your go-to beverage in times of stress), a family thing (if you’re with my Mother or my Neens and you’ve not got a brew on, something’s dreadfully wrong) or just a me thing, but the ritual involved around tea is one of the key pillars in my life.

First mouthfuls is similar in a way; it’s a tradition that was never specifically imposed but has somehow become crucial to me. If I’m eating with someone, I cannot start eating until everyone has food and is tucking in. It can be a family gathering, a cake with chums or even just eating tea with TMM, but I can’t start alone. There’s just something fundamentally social and authentic about enjoying the first bite together.

20180301_160817.jpg

I mean, look how perfect that is. what more can you want?

3 x Sound – Cat Purrs, Spanish Seas & Singing

There is not much better in this world that the sound of a cat purring on your lap. It signifies comfort, ease and the satisfaction of knowing that a cat not only chose you, but was happy enough to settle in for the long haul. Bucky has a purr like a motor engine and when he gets going can actually be so loud you can feel it through your skin. Ptolly-mo (my first cat, currently rooming with Mother) is an accidental purr slag – you can tell that he doesn’t really want you near, but once you stroke his head he can’t help but start purring away. Bobby (my Mother’s other cat) is a bit of a tough cookie to crack, but when he scrunches up his disgustingly beautiful eyes and trills away, I feel like I’ve basically won at life.

Music is an obvious contributor to nearly everyone’s happiness burrs I think, and the right song can flood your system with joy. I’ve currently been stuck on Toto’s “Spanish Sea” which has recently been released and it’s been in my head so much it’s actually been the soundtrack to a few dreams, which is a sign it’s a keeper.

My Mother’s singing is possibly one of the most evocative sparks though. It’s a bit ridiculous now because all she has to do is open her mouth in a choir and I’m crying. I mean, they’re good tears obviously, but it’s getting a bit embarrassing now.

4 x Touch – Soft Cotton, Supportive Arms, Knee Pits & Book Ache

Now I know this one is a family thing and I blame my sister and Mother for this. We spent countless hours in shops stroking smooth cotton items (we even had the “tummy test” where you had to rub it on your belly to see if it was soft enough – how we never got kicked out I will never know), but I find myself constantly running well worn blankets or silky sleeve cuffs across my lips. It sounds unaccountably weird when I write it now, but there’s something so comforting about brushing your lips gently with something smooth. I suggest you all try it and stop looking at me so accusingly…

Another weird one is something I specifically link to TMM, and I’m hoping he won’t judge me too much. He runs about 3000 degrees hotter than anyone I’ve ever met and is such a good soul, he always lets me put my cold feet on him in bed. He also provide truly excellent snugs, but there’s a bit when he pushes his hot knees (I mean, who even has noticeably hot knees?! My Man Muffin, that’s who) up into my knee pits and it’s possibly one of the most relaxing things ever. I don’t think I’ve ever had particularly cold knee pits before, but boy let me tell you, when they’re warm it really makes a difference.

Possibly less weird (though probably not) is actually a specific memory more than a continually achievable feeling. I’ve been remembering this one a lot due to the current climate and my completely irrational terror of falling over. It was whilst I was still living partly at Papa’s in Manchester and was coming home one super slippery snowy day. It was getting dark and I had a treacherous walk ahead of me. I was dithering near the exit to the tram stop, trying to find a way of walking as quickly as possible without slipping or looking like a complete tit, when this lovely gentleman walked past, gave me a searching look and offered me his arm. Now, I am horribly socially awkward and usually would have died at this, but I was just so grateful to have a supportive arm. We didn’t talk much (it was windy as shit) but he half carried, half dragged me all the way down the main road before making sure I was able to carry on across the crossing and home alone. I can’t remember what he looked like or if I ever saw him again, but I often remember his kindness whilst I’m slip sliding my way to work.

The last one is, unsurprisingly, a little odd too, but more in a kind of self-destructive kind of way. It’s the kind thing hard-core readers will relate to and wince at sympathetically. It’s the moment when you realise you’ve been holding your book so long that your fingers have gone numb. The moment when you have to make the harsh choice to stop your chapter, mid sentence, to put your book down and massage some life back into your blood drained hand. The moment the pins and needles you’ve be mind over mattering make themselves known rather dramatically and you regret, fleetingly, picking up the pretty hardback copy instead of the easy kindle version. It’s a pain, but it’s also a badge of honour.

5 x Sight – Bright Sunshine, Snow Wind, Wrist Bones, Cat Beans & Full Bookshelves

Now sight is probably the easiest one, and I had trouble narrowing down to just these five. You realise though, that there are just some things that stick with you, year in and year out and will pop up after an age and surprise you into smiling.

Snow wind is one of these for me. It’s that bit when you’re walking; bundled up to the eyeballs, hands shoved deep into pockets and pink nose buried in scarf, when there’s a gust of wind from behind you and the top layer of snow powder shifts and dances across the floor. It’s fleeting, hardly noticeable and completely magical.

Now I know I’ve already mentioned cats once, but they just make me really happy so suck it. I challenge anyone, when faced with a tiny toe bean on a cat paw doesn’t just scrunch up their face with love. I mean, I think some people (weirdos) prefer baby toes (TMM does get rather broody when faced with tiny baby hands) but there’s not much sweeter than a curled up cat cushion that lets you lie alongside them and play with their toe beans.

I also have a similar kind of fascination with wrist bones (though most people definitely DO NOT let you lie alongside them and touch theirs). I just find the intricate play of skin, muscle and bone so delicate and I’m constantly amazed by the strength that can be held in such a fragile form. I’ve always liked hands and fingers; I love watching people play instruments or knitting, just to see the clever way they can manipulate whatever they’re doing so easily.

Bookshelves is rather shelf explanatory (LOLOLOL, see what I did there?) really. I can’t trust someone who doesn’t have that many bookshelves, or who has one with empty spaces. There’s something decidedly natural about a cluttered book shelf, filled with a mishmash of books in various colours, shapes, sizes and positions. I love when you can tell someone has just picked up a book to flick through it and placed it back haphazardly, or when a trinket has been left behind, slightly obscuring the book behind it. The signs of regular and routine use of a what is basically a stationary object shows a lot about the person who owns it.

The very last thing on my list (and kudos if you’ve made it this far) is sunshine. It’s probably a bit obvious, but that moment when a flash of warm sunlight falls across my face, obscuring my vision and leaving little flashes of gold afterwards is one of my most favourite things. I get unaccountably grumpy at work when someone shuts the blind to protect them from the glare; I would happily squint at my computer screen all day if it meant I could keep the sunny strips of light that lie across my hands. I’ve been known to rearrange entire rooms throughout the day to keep my chair in patches of sunlight, or there was that one time at University I spent three hours scrunched up on the windowsill with the laptop balanced precariously on my knee just so I could get the warm splash of light for as long as possible. I remember waking up when I was little and watching the dust motes dancing around in the streams of light and just knowing that for that moment, everything was alright.

Side note – I am equally as fascinated by, but not quite as desperately drawn to, moonshine. The past few days, or should I say nights (a ha ha) have been beautifully silhouetted by the moon doing its best to shine directly through our bedroom sky light and cast everything in ethereal shadows. Note, we do have a sky light in practically every upstairs room (bathroom included) because our landlord is apparently some kind of backwards vampire who designed this house with the fact he couldn’t sleep without constant light firmly in mind. I’m not complaining because it suits my predilections rather well, but I do wish he’d continued the theme through the whole house rather than deciding windows were a wonderful feature of the modern age for upstairs but were basically unrequired for any downstairs rooms. The living room tragically survives with a tiny postcard of a window at the far end of the room – no sunlight to chase there, I can tell you.

So there we have it. I think I may have possibly gone slightly overboard this week, but I’m taking it as a good thing that the one post I’ve dedicated to purely happy things is almost double the size of those which aren’t. I hope some of my happiness burrs inspire you to think about some of your own and bring a little unexpected smile to your face.

20180301_152224.png
Just look at this beautiful sunny window. I even remember exactly when and were this was taken because I was to pleased with the perfect size and placement of it. Admittedly, I did go and ruin the whole thing by having a nose bleed so forceful and lengthy that my father actually became concerned enough to text his nurse GF for guidance to ensure I wasn’t dying. Still, it was a great window.