Nothing today. Feeling terrible. Low. Ill. Kind-of non-specific, but not good.
At home. Burning-up the duvet. Now wet and smelly, it will have to be disposed-of, of course. Which is a shame as the bed's just been changed and the sheets are all bought new from Habitat this weekend..
Will try chicken soup and hope that an Eeling Comedy will provide cheer this avo.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Bird Flu From A Dog..?
Doggies are wonderful creatures. They give us companionship, they're faithful and *sometimes* obedient.
But we tend to forget one important thing about our beloved pets -- that they're animals, and not Disney characters.
It matters not how domesticated we make them, arrest their natural development keeping them in puppy-dom for the whole of their lives and address them as we would -- ikle, wickle -- babies.
No, your common-or-garden pooch is a beast. Regardless of breed, from poodle to pointer and retriever to rottweiler, the domestic dog is a killer -- and pretty adept at it too.
It's instinct. They're hunters at heart and only a short leap in genetic development from wolf or hyena.
Unfortunately, this very killer instinct might just have brought a plague upon all of us in the House of S.
I'll explain..
On Saturday Emmie and I went on our extra-long, extra-special weekend constitutional in Clissold Park. It was a lovely, sunny and warm morning. All was very well with the world and apart from a foggy head (a consequence of a rather riotous dinner party with Ade, Immie, Mark and Lady P.), we were, as the Welsh put it 'in God's pocket.'
On these walks Emmie likes to exercise her natural inclination to chase certain of the park's other inhabitants, notably its squirrels and pigeons. This is fine and rather amusing. She never catches them, and the squirrels drive her mad by taunting from upon high the silly excitable spaniel below.
But on this day, Emmie's instincts and reactions were sharp. Half-way through our journey, she literally caught a big old crow on the hop. The grounded, grubbing crow was too slow in its escape, and the quick-witted mutt had it in her vice-like grasp. She wouldn't let go and the foul bird was quickly a goner.
Alright. I must admit to a high degree of pleasure in MY DOG, the savage and valiant destroyer of vermin. I also found the scanalised response to this most natural of incidents by a local same-sex female couple very amusing.
But I am a wee bit concerned too.
The general feelings of achy, sore, drowsy, snottiness with which I'm currently afflicted might be residual evidence of Friday's indulgence or a benign strain of the common cold.
..But surely, it could also be the over-hyped and (maybe) over here Bird Flu. Am I Britain's first victim of this virulent pox and therefore soon-to-be cause celeb?
I hope not, but I do know that I'm off to Boots for Nurofen and Lemsip and might have to take to my bed for a few days..
But we tend to forget one important thing about our beloved pets -- that they're animals, and not Disney characters.
It matters not how domesticated we make them, arrest their natural development keeping them in puppy-dom for the whole of their lives and address them as we would -- ikle, wickle -- babies.
No, your common-or-garden pooch is a beast. Regardless of breed, from poodle to pointer and retriever to rottweiler, the domestic dog is a killer -- and pretty adept at it too.
It's instinct. They're hunters at heart and only a short leap in genetic development from wolf or hyena.
Unfortunately, this very killer instinct might just have brought a plague upon all of us in the House of S.
I'll explain..
On Saturday Emmie and I went on our extra-long, extra-special weekend constitutional in Clissold Park. It was a lovely, sunny and warm morning. All was very well with the world and apart from a foggy head (a consequence of a rather riotous dinner party with Ade, Immie, Mark and Lady P.), we were, as the Welsh put it 'in God's pocket.'
On these walks Emmie likes to exercise her natural inclination to chase certain of the park's other inhabitants, notably its squirrels and pigeons. This is fine and rather amusing. She never catches them, and the squirrels drive her mad by taunting from upon high the silly excitable spaniel below.
But on this day, Emmie's instincts and reactions were sharp. Half-way through our journey, she literally caught a big old crow on the hop. The grounded, grubbing crow was too slow in its escape, and the quick-witted mutt had it in her vice-like grasp. She wouldn't let go and the foul bird was quickly a goner.
Alright. I must admit to a high degree of pleasure in MY DOG, the savage and valiant destroyer of vermin. I also found the scanalised response to this most natural of incidents by a local same-sex female couple very amusing.
But I am a wee bit concerned too.
The general feelings of achy, sore, drowsy, snottiness with which I'm currently afflicted might be residual evidence of Friday's indulgence or a benign strain of the common cold.
..But surely, it could also be the over-hyped and (maybe) over here Bird Flu. Am I Britain's first victim of this virulent pox and therefore soon-to-be cause celeb?
I hope not, but I do know that I'm off to Boots for Nurofen and Lemsip and might have to take to my bed for a few days..
Really Hacked-Off With Microsoft
I know I'm not alone, but I'm less than pleased with MS -- specifically, Explorer.
I've just spent ages scribbling words of wisdom (well, I was pleased with my efforts) for this blog, only to run spell-check and have the pop-up blocked. A refresh and 'back' in Explorer only served to delete this morning's efforts outright.
It would seem that another of those un-requested random MS upgrade added this unhelpful, and unnecessary little tool. ..Unnecessary as I have made my own personal provision to deal with the nasty blight of pop-ups..
Lesson learned. Create content in another format. Spell-check and review. Cut-and-paste into blog template and publish.
Everyone please buy an Apple or go Linux.
Humpf..
I've just spent ages scribbling words of wisdom (well, I was pleased with my efforts) for this blog, only to run spell-check and have the pop-up blocked. A refresh and 'back' in Explorer only served to delete this morning's efforts outright.
It would seem that another of those un-requested random MS upgrade added this unhelpful, and unnecessary little tool. ..Unnecessary as I have made my own personal provision to deal with the nasty blight of pop-ups..
Lesson learned. Create content in another format. Spell-check and review. Cut-and-paste into blog template and publish.
Everyone please buy an Apple or go Linux.
Humpf..
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Knights Of The Road
Basic courtesies make the world go 'round.
I know I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but politeness costs nothing and makes for a more functional and happy society. Whether that's standing in line for or getting on a bus or tube; giving-up a seat for an older more infirm person or pregnant woman on said bus or tube; greeting people with a 'good morning' upon entering the office; or just being pleasant when buying a paper in the morning. You'll find that a courtesy is repaid right back to you.
It just feels good and gets things done.
Courtesy is especially important on the road. But it would seem that The Highway Code has gone out of the modern game -- especially in London.
It's really simple, all you Mad Max's out there on the Capital's streets. Signal before you maneuver, not as you do it or after the fact; acknowledge other drivers with a signal of thanks if they give way to you; get in the correct lane and don't lane-jump; and don't EVER maneuver on a cross junction.
Something happens to people when they get behind the wheel of two tons of machinery. They turn into pathologically aggressive and dangerous loons.
Everyone -- just chill. Take it easy. Follow the rules, and we'll all -- safely -- get to where we need to get to.
Don't follow the rules and fail to apply these basic courtesies and you'll really, really piss me off.
I know I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but politeness costs nothing and makes for a more functional and happy society. Whether that's standing in line for or getting on a bus or tube; giving-up a seat for an older more infirm person or pregnant woman on said bus or tube; greeting people with a 'good morning' upon entering the office; or just being pleasant when buying a paper in the morning. You'll find that a courtesy is repaid right back to you.
It just feels good and gets things done.
Courtesy is especially important on the road. But it would seem that The Highway Code has gone out of the modern game -- especially in London.
It's really simple, all you Mad Max's out there on the Capital's streets. Signal before you maneuver, not as you do it or after the fact; acknowledge other drivers with a signal of thanks if they give way to you; get in the correct lane and don't lane-jump; and don't EVER maneuver on a cross junction.
Something happens to people when they get behind the wheel of two tons of machinery. They turn into pathologically aggressive and dangerous loons.
Everyone -- just chill. Take it easy. Follow the rules, and we'll all -- safely -- get to where we need to get to.
Don't follow the rules and fail to apply these basic courtesies and you'll really, really piss me off.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Barça, In Your Box
“They can say they are a great team. They can say they play very good football, they can say they have some of the best players in the world. You can agree or not. To say we are a long ball team is because they don’t see us play many times and especially because they don’t see other English teams play. I can tell you, we play very short!”
JM
JM
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
More Wedding List-Related Musing
Of course, one of the great wedding-related joys we have yet to tackle is that other list. Not of attendees, but of gifts. Wey hey!
We've checked-out a few Web sites and made a single, if aborted, exploratory expedition to Tottenham Court Road.
This was cut short as my pathological aversion to shopping on Saturday afternoon's flared spectacularly and caused us to retire to a public house for libation and succor.
But looking around our drafty little home -- I'm constantly reminded there's so much to do and so many things we need.
The wedding is the ideal catalyst to bring improvement and luxury to our humble lives. After all, that's the point of it -- to help the newly-wedded couple set-up their first home together. The fact that we have Eames chairs, a Le Corbusier chaise lounge and B&O TV is neither here nor there. We need *more* tasteful luxury items, and I simply cannot function at this desk for much longer unless I can park my behind on another chair specifically designed for the purpose by the aforementioned Mr. Charles Eames.
So folks, after careful and diligent research, lengthy consideration and hours of Googling -- our list will be at Heals (http://www.heals.co.uk). Don't worry, Heals carries quite a lot of less-expensive items, though they may not appear on our list ;-)
This revelation has made me revise my contribution to the invitation list, and instead of sending my sack-load of invites by standard post, I shall be Fed-Ex-ing to ensure accurate and timely delivery.
We've checked-out a few Web sites and made a single, if aborted, exploratory expedition to Tottenham Court Road.
This was cut short as my pathological aversion to shopping on Saturday afternoon's flared spectacularly and caused us to retire to a public house for libation and succor.
But looking around our drafty little home -- I'm constantly reminded there's so much to do and so many things we need.
The wedding is the ideal catalyst to bring improvement and luxury to our humble lives. After all, that's the point of it -- to help the newly-wedded couple set-up their first home together. The fact that we have Eames chairs, a Le Corbusier chaise lounge and B&O TV is neither here nor there. We need *more* tasteful luxury items, and I simply cannot function at this desk for much longer unless I can park my behind on another chair specifically designed for the purpose by the aforementioned Mr. Charles Eames.
So folks, after careful and diligent research, lengthy consideration and hours of Googling -- our list will be at Heals (http://www.heals.co.uk). Don't worry, Heals carries quite a lot of less-expensive items, though they may not appear on our list ;-)
This revelation has made me revise my contribution to the invitation list, and instead of sending my sack-load of invites by standard post, I shall be Fed-Ex-ing to ensure accurate and timely delivery.
Monday, February 20, 2006
The List: Pre-Wedded, Erm, Bliss..?
Weddings are a delight. The most important day of one's life.
They can be a minefield too.
A lot of planning goes into your average, and indeed, not-so-average wedding.
But don't get me wrong. A lot of wedding planning is easy. Once one recognises that there is a hitherto unknown 'cottage industry' that is The Wedding -- one of get-rich-quick suppliers who put mark-ups on *everything* (think invitations, favour boxes (eh?), food, drink, clothing, flowers, DJs, choirs etc.,) -- it's easy. Fix on a budget, and stick to it.
Then, as a couple you must decide on a location, find a church, suitable venue etc., and of course, stick to the budget. Everything, kinda, falls into place after that. The whole thing runs to a formula. Further, decide on the service (hymns, reading and so forth), menu, wine list, select a dress/morning suit/button-holes, best man/ushers, bride's maids, Stag and Hen excursions and so forth -- and always remember to stick to the budget.
The real difficulty is The List -- the list of invitees, that is.
For two people who come together after living some part of their respective lives as social animals and consequently amassing friends along the way, drawing the list and then editing it (and editing it, and editing it..) to fit to said budget is an unfathomably arduous and onerous task.
Another critical issue is precedent. That one or both have been invited to and/or attended other people's hitchings in the past is another fact of life and consequence of being on the planet long enough to pick-up an acquaintance or two along the way. A very important, and oft overlooked consideration here to recognise is that there is no statute of limitations to wedding invitations. A wedding invitation once issued and accepted is never erased in the minds of its givers -- even if said nuptials occurred two decades ago and the couple in question have long-since divorced or died. One is simply expected to repay the favour without question, and, of course, without regard to the ever diminishing budget. (Did I mention the importance of fiscal prudence?)
In this highly charged environment of manners, noses are quickly un-jointed.
I have little truck for this nonsense and prefer, in the main, to avoid confrontation. So in the interest of a peaceful life, I've decided to invite 750 of my closet friends and dear relatives to our most important day. Sod the budget.
Unfortunately, though, I am afraid that the Royal Mail's gargantuan ineptitude as it is, means that some 741 of those invitations, in all likelihood, will fail to reach their intended destinations.
Well that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.
They can be a minefield too.
A lot of planning goes into your average, and indeed, not-so-average wedding.
But don't get me wrong. A lot of wedding planning is easy. Once one recognises that there is a hitherto unknown 'cottage industry' that is The Wedding -- one of get-rich-quick suppliers who put mark-ups on *everything* (think invitations, favour boxes (eh?), food, drink, clothing, flowers, DJs, choirs etc.,) -- it's easy. Fix on a budget, and stick to it.
Then, as a couple you must decide on a location, find a church, suitable venue etc., and of course, stick to the budget. Everything, kinda, falls into place after that. The whole thing runs to a formula. Further, decide on the service (hymns, reading and so forth), menu, wine list, select a dress/morning suit/button-holes, best man/ushers, bride's maids, Stag and Hen excursions and so forth -- and always remember to stick to the budget.
The real difficulty is The List -- the list of invitees, that is.
For two people who come together after living some part of their respective lives as social animals and consequently amassing friends along the way, drawing the list and then editing it (and editing it, and editing it..) to fit to said budget is an unfathomably arduous and onerous task.
Another critical issue is precedent. That one or both have been invited to and/or attended other people's hitchings in the past is another fact of life and consequence of being on the planet long enough to pick-up an acquaintance or two along the way. A very important, and oft overlooked consideration here to recognise is that there is no statute of limitations to wedding invitations. A wedding invitation once issued and accepted is never erased in the minds of its givers -- even if said nuptials occurred two decades ago and the couple in question have long-since divorced or died. One is simply expected to repay the favour without question, and, of course, without regard to the ever diminishing budget. (Did I mention the importance of fiscal prudence?)
In this highly charged environment of manners, noses are quickly un-jointed.
I have little truck for this nonsense and prefer, in the main, to avoid confrontation. So in the interest of a peaceful life, I've decided to invite 750 of my closet friends and dear relatives to our most important day. Sod the budget.
Unfortunately, though, I am afraid that the Royal Mail's gargantuan ineptitude as it is, means that some 741 of those invitations, in all likelihood, will fail to reach their intended destinations.
Well that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Sir Charles Of The North
Butter wouldn't melt, would it?
But I promise you, behind that innocent exterior is one heap of mischief..
We Are Harvey Nicholls
Not quite there, but nearly..
Today, we went to Pippa's flat to clear out and transfer some odds and sods and a LOT of clothes.
When we moved in December, I was the one that relocated *everything*, while Pippa moved piecemeal -- a few things at a time. This seemed to be a sensible approach as we're still finding our way with the house, and frankly, between us, have too many things. Equally, there's yet a lot of work to do on the place -- so we are rather dusty most of the time.
But this morning's haul of a few 'essential' (additional) items has made the second bedroom, or 'boudoir' look like the stockroom of Harvey Nicholls. There's a painful, but necessary, cull ahead I fear..
During my time with the lovely Miss. P, I've learned a few important and useful things that contribute to well-balanced cohabitation. That women have quite specific clothing and designer preferences (this came as a revelation); that said clothing doesn't come cheap; and that choice is critical -- so quantity (as well a quality) is a must. I've learned too that I will never ever, ever, ever go wrong with a gift bought at the DvF boutique off Westbourne Grove, and that carefully chosen carbon-based baubles are indeed, a girl's best friend.
To make room for the contents of a month of London Fashion Weeks I've had to move my collection of stripy shirts -- not insignificant, in itself -- into to my own, now heaving wardrobe. Humpf. I must cull now too.
However, we did relocate a large pile of cookbooks -- something we've been without since moving (apart from the Nigel Slater Christmas gift). My own extensive *unused* collection of tomes by Jamie, Nigella, Rick et al are still packed in boxes under the stairs. As noted, we've work yet to do on the house and lack shelving. And as a non-cook these things were only ever kitchen ornamentation and never served as practical culinary guides. But, Pippa loves to cook, and is damn good at it too. She now has another avenue of choice, and one I applaud, nay, heartily encourage.
I can live with Harvey Nicks upstairs. Heck, I've got Pont de la Tour, The Ivy and Claridges downstairs.
Today, we went to Pippa's flat to clear out and transfer some odds and sods and a LOT of clothes.
When we moved in December, I was the one that relocated *everything*, while Pippa moved piecemeal -- a few things at a time. This seemed to be a sensible approach as we're still finding our way with the house, and frankly, between us, have too many things. Equally, there's yet a lot of work to do on the place -- so we are rather dusty most of the time.
But this morning's haul of a few 'essential' (additional) items has made the second bedroom, or 'boudoir' look like the stockroom of Harvey Nicholls. There's a painful, but necessary, cull ahead I fear..
During my time with the lovely Miss. P, I've learned a few important and useful things that contribute to well-balanced cohabitation. That women have quite specific clothing and designer preferences (this came as a revelation); that said clothing doesn't come cheap; and that choice is critical -- so quantity (as well a quality) is a must. I've learned too that I will never ever, ever, ever go wrong with a gift bought at the DvF boutique off Westbourne Grove, and that carefully chosen carbon-based baubles are indeed, a girl's best friend.
To make room for the contents of a month of London Fashion Weeks I've had to move my collection of stripy shirts -- not insignificant, in itself -- into to my own, now heaving wardrobe. Humpf. I must cull now too.
However, we did relocate a large pile of cookbooks -- something we've been without since moving (apart from the Nigel Slater Christmas gift). My own extensive *unused* collection of tomes by Jamie, Nigella, Rick et al are still packed in boxes under the stairs. As noted, we've work yet to do on the house and lack shelving. And as a non-cook these things were only ever kitchen ornamentation and never served as practical culinary guides. But, Pippa loves to cook, and is damn good at it too. She now has another avenue of choice, and one I applaud, nay, heartily encourage.
I can live with Harvey Nicks upstairs. Heck, I've got Pont de la Tour, The Ivy and Claridges downstairs.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Filthy Old Sod
I've just heard The amazing Mr. M (the 'special one' to us mere mortals) talk on the radio about the state of the pitch at Stamford Bridge -- which is I must say, shocking. Jose said that the pitch is fine, and indeed, a lot better than many other Premiership grounds at this time of year and point in the season. He cited Everton, Sunderland, Man U and Middlesborough as having worse playing surfaces. That will of course, explain the Mighty Blue's drubbing on Teeside last weekend. Nothing to do with idleness or arrogance, then..
The point of the comment was in response to jibes from Barcelona that the playing surface in SW6 is -- if not unplayable, then far from scratch. Which, of course, is reasonable -- what with to-be-expected 'gamesmanship' ahead of the first leg of a major Champion's League fixture, and the painfully obvious fact that, well, it. [The 'official' reason is something to do with the stands being too high and not allowing the sun to properly shine on the hallowed turf.]
Jose, just let it be. Barca, mindful of defeat in last year's tie, are whinging ahead of another momentous defeat. Let them have their moan and excuse set-up. Say nothing and delight in the prospect of bringing the Champion's League title home to make the 'treble' a reality. I am.
The point of the comment was in response to jibes from Barcelona that the playing surface in SW6 is -- if not unplayable, then far from scratch. Which, of course, is reasonable -- what with to-be-expected 'gamesmanship' ahead of the first leg of a major Champion's League fixture, and the painfully obvious fact that, well, it. [The 'official' reason is something to do with the stands being too high and not allowing the sun to properly shine on the hallowed turf.]
Jose, just let it be. Barca, mindful of defeat in last year's tie, are whinging ahead of another momentous defeat. Let them have their moan and excuse set-up. Say nothing and delight in the prospect of bringing the Champion's League title home to make the 'treble' a reality. I am.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Emmie Dear
Meet Emmie the excitable one.Emmie loves running like a loon, getting wet and dirty, eating *anything* and sleeping.
I want a dog's life!
Monday, February 13, 2006
For The love Of..
So tomorrow's St. Valentine's Day. Probably the worst example of a 'Hallmark Holiday' known to man. Well, after all, it's main target is us men.
If we men don't observe this coporately-imposed romantic occasion, then we're 'for it' -- or so we've all been programmed to believe.
So who was St. Valentine? A mysterious early catholic martyr -- and a relatively minor one at that. There were two, possibly three St. Valentines, btw. Oh, how relevant. Anyone for St. Ida of Boulogne? St. Methodius? Or that perennial crowd-pleaser, St. Tarcisius -- the persecuted 12-year-old acolyte mangled by the Romans in the third century?
No, this particular saint is important -- important enough to make some real money from. And that's just it. It's the fact that a global greetings card corporation -- in addition to all the other adjunct businesses chocolate, flower, ladies' apparel sellers, restaurants et al -- have decreed that I must think and act and *spend* romantically that really bugs me.
I like to consider myself as caring and conisderate of my beloved as the next man -- oftentimes more so. I'm always trying to be giving and spontanious.
But I just don't need a made-up, once a year 'holiday' to demonstrate my affection. Frankly, I find it offensive that Hallmark and friends seek to exploit our relationships to make a buck.
So this year I'm going on strike. I'm not buying a gift of chocolates or smellies. I'm not buying flowers. I'm not arranging a romantic dinner. I'm just not going to acknowledge it.
..D'j-ya right. Nice thought you deluded little revolutionary. Anyone know if Interflora deliver 24 hours?
If we men don't observe this coporately-imposed romantic occasion, then we're 'for it' -- or so we've all been programmed to believe.
So who was St. Valentine? A mysterious early catholic martyr -- and a relatively minor one at that. There were two, possibly three St. Valentines, btw. Oh, how relevant. Anyone for St. Ida of Boulogne? St. Methodius? Or that perennial crowd-pleaser, St. Tarcisius -- the persecuted 12-year-old acolyte mangled by the Romans in the third century?
No, this particular saint is important -- important enough to make some real money from. And that's just it. It's the fact that a global greetings card corporation -- in addition to all the other adjunct businesses chocolate, flower, ladies' apparel sellers, restaurants et al -- have decreed that I must think and act and *spend* romantically that really bugs me.
I like to consider myself as caring and conisderate of my beloved as the next man -- oftentimes more so. I'm always trying to be giving and spontanious.
But I just don't need a made-up, once a year 'holiday' to demonstrate my affection. Frankly, I find it offensive that Hallmark and friends seek to exploit our relationships to make a buck.
So this year I'm going on strike. I'm not buying a gift of chocolates or smellies. I'm not buying flowers. I'm not arranging a romantic dinner. I'm just not going to acknowledge it.
..D'j-ya right. Nice thought you deluded little revolutionary. Anyone know if Interflora deliver 24 hours?
Friday, February 10, 2006
Ahhh...
Ach, I'm not alone in loving Fridays, I know..
It's the end of a long week (for most of us), but coming home to 'my girls' - Pippa and Emmie - is a true delight.
Tonight Pippa cooked-up a chicken-based Moroccan dish (I wish I could recall its name). I don't know much about Moroccan cuisine, but prior to our life together, Pip had quite a passionate relationship with Marakesh. [*with* not *in* I might add.] She does something similar with lamb - which I prefer, btw. We spent the evening downstairs in the dining room talking, 'dumping' and exorcising the week that was. Just being together.
Before that, Emmie and I ran on the Green. Well, Emmie ran and I threw sticks. Such a happy, well adjusted and devoted dog.
At this late-ish hour with the low, soothing sound of early- mid Pink Floyd (Atom Heart Mother) as aural company in this rickety old house - our very happy home - with Emmie asleep behind my desk on 'the cow' and Pip asleep upstairs, I am truly at peace and I know what it means to love and be loved.
To think this simple domestic scenario was nigh-on impossible for me to conceive of a year ago is alien now. We have all come so far in only a year. For us to be together now and for the rest of our lives is such a blissful and comforting thought. I adore them with all my heart and am so committed to making them happy in every way I can - Pippa more of course ;-)
It's the end of a long week (for most of us), but coming home to 'my girls' - Pippa and Emmie - is a true delight.
Tonight Pippa cooked-up a chicken-based Moroccan dish (I wish I could recall its name). I don't know much about Moroccan cuisine, but prior to our life together, Pip had quite a passionate relationship with Marakesh. [*with* not *in* I might add.] She does something similar with lamb - which I prefer, btw. We spent the evening downstairs in the dining room talking, 'dumping' and exorcising the week that was. Just being together.
Before that, Emmie and I ran on the Green. Well, Emmie ran and I threw sticks. Such a happy, well adjusted and devoted dog.
At this late-ish hour with the low, soothing sound of early- mid Pink Floyd (Atom Heart Mother) as aural company in this rickety old house - our very happy home - with Emmie asleep behind my desk on 'the cow' and Pip asleep upstairs, I am truly at peace and I know what it means to love and be loved.
To think this simple domestic scenario was nigh-on impossible for me to conceive of a year ago is alien now. We have all come so far in only a year. For us to be together now and for the rest of our lives is such a blissful and comforting thought. I adore them with all my heart and am so committed to making them happy in every way I can - Pippa more of course ;-)
Life's A Gas
As a consequence of requiring heat, light and the facility to wash, I maintain commerical relationships with a number of utilities -- just like everyone.
And to manage the meagre funds at my disposal, I have a number of financial arrangements with a well-known UK high street lending bank.
The utilities and the financial services institutions are specialists -- hence my engagement of them to serve my specific needs.
But like those stories that appear from time to time in the tabloids of sheep that think they're dogs, British Gas keep sending me polite letters informing me of my mounting credit. Eh?
A series of increasingly fraught phone calls apprising said utility's call centre zombies of my meter readings and requesting that the ever-increasing deposit be returned to my bank -- surely the best repository for money -- is met with incomprehension.
One by one, re-animated dead Geordie after dead Geordie fails to fathom the reasoning behind my plea to have my money to reside in a bank -- where it 1. may earn interest, and 2. where I can access and spend it if I so wish.
My assertion that I don't plan any major, heavy-duty welding jobs requiring ready access to a massive supply of gas falls on deaf ears.
Simply, I just don't need to be £XXX in credit for gas. But I could use the cash in my current account.
George Romero -- get out of Gateshead!
And to manage the meagre funds at my disposal, I have a number of financial arrangements with a well-known UK high street lending bank.
The utilities and the financial services institutions are specialists -- hence my engagement of them to serve my specific needs.
But like those stories that appear from time to time in the tabloids of sheep that think they're dogs, British Gas keep sending me polite letters informing me of my mounting credit. Eh?
A series of increasingly fraught phone calls apprising said utility's call centre zombies of my meter readings and requesting that the ever-increasing deposit be returned to my bank -- surely the best repository for money -- is met with incomprehension.
One by one, re-animated dead Geordie after dead Geordie fails to fathom the reasoning behind my plea to have my money to reside in a bank -- where it 1. may earn interest, and 2. where I can access and spend it if I so wish.
My assertion that I don't plan any major, heavy-duty welding jobs requiring ready access to a massive supply of gas falls on deaf ears.
Simply, I just don't need to be £XXX in credit for gas. But I could use the cash in my current account.
George Romero -- get out of Gateshead!
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Dog Trials and Doggie Tribulations
What is it about the denizens of N16 their nonsensical comfort in living amongst their own, home-grown squalor?
Like most Londoners, I have tended to pay little attention to the world around me, my attention fixed instead to the clock -- the next deadline, meeting, bus, tube and taxi.
Until Emmie, the 7-year old Springer Spaniel, came into our lives, I simple hadn't noticed the amount of rubbish on the capital's streets. Now my attention is firmly fixed to the pavement -- watchful of poochie -- awash with general litter; bin bags deposited some five or six days ahead of council collection; and the casually discarded bones from the plethora of 'finger-lickin' fried chicken vendors in the neighbourhood.
I'm not entirely sure what my two monthly payments to Hackney Council - amounting to £350 per month - contribute to, but it's clearly not efficient litter collection schemes, neighbourhood pride education programmes or public information campaigns to promote the correct use of municipal refuse collection points -- bins to you and me..
But then, it's not government - national or local's - responsibility is it? We're all accountable. And this rather broken and fragmented society can only begin to repair as basic courtesies return.
I for one, notice litter bins now, and I use them.
Emmie, though remains grateful to the many Stokie residents' willful abandonment of trash and the council's woeful refuse collection. Her walks are infinitely stimulating and oftentimes the source of a deep-fried feast.
She too has no regard for civic cleanliness, but then she is a dog -- and I have poo bags aplenty.
Like most Londoners, I have tended to pay little attention to the world around me, my attention fixed instead to the clock -- the next deadline, meeting, bus, tube and taxi.
Until Emmie, the 7-year old Springer Spaniel, came into our lives, I simple hadn't noticed the amount of rubbish on the capital's streets. Now my attention is firmly fixed to the pavement -- watchful of poochie -- awash with general litter; bin bags deposited some five or six days ahead of council collection; and the casually discarded bones from the plethora of 'finger-lickin' fried chicken vendors in the neighbourhood.
I'm not entirely sure what my two monthly payments to Hackney Council - amounting to £350 per month - contribute to, but it's clearly not efficient litter collection schemes, neighbourhood pride education programmes or public information campaigns to promote the correct use of municipal refuse collection points -- bins to you and me..
But then, it's not government - national or local's - responsibility is it? We're all accountable. And this rather broken and fragmented society can only begin to repair as basic courtesies return.
I for one, notice litter bins now, and I use them.
Emmie, though remains grateful to the many Stokie residents' willful abandonment of trash and the council's woeful refuse collection. Her walks are infinitely stimulating and oftentimes the source of a deep-fried feast.
She too has no regard for civic cleanliness, but then she is a dog -- and I have poo bags aplenty.