When the home is dirty, and not in the bedroom, its time to clean! Hands and knees are sore, and not from the bedroom, from scrubbing the floor. The polish comes out, furniture is moved, the hoover makes an appearance, The kitchen sink is filled with hot soapy loveliness that rejuvinates your hands better than any beauty cream ever could. It also wrinkles them so I'm not really revelling in that image. Also, I'm not really washing up, Director Boy is. Also, I'm not really hoovering, it is out but its crap so I literally am on my hands and knees like some Victorian scullery maid, complete with knittting and baking skills...
Once again my friends, I am going insane!!
The only thing that seems to bring me back to earth is re-arranging Vogue into alphabetical order and catagorise my some 300+ DVD's into sections, sub-sections and then having the insanity to alphbetise them. Pearl would be proud.
Can't wait to see her, my stylish and beautiful best friend. She arrives in a week and to be completely truthful I'm finding it both wierd and hard without her near. The international 'Get Pearl a job agency' is working around the clock to bring her to London. Hopefully all will be in order and the Home Office will allow the Visa application.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Sunday, 1 July 2007
The Morning After The Night Before The Rest Of My Life...
The new orientation of the bed gives me an uneasy nights sleep, not to mention the alcohol content from the leaving cocktails, which certainly were leaving their mark. I check the time, 7:26, “O.K.” I think to myself, “time to get up, it’s time to go”.
Today is the day I leave for London. Again. Last time was somewhat eventful. This time will be equally as eventful but this time I’m setting up home with my fiancée.
The morning flies by with boxes and bags stacked high, too high, then being re-stacked in an attempt not to kill myself before I’ve even left. Then boxes and bags being carried downstairs and dropped with such aplomb that a suitcase full of vogue* would be proud of. Needless to say that the suitcase itself is an event, ergo backing up my theory that this time round would be eventful. After moving my worldly possessions from what was my bedroom to what was my living room, I need a bath, and drugs. Lots of drugs.
Before Man-with-a-van turns up, I rush out to buy cat supplies for her new living arrangements. By ‘supplies’ I mean Evian as this is one snobby cat. And by ‘new living arrangements’ I mean with Director Boy and me.
I return home from Angry Fence’s** to find HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, sorry J.K., glaring at me with eye’s only he can give. With a face as red as skin rash and veins the size of hose pipe’s popping out of most surface area’s, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED bellows like Brian Blessed in panto and stamps his foot. All I want to give him is E5 cream to calm the redness. And I, as usual when this fiend appears, am the cause of every possible problem on the planet, from him losing his keys, cracks in ceilings, cracks in tiles- behind sinks that are boxed in so are naturally my fault, to the starving in Africa!*** Today I am determined not to be stressed out, also the drugs are kicking in and I’m somewhat sedate, so I laugh at him to piss him off further. Just as I hear the thermometer burst, Man-with-a-van turns up.
This might be a good point to mention that all the advice given by mother’s and police everywhere has gone out of the window, as a man I’ve never met is about to transport me in a white Transit van on a journey that inevitably takes 6 hours. I can hear the NSPCC gathering their petitions and pickets.
Tea is made, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED leaves, the van is loaded and off we go!!
Conversation is surprisingly relaxed and easy in the front of the van-with-a-man, mostly revolving around theatre and singing two part harmonies accapella from the ‘Wicked” soundtrack.
Six hours later we arrive in the capital to be alerted that security levels have risen.
Now who told the Home Office about my arrival??
*The suitcase in question is a very large silver, plastic one, that contains only two years supply of vogue, and ironically all my clothes are in black bags.
**A.K.A. Cross Gates Shopping Centre.
***Not really, although it would be if he actually cared about real issues
Today is the day I leave for London. Again. Last time was somewhat eventful. This time will be equally as eventful but this time I’m setting up home with my fiancée.
The morning flies by with boxes and bags stacked high, too high, then being re-stacked in an attempt not to kill myself before I’ve even left. Then boxes and bags being carried downstairs and dropped with such aplomb that a suitcase full of vogue* would be proud of. Needless to say that the suitcase itself is an event, ergo backing up my theory that this time round would be eventful. After moving my worldly possessions from what was my bedroom to what was my living room, I need a bath, and drugs. Lots of drugs.
Before Man-with-a-van turns up, I rush out to buy cat supplies for her new living arrangements. By ‘supplies’ I mean Evian as this is one snobby cat. And by ‘new living arrangements’ I mean with Director Boy and me.
I return home from Angry Fence’s** to find HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, sorry J.K., glaring at me with eye’s only he can give. With a face as red as skin rash and veins the size of hose pipe’s popping out of most surface area’s, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED bellows like Brian Blessed in panto and stamps his foot. All I want to give him is E5 cream to calm the redness. And I, as usual when this fiend appears, am the cause of every possible problem on the planet, from him losing his keys, cracks in ceilings, cracks in tiles- behind sinks that are boxed in so are naturally my fault, to the starving in Africa!*** Today I am determined not to be stressed out, also the drugs are kicking in and I’m somewhat sedate, so I laugh at him to piss him off further. Just as I hear the thermometer burst, Man-with-a-van turns up.
This might be a good point to mention that all the advice given by mother’s and police everywhere has gone out of the window, as a man I’ve never met is about to transport me in a white Transit van on a journey that inevitably takes 6 hours. I can hear the NSPCC gathering their petitions and pickets.
Tea is made, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED leaves, the van is loaded and off we go!!
Conversation is surprisingly relaxed and easy in the front of the van-with-a-man, mostly revolving around theatre and singing two part harmonies accapella from the ‘Wicked” soundtrack.
Six hours later we arrive in the capital to be alerted that security levels have risen.
Now who told the Home Office about my arrival??
*The suitcase in question is a very large silver, plastic one, that contains only two years supply of vogue, and ironically all my clothes are in black bags.
**A.K.A. Cross Gates Shopping Centre.
***Not really, although it would be if he actually cared about real issues
Sunday, 25 March 2007
As Time Goes By...
Once again it's happening and I cant control a bloody thing! Yes, I'm another year older.
Anyone who knows me will know I like to have just a little bit of control over events, and this year was certainly NOT going to be an exception! My birthday this year was/is spanning over three days. Friday, Saturday (my actual birthday) and then sunday. Friday was oddly fantastic. We, as in me and Director Boy, woke late morning and had yogurt and fruit with a nice cup-o-tea*, Twinnings to be precise. Or pedantic, which ever you choose. Then headed out to Oxford street to spend, spend, spend!! Oxford Street was good as I got to shop and spend lots of someone else's money as I changed him (Director Boy) to how I want him. This would be a good point to mention I decorated and 'de-cluttered' his room the previous afternoon.
After a few hours of shaking my head anytime he picked up something hideous, I started to panic as this was also the evening I was meeting the parents. Not just meeting them, but having a 3 course meal with them. Father: who's a writer and happened to be the writer of one of my favourite children's programme's of my youth, 'Grotbags'. And Mother: who has 5 BAFTA's lined up on the mantle piece. This was enough to send me into a frenzy! Walking through Pimlico I was the epitome of elegance after Oxford St. however, on the inside I felt like I was heading for the guillotine. I was in way over my head. I can fake elegance and can fake knowledge, but this time I was certainly going to be caught out. A house where within holds Writer's, Producer's for the beeb**, Director boy's and Dean, sitting on antique furniture, eating from silver older than my gran, and all while these dreadfully off putting BAFTA's look on with their one normal eye and one lame eye.
We were greeted at the door by a very lovely looking woman, mid-forties*** dressed all in black with brilliant hair. Fiery Red, we found out later it was provided by Clairol as they ceased to make her old-faithful. Welcomed into the house, met the writer, Late fifties, definitely an English gent. Said hello, shook hands, so far so good. All is going well. And then Director Boy points it out- a birthday cake made by mum...
SORRY FOLKS, WILL HAVE TO FINISH IT ANOTHER TIME!
* Implements Yorkshire accent
** BBC, it's an insider thing :-)
*** Turns out she late fifties
Anyone who knows me will know I like to have just a little bit of control over events, and this year was certainly NOT going to be an exception! My birthday this year was/is spanning over three days. Friday, Saturday (my actual birthday) and then sunday. Friday was oddly fantastic. We, as in me and Director Boy, woke late morning and had yogurt and fruit with a nice cup-o-tea*, Twinnings to be precise. Or pedantic, which ever you choose. Then headed out to Oxford street to spend, spend, spend!! Oxford Street was good as I got to shop and spend lots of someone else's money as I changed him (Director Boy) to how I want him. This would be a good point to mention I decorated and 'de-cluttered' his room the previous afternoon.
After a few hours of shaking my head anytime he picked up something hideous, I started to panic as this was also the evening I was meeting the parents. Not just meeting them, but having a 3 course meal with them. Father: who's a writer and happened to be the writer of one of my favourite children's programme's of my youth, 'Grotbags'. And Mother: who has 5 BAFTA's lined up on the mantle piece. This was enough to send me into a frenzy! Walking through Pimlico I was the epitome of elegance after Oxford St. however, on the inside I felt like I was heading for the guillotine. I was in way over my head. I can fake elegance and can fake knowledge, but this time I was certainly going to be caught out. A house where within holds Writer's, Producer's for the beeb**, Director boy's and Dean, sitting on antique furniture, eating from silver older than my gran, and all while these dreadfully off putting BAFTA's look on with their one normal eye and one lame eye.
We were greeted at the door by a very lovely looking woman, mid-forties*** dressed all in black with brilliant hair. Fiery Red, we found out later it was provided by Clairol as they ceased to make her old-faithful. Welcomed into the house, met the writer, Late fifties, definitely an English gent. Said hello, shook hands, so far so good. All is going well. And then Director Boy points it out- a birthday cake made by mum...
SORRY FOLKS, WILL HAVE TO FINISH IT ANOTHER TIME!
* Implements Yorkshire accent
** BBC, it's an insider thing :-)
*** Turns out she late fifties
Thursday, 22 February 2007
A moment of religious reflecton
Last Night I went to church. I walked up through the churchyard, pulled open the large wooden doors and sat at the back. The nave was full, which completely surprised me. I'm not religious, although I wear a crucifix. I was given one by my mum when I first moved to London, it was stolen from my suitcase on a train back to Leeds so I've subsequently replaced it. Also, very surprisingly, I feel a sense of duty to my grandfather. I never had the pleasure of his company except a couple of times when I was about 7 of which I dont really remember, he died when I was about 15 and that has been the only funeral i've been to, but it's had a huge impact on me. My grandfather was a very deep, devout Catholic.
The church itself had fanastic architecture and the atmosphere was serene and mystical. The service was the one for Lent, a rather moving service with some genuinely good advice and politics. Everytime I've graced a church, it always makes me feel something spiritual and in within 10 minutes of being there I can completely see how and why these people devote themselves to an order beyond our understanding.
BUT: I also couldn't help but note that to me, it was all just a fantastic act in a very beautiful theatre.
The service was choreographed and over rehearsed, if I could ever say that! The principal was well trained. Deliverance deserved an Olivier. It was on a stage, they had parcans* for Christ's sake, pun intended. The relevant props were in place, similarly relevant set pieces were on rigs, ready to be flown in when needed. I.E. The font. This is south London, less than 5 mins walk from Arts Ed.** I couldn't help but wonder whether or not the Alter servers and Choristers were all undergraduates? How ever I feel when I'm in a church, whatever the service and however beautiful, I never fail to see past the theatricals. Maybe I'm just ignorant.
I'm never offended by people with such strong faiths, more jealous. I know the Catholic church isn't for me, but I also know that every so often in my life I'll find myself sitting at the back of one asking for forgiveness.
I'm thanking my grandfather for allowing me to be serviced to God, but sadly my Jesus will always be Glenn Carter, my church will always be an actual theatre and my Holy Book will always be Vogue.
This is just an early morning rant, I hope no-one is offended.
* A type of stage light. They're the big ones used at gigs.
** A theatre school trying to re-live 'Fame'. LITERALLY! But thats a whole new rant/blog.
The church itself had fanastic architecture and the atmosphere was serene and mystical. The service was the one for Lent, a rather moving service with some genuinely good advice and politics. Everytime I've graced a church, it always makes me feel something spiritual and in within 10 minutes of being there I can completely see how and why these people devote themselves to an order beyond our understanding.
BUT: I also couldn't help but note that to me, it was all just a fantastic act in a very beautiful theatre.
The service was choreographed and over rehearsed, if I could ever say that! The principal was well trained. Deliverance deserved an Olivier. It was on a stage, they had parcans* for Christ's sake, pun intended. The relevant props were in place, similarly relevant set pieces were on rigs, ready to be flown in when needed. I.E. The font. This is south London, less than 5 mins walk from Arts Ed.** I couldn't help but wonder whether or not the Alter servers and Choristers were all undergraduates? How ever I feel when I'm in a church, whatever the service and however beautiful, I never fail to see past the theatricals. Maybe I'm just ignorant.
I'm never offended by people with such strong faiths, more jealous. I know the Catholic church isn't for me, but I also know that every so often in my life I'll find myself sitting at the back of one asking for forgiveness.
I'm thanking my grandfather for allowing me to be serviced to God, but sadly my Jesus will always be Glenn Carter, my church will always be an actual theatre and my Holy Book will always be Vogue.
This is just an early morning rant, I hope no-one is offended.
* A type of stage light. They're the big ones used at gigs.
** A theatre school trying to re-live 'Fame'. LITERALLY! But thats a whole new rant/blog.
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