Well I just can't count, clearly.
'My lot' overwhelemed our house-warming party last night with folk flocking to N16 from all over the capital, and RJB and PJ from coming as far a-field as Holland.
Between 6:00pm and midnight we had about 35 people through the Stamford door -- not at all bad. Not least that with a lot of diary conflicts on Pip's side, the high proportion of guests were ostensibly my friends.
We're agreed that Alex and Katie are always going to be the couple that keep us up just that little bit later than we should and the people with whom we share that one or two glasses more than we really need. They then are the cause of our slightly sore heads..
A very big and sincere that you from both of us to all that made the effort to join us in celebrating our mega-mortgages.
C&P
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Homes And Garden (Other People's..)
This is Claire and Alex's newly remodelled living room. Their whole house has been refitted, and has taken nearly five months. OK -- the job was late and way over budget, but heck, if this pic is anything to go by, it's well worth it.
Top work Atkinsons and congrats on your completely 'new home.'
Top work Atkinsons and congrats on your completely 'new home.'
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Environmental Fascism
Dear Resident,
I am writing to let you know that from 27 February 2006, it will be compulsory for all households to separate their waste for recycling.
...Blah, blah, blah. Two more pages of condescending politico-blather from Comrade Jessica Crowe (any relation to arsehole Bob?), Deptuty Mayor and Cabinet Member for Environment, Hackney Council
Not only is this riddled with gramatical errors, it's patronising, authoritarian and frankly annoying.
I'm generally a well-balanced and reasonable man, and not one to construct a persecution complex of endless directed-at-me conspiracy theories.
All right, a lilly gilded, and I will admit to slight Meldrew tendencies.
But one thing that continues to really get my goat is Hackney Council. Not only am I paying two sets of monthly council taxes in an obscenely high band to one of the most expensive councils in the UK, but I seem to get precious little in return.
It's been a few months since my last rant about street cleaning and rubbish removal, and of course, nothing's changed. There are still enough discarded and rusting fridges, washing machines, PCs and TVs to make Albert Steptoe salivate with glee.
What are the council doing to remove this blight for our streets? Absolutely bloody nothing, of course.
I know because I call them often enough to remind them that our little part of N16 is fast resembling a neglected and underprivileged trailer park in the Deep South. I'm then politely reminded that 'Travellers' have rights too and this is a multi-racial, culturally diverse and all-round Eden of enlightened co-existence.
OK. I'm fine with this -- in principal. I canvassed for Kinnock between the wars don't you know. But, dammit, let's get the street cleaned.
But no. That's too simple. Simplicity doesn't provide enough opportunities for politically infirm career eejits to form committees, quangos and focus groups and have long pompous, self-serving meetings.
So instead of cleaning and clearing the streets, Hackney is gung-ho for recycling. Again, I'm broadly in support of this worth initiative. But -- surprise, surprise -- there's a gaping disconnect between concept and practical application.
Hackney now insist that we all adhere to a regimen of using colour-coded plastic bins for our recycled waste. Green, blue and brown for bottles and cans, paper and garden cuttings.
Again, great. Colour-codes are perfect for my Pooh Bear-sized male brain. Signpost something clearly enough, and I'll get there in the end..
The only problem is that these delightful municipal containers are amassed outside everyone’s front doors and littering the streets.
Simply, a lot of people just don't have the room to house these things, so instead keep them outside their homes to further serve the community as ready bins for anything that the idle passer-by chooses to lob in -- bottles (broken), beer cans, fast food packaging, spittle, vomit.. The list goes on.
Solution: More big recycling centres and more frequent emptying of said. This would not only ensure that we dutiful citizens comply with the junta's latest insane directive, but also means that our streets are clear, tidy and free of obstacles.
This is a photo from the recycling section of Hackney's own Web site -- I'm guessing that it's intended to make these dumb receptacles seem somehow desirable..?
I think you get the point.
I am writing to let you know that from 27 February 2006, it will be compulsory for all households to separate their waste for recycling.
...Blah, blah, blah. Two more pages of condescending politico-blather from Comrade Jessica Crowe (any relation to arsehole Bob?), Deptuty Mayor and Cabinet Member for Environment, Hackney Council
Not only is this riddled with gramatical errors, it's patronising, authoritarian and frankly annoying.
I'm generally a well-balanced and reasonable man, and not one to construct a persecution complex of endless directed-at-me conspiracy theories.
All right, a lilly gilded, and I will admit to slight Meldrew tendencies.
But one thing that continues to really get my goat is Hackney Council. Not only am I paying two sets of monthly council taxes in an obscenely high band to one of the most expensive councils in the UK, but I seem to get precious little in return.
It's been a few months since my last rant about street cleaning and rubbish removal, and of course, nothing's changed. There are still enough discarded and rusting fridges, washing machines, PCs and TVs to make Albert Steptoe salivate with glee.
What are the council doing to remove this blight for our streets? Absolutely bloody nothing, of course.
I know because I call them often enough to remind them that our little part of N16 is fast resembling a neglected and underprivileged trailer park in the Deep South. I'm then politely reminded that 'Travellers' have rights too and this is a multi-racial, culturally diverse and all-round Eden of enlightened co-existence.
OK. I'm fine with this -- in principal. I canvassed for Kinnock between the wars don't you know. But, dammit, let's get the street cleaned.
But no. That's too simple. Simplicity doesn't provide enough opportunities for politically infirm career eejits to form committees, quangos and focus groups and have long pompous, self-serving meetings.
So instead of cleaning and clearing the streets, Hackney is gung-ho for recycling. Again, I'm broadly in support of this worth initiative. But -- surprise, surprise -- there's a gaping disconnect between concept and practical application.
Hackney now insist that we all adhere to a regimen of using colour-coded plastic bins for our recycled waste. Green, blue and brown for bottles and cans, paper and garden cuttings.
Again, great. Colour-codes are perfect for my Pooh Bear-sized male brain. Signpost something clearly enough, and I'll get there in the end..
The only problem is that these delightful municipal containers are amassed outside everyone’s front doors and littering the streets.
Simply, a lot of people just don't have the room to house these things, so instead keep them outside their homes to further serve the community as ready bins for anything that the idle passer-by chooses to lob in -- bottles (broken), beer cans, fast food packaging, spittle, vomit.. The list goes on.
Solution: More big recycling centres and more frequent emptying of said. This would not only ensure that we dutiful citizens comply with the junta's latest insane directive, but also means that our streets are clear, tidy and free of obstacles.
This is a photo from the recycling section of Hackney's own Web site -- I'm guessing that it's intended to make these dumb receptacles seem somehow desirable..?
I think you get the point.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
The Difference Between Country And The Blues
Country
Man drives his pick-up truck home from working double shift in a hot and smelly factory. He finds his small battered house empty with only the dog on the mat and a note from his woman that she's left him and taken all their belongings.
Sad. That's country.
Blues
Man finds his pick-up truck gone after working double shift at a hot and smelly factory. He walks 10 miles home in the cold pouring rain only to find his small, shabbly house empty with a note to from his woman to tell him that she's taken all their belongings, his truck *and* his dog.
Tragic. That's the blues
Man drives his pick-up truck home from working double shift in a hot and smelly factory. He finds his small battered house empty with only the dog on the mat and a note from his woman that she's left him and taken all their belongings.
Sad. That's country.
Blues
Man finds his pick-up truck gone after working double shift at a hot and smelly factory. He walks 10 miles home in the cold pouring rain only to find his small, shabbly house empty with a note to from his woman to tell him that she's taken all their belongings, his truck *and* his dog.
Tragic. That's the blues
Sympathy For The Devil
The old addage that the Devil has all the best tunes rings true.
After spending a couple of hours listening to and selecting wedding-related Church music -- solo arias, choiral pieces, entry and exit organ ditties -- I'm a bit jaded and in need of some (sic) secular noise pollution.
It's not just me with jangled nerves, but Emms, while soothed by the arias (good dog), became rather agitated by the organ stuff for entry and exit of church. A lot of this is in the high range and therefore somewhat bothersome to a doggie's sensitive ears.
So now I'm working my way through some early Zep and all's well at 'Stamford.' (I've been allowed to name the house after a football ground, btw). I'm soothed by the heavy bluesy music and so too is the pooch.
Strangely, it was dull, overcast and drizzly while we reviewed the church music, but now the sun's come out and it's a lovely early Spring evening.
It's true. The Devil really does have all the good tunes, and his exultation can seemingly effect climate change too.
Now if I can just figure out how to play 'Stairway To Heaven' backwards through iTunes..
After spending a couple of hours listening to and selecting wedding-related Church music -- solo arias, choiral pieces, entry and exit organ ditties -- I'm a bit jaded and in need of some (sic) secular noise pollution.
It's not just me with jangled nerves, but Emms, while soothed by the arias (good dog), became rather agitated by the organ stuff for entry and exit of church. A lot of this is in the high range and therefore somewhat bothersome to a doggie's sensitive ears.
So now I'm working my way through some early Zep and all's well at 'Stamford.' (I've been allowed to name the house after a football ground, btw). I'm soothed by the heavy bluesy music and so too is the pooch.
Strangely, it was dull, overcast and drizzly while we reviewed the church music, but now the sun's come out and it's a lovely early Spring evening.
It's true. The Devil really does have all the good tunes, and his exultation can seemingly effect climate change too.
Now if I can just figure out how to play 'Stairway To Heaven' backwards through iTunes..
Thursday, March 30, 2006
We're Gonna Be On Telly
I've just received a call from my estate agents who have passed-on a request from Sony to film a 'lifestyle' TV commercial at my empty and still un-sold batchelor flat.
The lovely Japanese people and their dharling Soho Square meejah luvvies are prepared to pay me £800 for a day's shoot, and the same amount for each day they need the place.
Let's hope it takes and week and that Messrs Spielberg, Scorsese and Coppola are watching.
BTW -- If you're in the market for a new city pad, or just want to inject a bit of pazazz into Mr. Kipling's cakes or Wall's Ice Cream, just call my people and we can 'do' breakfast.
Here's are a few pics of the old place to whet your appetite..
The lovely Japanese people and their dharling Soho Square meejah luvvies are prepared to pay me £800 for a day's shoot, and the same amount for each day they need the place.
Let's hope it takes and week and that Messrs Spielberg, Scorsese and Coppola are watching.
BTW -- If you're in the market for a new city pad, or just want to inject a bit of pazazz into Mr. Kipling's cakes or Wall's Ice Cream, just call my people and we can 'do' breakfast.
Here's are a few pics of the old place to whet your appetite..
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
When Is A Hand-Man Not A Handy Man?
Answer: When he's a rock star in waiting.
Our mate Rusty who does the occasional job for us around the house -- most recently -- erecting the garden fence this week is doing something a lot less mundane tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Matthew, Rusty will be playing keys for Razorlight at The Royal Albert Hall. The thing is that Rusty is only playing on one song as The Razors are a four-piece guitar-led band. But he is playing on probably their best known track, Something Else -- *the* real crowd pleaser and probably their encore.
In addition to his 'moonlighting' in the Premier League, Rusty is also a key member of The Doctors Of Love -- gigging at a venue near you.
I'm not sure what all this means to us. Will his cost go through the roof or do we simply lose a damn good, (relatively) punctual and all-round nice guy to have around to Led Zeppelin-levels of excess?
Frankly, I'm dusting-off the old Gibson and re-learning the five or six chords I know.
Rusty -- take me with you..
Monday, March 27, 2006
Columbia Road Market
This is Columbia Road flower market in the East End. With Spring almost here and our garden a priority, this is where we'll be most Sunday mornings for a few months to come. As you can see, it's quite a bustling place and a cornucopia of all things flora -- all at a knock-down price.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Arbiters Of Idiocy
Idiotic journalists and their idiot editors sometimes strike deep..
This from last Sunday's Observer magazine.
The Rules: The Internet
Rule 5. If the most interesting thing you've done today is walk the dog, don't blog
Defiant. Moi?
This from last Sunday's Observer magazine.
The Rules: The Internet
Rule 5. If the most interesting thing you've done today is walk the dog, don't blog
Defiant. Moi?
Friday, March 24, 2006
My Favourite Things (These Are A few Of..)
Ekch. Julie Andrews? No. Just a bloke-like, Nick Hornby thing..
In descending order of randomness, and actual importance, 20 - 1:
1. Gretsche semi-acoustic guitar, vintage 1958. it's a beauty
2. iPod -- but then I do want to up-grade to mega-gig when it inevitably comes
3. Mini Cooper S -- so bloody cool and a daily joy
4. Early morning walks with Emms -- man, dog and getting sorted for the day ahead
5. Yeats' collected works
6. The Godfathers I & II -- God bless you Mr. C
7. Eames chair and foot stool -- on a promise..
8. The fact of having a garden, and soon having it "Homes and Garden"
9. That Mr. & Mrs. Chagall got jiggy in a Russian village and made Marc
10. Joe Strummer, and all his works
11. B&O telly -- the puppy's..
12. Coca cola chews -- an addiction
13. Blue Wave speakers (silver)
14. Sir Paul Smith of Nottingham
16. London -- the best city in the world and only imaginable place to live
16. RB & PJ -- 'spect
17=. My Dad -- my constant and amazing inspiration
17=. The Atkinsons -- all of four of 'em
19. Emmie, my lovely, wonderful, brilliant, fantastic dog (she talks too ;-)
20. Pippa my darling wife-to-be -- and the single person/thing I would happily trade all the above for..
In descending order of randomness, and actual importance, 20 - 1:
1. Gretsche semi-acoustic guitar, vintage 1958. it's a beauty
2. iPod -- but then I do want to up-grade to mega-gig when it inevitably comes
3. Mini Cooper S -- so bloody cool and a daily joy
4. Early morning walks with Emms -- man, dog and getting sorted for the day ahead
5. Yeats' collected works
6. The Godfathers I & II -- God bless you Mr. C
7. Eames chair and foot stool -- on a promise..
8. The fact of having a garden, and soon having it "Homes and Garden"
9. That Mr. & Mrs. Chagall got jiggy in a Russian village and made Marc
10. Joe Strummer, and all his works
11. B&O telly -- the puppy's..
12. Coca cola chews -- an addiction
13. Blue Wave speakers (silver)
14. Sir Paul Smith of Nottingham
16. London -- the best city in the world and only imaginable place to live
16. RB & PJ -- 'spect
17=. My Dad -- my constant and amazing inspiration
17=. The Atkinsons -- all of four of 'em
19. Emmie, my lovely, wonderful, brilliant, fantastic dog (she talks too ;-)
20. Pippa my darling wife-to-be -- and the single person/thing I would happily trade all the above for..
Thursday, March 23, 2006
William, It Was Really Nothing
Well not nothing really. Only the best *proper* no-nonsense pub in north London.
Why Are Men Stupid?
I know this is a question that women all over the world have a million answers to, but one I've ony recently come to ask -- of myself, of colleagues and sometimes friends.
I know why I'm stupid. I'll spare the armchair psychoanalytics, but I am -- from time to time -- stupid. Sometimes phenominally so. But it's now clear to me that stupidity among my gender is rife. It's everywhere.
Is it ego or testosterone (plus a multitude of other socio-policical-economic inputs), or a heady combination of the two+? Add alcohol, and -- God forbid -- you have a molitov cocktail..
In the workplace -- and indeed, anywhere where they are among the generally more mature, capable, intelligent, balanced, practical (etc.) women -- men's stupidity is only made more obvious.
I'm not saying that women are not without their faults, but any faults laid at the female of the species pale by comparion to the generally ****witted male.
Men are inconsistent, spineless, deceitful, spiteful and vain. This is their inherant stupidity. They are singluar -- which only serves to leave them exposed. Women -- sensible creatures that they are -- seek companionship, consensus, and find strength in solidarity and team. Men just lie and bollox it all up.
I've made a pledge not to name names here (apart from Pippa and Emmie in the main, and then only discretely and in a positive manner), and I won't break that. But sweet Jesus, I'm tested.
Men are stupid. Period. Fact. End-of. That's probably why -- if we're all honest as a gender -- we only ever have two or three close mates. It's just too hard work to deal with complete ****s with any frequency, expect loyalty and trust and consider them friends.
I know why I'm stupid. I'll spare the armchair psychoanalytics, but I am -- from time to time -- stupid. Sometimes phenominally so. But it's now clear to me that stupidity among my gender is rife. It's everywhere.
Is it ego or testosterone (plus a multitude of other socio-policical-economic inputs), or a heady combination of the two+? Add alcohol, and -- God forbid -- you have a molitov cocktail..
In the workplace -- and indeed, anywhere where they are among the generally more mature, capable, intelligent, balanced, practical (etc.) women -- men's stupidity is only made more obvious.
I'm not saying that women are not without their faults, but any faults laid at the female of the species pale by comparion to the generally ****witted male.
Men are inconsistent, spineless, deceitful, spiteful and vain. This is their inherant stupidity. They are singluar -- which only serves to leave them exposed. Women -- sensible creatures that they are -- seek companionship, consensus, and find strength in solidarity and team. Men just lie and bollox it all up.
I've made a pledge not to name names here (apart from Pippa and Emmie in the main, and then only discretely and in a positive manner), and I won't break that. But sweet Jesus, I'm tested.
Men are stupid. Period. Fact. End-of. That's probably why -- if we're all honest as a gender -- we only ever have two or three close mates. It's just too hard work to deal with complete ****s with any frequency, expect loyalty and trust and consider them friends.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Home Improvement, After A Fashion
I wish I'd taken 'before' pictures as well as these 'after' shots of our little front well. Imagine it a filty, nasty cess pit -- and look at it now. All rather zen.
Unfortunately, the same can't be said of the indoors (especially the floors) or its inhabitant's current humour..
Saturday, March 18, 2006
All-Day English
No, this is not an uninformed rant about immigration or anything so unpleasant. It's about good old, honest to goodness grub..
I admit it -- I do like the good things in life.
I consider myself a man of taste and am equipped with a smattering of education and an innate appreciation for quality in art, literature and design. I wouldn't say bon viveur, as it implies studied, insouant and almost greedily conspicuous consumption. No, my enjoyment of life is far more modest -- which I guess, is informed by what I like.
In matters of food, I'm well read and have a good grounding in world cuisine. My appetite can run to the exotic. I adore oysters for example. Indeed, a passion for oysters is something Pippa and I share. And one of my fondest recollections of our time together is hunkered-down for a couple of hours sampling the extensive menu of crustacea at New York's Grand Central Station. Actually, we're naming the tables at our wedding reception after varieties of oysters we've consumed and our top table will be 'Rock' -- which given my other major obsession, is appropriate ;-)
But by the same token, my taste is very basic. My ultimate 'comfort food' for example, is baked beans on toast -- all be it dolled-up with grated cheese and lashings of Lea & Perrins and ground black pepper.
But my greatest gastronomic delight is the plain old English breakfast. Not the one of Little Chefs and a million miles of road-side cafs and foul motorway service stations. Nor that of the urban 'greasy spoon' with tepid weak milky tea its ubiquitous accompaniment. No, I love my brekkie to consist of proper freshly-sourced bacon, sausage, tomato and mushroom cooked gently under a grill and drained of excess fat. This is what we have at home -- not often I hasten to add -- but every now and then as a wonderful treat and when richly deserved after trial, toil or triumph.
But with the all day English at the Londesborough just around the corner (and its sibling, The Talbot in the nearby de Beauvoir), there's no reason to stink-up our little kitchen in the morning. And the slight indulgence is made more a treat with the addition of a bloody mary or pint. This is where we go every fortnight or so -- either to lazily read the papers or just get out of the house and chat away from Ems.
So if you're ever in our bit of north London feeling a bit peckish and hanker for simple brilliance I heartily recommend this oasis. It's where I've just been, can't you tell..?
I admit it -- I do like the good things in life.
I consider myself a man of taste and am equipped with a smattering of education and an innate appreciation for quality in art, literature and design. I wouldn't say bon viveur, as it implies studied, insouant and almost greedily conspicuous consumption. No, my enjoyment of life is far more modest -- which I guess, is informed by what I like.
In matters of food, I'm well read and have a good grounding in world cuisine. My appetite can run to the exotic. I adore oysters for example. Indeed, a passion for oysters is something Pippa and I share. And one of my fondest recollections of our time together is hunkered-down for a couple of hours sampling the extensive menu of crustacea at New York's Grand Central Station. Actually, we're naming the tables at our wedding reception after varieties of oysters we've consumed and our top table will be 'Rock' -- which given my other major obsession, is appropriate ;-)
But by the same token, my taste is very basic. My ultimate 'comfort food' for example, is baked beans on toast -- all be it dolled-up with grated cheese and lashings of Lea & Perrins and ground black pepper.
But my greatest gastronomic delight is the plain old English breakfast. Not the one of Little Chefs and a million miles of road-side cafs and foul motorway service stations. Nor that of the urban 'greasy spoon' with tepid weak milky tea its ubiquitous accompaniment. No, I love my brekkie to consist of proper freshly-sourced bacon, sausage, tomato and mushroom cooked gently under a grill and drained of excess fat. This is what we have at home -- not often I hasten to add -- but every now and then as a wonderful treat and when richly deserved after trial, toil or triumph.
But with the all day English at the Londesborough just around the corner (and its sibling, The Talbot in the nearby de Beauvoir), there's no reason to stink-up our little kitchen in the morning. And the slight indulgence is made more a treat with the addition of a bloody mary or pint. This is where we go every fortnight or so -- either to lazily read the papers or just get out of the house and chat away from Ems.
So if you're ever in our bit of north London feeling a bit peckish and hanker for simple brilliance I heartily recommend this oasis. It's where I've just been, can't you tell..?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Passing Muster
Last night a very nice man from Battersea Dogs Home popped-by to check on how well Emmie is settling with us.
I'm please to report that she/we passed with flying colours. Clearly, the on-the-job training programme is paying-off and the three walkies a day are maintaining fine fettle.
But catostrophic events of Sunday might have also contributed to our good report.
On Sunday morning the dog *and* our whole house stank.
Cold as it was outside, all the windows were open; joss sticks lit like a hippy commune; and scented candles enough to warrent an evening of amour with the accompanying tones of Mr. B. White esq.
Another fact of life is that all dogs -- and especially springers -- love to roll in foul-smelling waste, excrement and carrion.
And true to her breed and more unpleasant instinct, our darling pooch happened upon the Holy Grail of foulness in the park and enjoyed a damn good roll in it too. I'm not sure what it was -- fox poo, decaying fauna, fox poo mixed with dead or mad cow, who knows -- but it really was noxious.
This was far too gross a substance to be dealt with by a customary wipe-off with a damp towel -- though I did try, but it only served to make matters worse and the smell more intense.
Nope -- it was into the bath and a shampoo and set for doggie dear. But lacking proper canine soap, I used a few applications of Pippa's expensive Bond Street stuff (heck, I use it too, so what's the harm?).
Suffice it to say, the results have been a triumph on three fronts. Emmie's coat is lovely and soft, shiny with great body [because she's worth it]. She was a little forlorn after the indignity of the bath, and therefore extremely biddable and very well behaved all day -- and since, I might add. Finally, her (sic) condition really impressed the inspector, so we may all continue in our peaceful cohabitation.
I'm please to report that she/we passed with flying colours. Clearly, the on-the-job training programme is paying-off and the three walkies a day are maintaining fine fettle.
But catostrophic events of Sunday might have also contributed to our good report.
On Sunday morning the dog *and* our whole house stank.
Cold as it was outside, all the windows were open; joss sticks lit like a hippy commune; and scented candles enough to warrent an evening of amour with the accompanying tones of Mr. B. White esq.
Another fact of life is that all dogs -- and especially springers -- love to roll in foul-smelling waste, excrement and carrion.
And true to her breed and more unpleasant instinct, our darling pooch happened upon the Holy Grail of foulness in the park and enjoyed a damn good roll in it too. I'm not sure what it was -- fox poo, decaying fauna, fox poo mixed with dead or mad cow, who knows -- but it really was noxious.
This was far too gross a substance to be dealt with by a customary wipe-off with a damp towel -- though I did try, but it only served to make matters worse and the smell more intense.
Nope -- it was into the bath and a shampoo and set for doggie dear. But lacking proper canine soap, I used a few applications of Pippa's expensive Bond Street stuff (heck, I use it too, so what's the harm?).
Suffice it to say, the results have been a triumph on three fronts. Emmie's coat is lovely and soft, shiny with great body [because she's worth it]. She was a little forlorn after the indignity of the bath, and therefore extremely biddable and very well behaved all day -- and since, I might add. Finally, her (sic) condition really impressed the inspector, so we may all continue in our peaceful cohabitation.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Our Humble Little Church
Impressive isn't it?
Rebuilt by Wren after the great fire, the tower is the inspiration to the traditional tiered wedding cake. It's also where we're getting hitched this summer.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Been Offline Awhile, Been Busy
'Life' gets in the way sometimes. So it's been with me and my posts.
So much going on; so much to do; and such little time. I'm not complaining, but things have been very hectic and upon reflection, hectic has been great.
Family, friends and a lot of work have all -- in their own way -- eaten-up my time for refection and random observation in the last week.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't play it any different. But we've been so full up with activity, I've had not time to think.
Ar work, Pippa and I have had our own individual trials of late, but sharing burdens has only served to provide one another with wise and balanced counsel, but also brought us even closer.
I'd begun to think that having a partner in 'roughly' the same field as me was a pain. We bring our work home each day, and heck, sometimes it's really tedious listening to one's own day-to-day experience played-back by one's co-habitee and partner -- especially when you're trying to switch off.
But this week, I had a fairly simple work problem -- one normally sorted very easily. But with so much riding on success and with so much else to do, I couldn't think straight and was really losing it.
I'll spare the details, but suffice it to say, Pip sorted me out. She claims only to have led me to my own natural and obvious solution to the problem -- an elegant one too, I might add.
But there's something about the woman with whom you're soon-to-be betrothed giving a look that says, "I'm not offering-up my life to a spineless wimp -- sort it out and fast," that galvinises clarity of thought and girds action.
She too, as noted, has had a tough time of late in the office, and I can only hope that my contribution has been equally as helpful.
So much going on; so much to do; and such little time. I'm not complaining, but things have been very hectic and upon reflection, hectic has been great.
Family, friends and a lot of work have all -- in their own way -- eaten-up my time for refection and random observation in the last week.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't play it any different. But we've been so full up with activity, I've had not time to think.
Ar work, Pippa and I have had our own individual trials of late, but sharing burdens has only served to provide one another with wise and balanced counsel, but also brought us even closer.
I'd begun to think that having a partner in 'roughly' the same field as me was a pain. We bring our work home each day, and heck, sometimes it's really tedious listening to one's own day-to-day experience played-back by one's co-habitee and partner -- especially when you're trying to switch off.
But this week, I had a fairly simple work problem -- one normally sorted very easily. But with so much riding on success and with so much else to do, I couldn't think straight and was really losing it.
I'll spare the details, but suffice it to say, Pip sorted me out. She claims only to have led me to my own natural and obvious solution to the problem -- an elegant one too, I might add.
But there's something about the woman with whom you're soon-to-be betrothed giving a look that says, "I'm not offering-up my life to a spineless wimp -- sort it out and fast," that galvinises clarity of thought and girds action.
She too, as noted, has had a tough time of late in the office, and I can only hope that my contribution has been equally as helpful.