And trust it finds us all in fine fettle?
Big news here is that I'm nearing the end of Day 20 of no alcohol after an impetuous (some would say rash / foolhardy / deranged) decision to have a month off the plonk after New Year.
It's led to being inevitably lumped in with the annual January abstainers and meant I've been subjected to numerous rants outlining the health risks of stopping and then binge drinking as soon as the calendar clicks into February; how I'm an idiot for thinking I'll save my liver this way and that, in actual fact, I'm doing more harm than good by laying off it for a while.
One friend, upon hearing of my efforts for the first time, even sent the following text to me - which, whilst absolutely tongue-in-cheek on her part, is one of the most twisted, brilliant, pieces of reverse psychology I've ever heard:
"You do realise that quitting for a month is one of the signs of alcoholism?"
Love it. How do I prove I'm not an alcoholic?! Shit! Best make sure I go to the pub on a regular basis, for fear I go too long without a drink, thus demonstrating my addiction!
I do get the whole reference to some alcoholics who go cold turkey and then binge drink themselves to oblivion, Ms Winehouse included, but I was already pretty sure I wasn't an alcoholic and certainly hadn't set out to prove anything to myself or others that I was capable of surviving without booze. I'm also not doing it in some puritan attempt to purge myself of the excesses of the Christmas period, which were reasonably subdued in any event.
No, for me, the time of year is just coincidence; I've fancied having a full month off for a few years now, just to see - well - what it's like. Whilst I'm not traipsing down to the local offie at 8am for a top up of Special Brew or even managing to last the pace with my friends these days, I still drink regularly - by which I mean that I don't remember a full 7 day week that has passed without a degree of alcohol being consumed since I reached adulthood way back in 1996.
I'd heard stories about bursts of energy being experienced, and I was just getting bored with the same routine - finish work on Friday, go for something between a single and many beers; wake up with a degree of hangover on Saturday morning, drink again on Saturday night, then spend Sunday feeling at least slightly ropey. I was bored. And at an age where suddenly, all that time spent boozing or recovering from the effects of it starts to look like a waste of the best years of your life.
My last beer was on January 1st when we met friends for a New Years Day meal down the pub; my last 'alcohol-proper' was with breakfast the following morning (*nb, not an alcoholic, honest) when J & I finished off a spare bottle of Bucks Fizz leftover from Christmas. We had the 2nd of January off work as well, before you ask, and made the most of our new found liberation (and the effects of slightly alcoholic fizzy orange juice) to go to a photography exhibition on the South Bank.
So. Nearly 3 weeks in. "How's it going?", you may be wondering. Well... hard to say. It's not proved difficult to stop (thus removing the outside chance I was an alcoholic and just hadn't noticed, which is a bonus) and I've not found myself becoming a hermit at weekends to avoid being put in the path of temptation. I've seen my friends as much, if not more than I did before Christmas but it's been more civilised due in part to it being January - so more "come round for dinner" than "let's spend the afternoon in a sun-drenched beer garden". I have been around people drinking, but have actually only been in a pub once.
I don't think I've been any more or less "fun" than I am when I'm on the booze (although my friends may disagree) - I've found myself being aware of being tired much more quickly though, and in all honesty haven't lasted more than three hours or so before making a move for home. I felt similar before Christmas, however - if anything, the non-drinking just means I now have an excuse to leave everyone to it and head for the exit. You're allowed to be boring if you're sober.
My life hasn't suddenly become any richer or more fulfilling. I haven't picked up any new hobbies; I've not been to anything cultural since the bucks fizz-fuelled photography exhibition trip and I haven't discovered any talents or skills that have been suppressed under a fug of stale Staropramen throughout adulthood. In a way, this is disappointing, but in another it is a positive sign - I have not been wasting some God-given talent, through which I would now be rich and famous; I just don't have one, and whether or not I drink doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. This sounds pessimistic, but it's not meant to. It means I've got to focus on different things if I want to have a more fulfilling life and can stop sitting in a depressed haze blaming beer for my woes. There is an argument that at least I don't have the added handicap of a motivation-sapping hangover getting in the way of my discovering that new release of creativity or perfect job, which may be true.
Up until this weekend, I was, at least, appreciating the lack of hangovers. Sleeping is a pleasurable experience, and it's great to wake up on a Saturday morning knowing that you're pretty well rested. The anticipated surge of energy has yet to appear, however, and I found myself having a total of 19 hours sleep last weekend yet still waking up exhausted on Sunday morning. I'm pretty sure I was very run down by the end of 2011 and that I'm still recovering, which hasn't helped. This weekend, however, I contracted what appears to be Norovirus, or the "winter vomiting bug", which ironically made me feel like I had the hangover from hell for all of Friday and Saturday. I'm just about out of the woods now, in that I've eaten three meals today and haven't yet brought any of them back up, but it's funny that I normally purposefully make myself feel that bad (without the associated puking/pooing) each weekend. Kind of a timely reminder of what I'm missing now that the novelty of being 'dry' is starting to lose its lustre somewhat.
There are still 10 days of my "official" trial remaining, which doesn't seem that long. I can't see me noticing any discernible benefit to be had from abstention in the next week & a half, in which case it will only have proved that there is no point in trying to stop. Booze is not the cause of all ills, and stopping it will not magically cause one's life to improve immeasurably. It takes a lot more effort than that. Which is a result of sorts, I suppose.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Inspiration & nostalgia
Well done to my old uni mate Gav, with whom I ran the Scotland Run 10K whilst in New York back in April, for completing the New York marathon last Sunday in a superb time of 4hrs 5 mins.
The wonders of modern technology meant I was able to follow his progress around the route and get updates on his lap times - whilst slumped on the sofa in a hungover fug after the Lambeth fireworks display in Brockwell Park the previous night.
It almost - almost - got me back out running again. Work somewhat got in the way this week, which is becoming par for the course; the dark side of technological advances being that I can now connect to my work desktop from the comfort of my own home. Things are hectic and stressful in the office at the moment, and on numerous occasions I've found myself sitting in my spare room at 11pm staring wearily at the screen after putting another 3 hours stint in when I should have been relaxing or spending quality time with my girlfriend (not that the two are mutually exclusive, obviously). Where there used to be a distinct line between work and play, now there is none. I no longer view my home computer as a portal to fun and knowledge; rather it reminds me that I could - and probably should - do some work over the weekend.
Hence I'm determined to spend the afternoon and evening browsing and messing about for leisure today - J is off to look at her friend's holiday snaps and I, alas, am not invited. I haven't blogged properly for months due to the aforementioned work and the Steppe by Steppe blog has died a death before we even got to the start line! It's next on my list to update, before senility takes hold and the internet morphs into some sort of giant thought-based cloud where this type of content no longer exists.
Blogging does feel a bit passé these days, with Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr etc all competing for our social updates. None of these, however, provide the level of detail I sometimes want to go into and none of them will allow me to look back in years to come and think "oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!". This particular slice of web-logging has been on the go since '06, since I was in my twenties, since I was single. Whilst all of that seems not that long ago, the 942 posts that precede this one have captured a huge amount of life, significant events & adventure for posterity. At least it seems that way to me.
Anyway - back to the running. I'm going to creak back out on to the pavements of SW2 tomorrow (assuming no inadvertent drunkenness this evening) in the same pair of trainers I've had since the blog began. I think that 5 years and a few hundred miles of running has finally destroyed them; whilst they still look reasonably good, I get blistered feet every time I attempt to jog more than a couple of kilometres in them. That shouldn't be a problem tomorrow - it's four full months since my Personal Best was smashed in the British 10K, during which time I've pulled on the ex-spangly Nikes a grand total of once. A cheeky wee lap of the park tomorrow may be all I can hope for.
Pay day is next Friday, and I'm determined to finally bite the bullet and get gait analysis and a proper pair of running shoes. Of course, true to form, I've procrastinated so long that I have now moved office to Hammersmith, and after having a branch of Runners Need round the corner from work for 2 years, I now have no idea where the nearest one is. Wait and see - guarantee I end up just fishing a pair of Reeboks out of the bargain bin in JJB Sports instead and then wondering why my knee keeps popping out every time I try to go up hill.
The wonders of modern technology meant I was able to follow his progress around the route and get updates on his lap times - whilst slumped on the sofa in a hungover fug after the Lambeth fireworks display in Brockwell Park the previous night.
It almost - almost - got me back out running again. Work somewhat got in the way this week, which is becoming par for the course; the dark side of technological advances being that I can now connect to my work desktop from the comfort of my own home. Things are hectic and stressful in the office at the moment, and on numerous occasions I've found myself sitting in my spare room at 11pm staring wearily at the screen after putting another 3 hours stint in when I should have been relaxing or spending quality time with my girlfriend (not that the two are mutually exclusive, obviously). Where there used to be a distinct line between work and play, now there is none. I no longer view my home computer as a portal to fun and knowledge; rather it reminds me that I could - and probably should - do some work over the weekend.
Hence I'm determined to spend the afternoon and evening browsing and messing about for leisure today - J is off to look at her friend's holiday snaps and I, alas, am not invited. I haven't blogged properly for months due to the aforementioned work and the Steppe by Steppe blog has died a death before we even got to the start line! It's next on my list to update, before senility takes hold and the internet morphs into some sort of giant thought-based cloud where this type of content no longer exists.
Blogging does feel a bit passé these days, with Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr etc all competing for our social updates. None of these, however, provide the level of detail I sometimes want to go into and none of them will allow me to look back in years to come and think "oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!". This particular slice of web-logging has been on the go since '06, since I was in my twenties, since I was single. Whilst all of that seems not that long ago, the 942 posts that precede this one have captured a huge amount of life, significant events & adventure for posterity. At least it seems that way to me.
Anyway - back to the running. I'm going to creak back out on to the pavements of SW2 tomorrow (assuming no inadvertent drunkenness this evening) in the same pair of trainers I've had since the blog began. I think that 5 years and a few hundred miles of running has finally destroyed them; whilst they still look reasonably good, I get blistered feet every time I attempt to jog more than a couple of kilometres in them. That shouldn't be a problem tomorrow - it's four full months since my Personal Best was smashed in the British 10K, during which time I've pulled on the ex-spangly Nikes a grand total of once. A cheeky wee lap of the park tomorrow may be all I can hope for.
Pay day is next Friday, and I'm determined to finally bite the bullet and get gait analysis and a proper pair of running shoes. Of course, true to form, I've procrastinated so long that I have now moved office to Hammersmith, and after having a branch of Runners Need round the corner from work for 2 years, I now have no idea where the nearest one is. Wait and see - guarantee I end up just fishing a pair of Reeboks out of the bargain bin in JJB Sports instead and then wondering why my knee keeps popping out every time I try to go up hill.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Autumn's here...
...and the wind is buffeting my spare room curtains, thanks to the thoughtful air vent that a former resident / landlord thought might be a useful feature in a bedroom window. No way of closing it, so if you're thinking of coming and spending a weekend as my house guest, probably best to hold off until spring.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Bestival
Ideally, I'd like to say I'm now fully recovered from the glorious weekend that was Bestival 2011, but given I'm nursing a hangover after meeting my friend Helen for 'a pint' to return her tent, and was wearing my Bestival hoodie during the 3 hours in the pub, I'm blaming the festival for my current state of distress.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...
We'd the pleasure of welcoming our second guests to the flat (not bad for over a year of living here) last weekend - J's cousin Kasia and her husband.
She's posted her pictures of the trip on her blog - including some taken in Brixton Village and in our neighbourhood. In particular, she has captured our rocking chair (I say 'our'; it's on loan from a friend) in a way I could only dream of seeing, never mind capturing.
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...: Jakże niewiarygodne jest to, że w dzisiejszych czasach człowiek jednego dnia spędza popołudnie w Londyńskim Chinatown, a drugiego dziarsko m...
Trains
Am standing in City Thameslink as I write (the wonders of moderner technology), perusing my preference for overland trains rather than the underground. Had I taken the tube from St Pauls, I'd be relatively hurtling towards Oxford Circus right now, rather than attempting to ignore the couple of pints of IPA that are slowly working their way to their exit point.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Hits on the blog (hits on the blog y'all)
That post title sounds better if you lazily croon it in the style of mid-90s ganja-toking hip hop legends, Cypress Hill. Which is fitting, as I've been experiencing another mini peak in visits to the blog, once again due to a post about music. Or music festivals, in any case.
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Bestival - my Mr Spoon outfit
it didn't quite work out how I planned in 2009 - when the theme was "Space". It became known as "Pritstickgate", as the forgetting of the eponymous white stick, combined with the mother of all hangovers after a 5am finish the night before, sank me into parcel-taping misery - much to the amusement of my fellow festival-ers.
Wouldn't half mind the weather to be the same this year as back then though.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance
I've finally got round to putting a new post up on Steppe By Steppe - waxing semi-lyrically (and at length) about our crash course in 'not grinding to a halt somewhere outside Antwerp'. Click on the funky red link to be whisked magically across the ether to my other blog.
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance: Apart from enthusiasm, we didn't have too much in the way of qualifications to suggest it was wise to drive a quarter of the way 'round the ...
Monday, August 22, 2011
Further efforts to deal with the endemic dog poo problem
we didn't see any dog poo on the beach whilst we were there - no doubt due entirely to these genius public health signs
Trouville
This blog has been in existence for about 3 months longer than I have been going out with my girlfriend, whom I refer to affectionately (some may say 'lazily') as J. She turned 30 in July, and - unable to whisk her off to a 5 star hotel in Rome as I wanted to - we ended up in the French seaside resort of Trouville, in Normandy. The "Parisian Riviera", no less. Or at least, right next door to it (the true posh spot being the neighbouring town of Deauville).
We left London early on Friday morning and arrived in Calais at lunchtime; having not realised that toll booths accept debit cards (given we had no Euro), the mighty Clio meandered through the French countryside for several hours before the majesty of the Pont de Normandie loomed into sight.
45 minutes later we were cruising the main promenade of Trouville itself, a bustling seaside harbour and resort dominated by a faded casino at the junction of quay and beach, and famous for the seafood that arrives by the trawlerload on a daily basis. We'd chosen it as our destination for the weekend by that most scientific of methods, Google. When I finally gave up pretending I could afford Rome, I asked J where else she would like to go - "to wherever the best mussels in Northern France are", came the reply.
A swift internet search later, up popped Trouville - round the bay a bit from Le Havre, and a more manageable drive from the ferry than Mont St Michel. Not the most romantic of reasons for choosing it, but the squeals of delight from the passenger seat as we jostled our way along the street convinced me we'd done ok.
Our hotel turned out to be perfect, and the town itself was exactly what we (or more importantly, J) had been hoping for. We managed to exist in a little French bubble for most of the weekend until hearing our first English accent late on Sunday - and for two full days we strolled, sunbathed, drank beer and ate fantastic food without a care in the world. It was my first time in the France beyond Paris as an adult, so imagine my surprise when my GCSE French not only wasn't mocked, but resulted in my getting everything I asked for. Ok, so it was a surprise to find myself eating goats cheese quiche on Sunday morning, but I did ask for it, even if I thought it had bacon in it. Again, it was only on Sunday that the spell broke, when a well-meaning bartender answered my pidgin French enquiry in English. I have to admit though, I was exhausted by that point after a full 48 hours dredging the dark recesses of my brain to uncover some half-remembered 17 year old piece of vocabulary so that I could buy a pen to write a postcard.
Mornings were spent drinking coffee and watching the population of the town stroll past - obligatory baguette under their arm. I'm pretty sure people can't eat that much bread; I assume it's just the done thing to have a baguette under one arm and a cigarette in hand, should anyone doubt the true Gallicism of your nature. Afternoons involved a beer with the elderly locals watching the world go by outside a local bar, a stroll through the market, and a bit of gentle sun-burning on the beach.
We followed Trip Advisor's tips on eating out, which resulted in us tucking into delicious duck and steak on the Saturday evening in "La Bolee Normande", a small family-run restaurant up a steep side street near the quayside. The ambience was great, the service friendly, the food delicious - but it deserves special mention for its unique take on fresh seafood. As we were mid-meal, two middle aged French ladies and what appeared to be a daughter came in, ordering a seafood platter which duly arrived around 10 minutes later. After a moment, shrieks and the sound of chairs flying backwards filled the air; I turned round just in time to see the centrepiece of their meal - a crab - making a break for freedom across the table. The women were shouting (but laughing) as the young waiter came ambling over to try and catch the crab, which had launched itself off the table altogether and was attempting to scuttle across the tiles to safety. The young fella got down on his hands and knees and returned triumphant, crab in hand, just as his dad - the chef - appeared to apologise, explain and grab the plucky crustacean to return it to the kitchen.
Reading between the lines & fluent foreign language, it would appear that the wife / head waitress had scooped up the crab to finish the dish, assuming it cooked. As the husband / chef pointed out - and as was evident when he returned with our hero - still steaming from his hot bath - 5 minutes later, a cooked crab looks completely different to a raw (or indeed, "live") one.
There's something about the atmosphere in the place and the general friendliness and openness we experienced from everyone all weekend that I would use that story as part of a recommendation to visit la Bolee Normande if you're ever in Trouville; the same goes for Le Noirot where I showed my cosmopolitan class by ordering salmon in a restaurant renowned for its seafood, yet was treated like a long lost son by the exuberant old head waiter.
Thanks Trouville - you made a nervous boyfriend and the birthday girl very happy indeed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Rock stars, pop stars & divas
As usual, the arse end of summer has crept up on me unawares, and tomorrow sees my final payday before heading off to the Isle of Wight for Bestival, which somewhat unbelievably all kicks off 3 weeks tomorrow.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Taking it back to the old school
The ongoing rioting reminds me of being in Northern Ireland back in the mid-late nineties, when each summer would bring with it the familiar spectre of "Drumcree" and the associated civil disobedience that went with it.
Each year we would be subjected to around a week of riots, with local people rising up against the police in protest at being banned from marching down the Garvaghy Road in Portadown. Unlike London - where the main focus has been on looting shops - the goal was to lock down entrance to, and exit from, key strategic points in the country - be that towns, motorways, ports or airports. The weapon of choice was the petrol bomb & vehicle hijack, allied to the fact that in the majority of cases you didn't have the anonymity afforded to you by the big city - rebel against these people at your peril; hell, you probably recognised them (and they you) even with their faces masked. It had, of course, added significance attached in that it was perceived as being a religious & cultural issue - and woe betide you if you suggested you weren't supporting whoever it was that was taking affirmative action. In Ballymena, they were well served on the main dual carriageway into town, a massive Ford dealership on a hill above the road proving a perfect source for vehicles to roll down to the tarmac and torch.
When I was 17, I helped my sister move back home from university in Warwickshire. My first ever road trip involved a trundle up the M6 in her 12 year old Vauxhall Nova. There was nothing remarkable about the journey up to Stranraer, but the radio was keeping us abreast of developments back home. When we got to the ferry they confirmed that the road to the port of Larne - our destination - had been barricaded by Loyalists, and no one was getting in or out.
When we docked, imagine our surprise therefore to see our parents waiting for us. Somehow my dad had talked his way through the barricade, where the local "commander" had allegedly not only allowed him to pass through, but had also guaranteed he could get back out once he had collected us. Quite how he'd come to this arrangement, I don't know and if I'm honest don't want to, although I do retain a degree of intrigue and respect for the fact he plied his trade across the rural wilds of Northern Ireland as a salesman throughout some of the darkest periods of the troubles.
We travelled in convoy back up the deserted road from the port, hazard lights flashing as instructed to announce our arrival, only to reach the blockade (a hijacked articulated lorry turned sideways across the dual carriageway) and discover "our man" was no longer there. His replacement knew of no arrangement to let us through, and we were forced to return sheepishly to the port and spend an uncomfortable night with the rest of the ferry passengers, trying to sleep in the food court on plastic moulded seats.
Around 5am, word reached the terminal that a route may be open up the coast road towards Glenarm. Some discussion and decision amongst a discrete group of passengers later and we were slipping into our cars in the early morning sunlight. My dad somehow emerged as the ringleader once again, and he and mum headed up the convoy as we quietly eased out of the port and turned towards the back roads along the shoreline. My sister and I followed in the Nova, followed by a couple of other cars who were willing to take the risk to get back home.
It was an incredibly surreal experience - the watery daylight, the early hour, picking our way round and through still-smouldering car shells in the middle of the road. At any moment, I expected to round a corner and be confronted by a group of men in balaclavas - but it never happened. It seems that, wherever the intelligence came from, we had timed it perfectly to coincide with the night shift heading home to get a few hours kip. Eventually, after around 30 minutes, we turned left, tooted the horn in solidarity with the cars heading further north, and rose into the hills to head back towards home.
A few years later I was working for Belfast International Airport during my summer holidays from uni. My shifts started at 6am, and I remember plotting my route to avoid the roadblocks based on the information available at the time (as a rule of thumb, "take the most remote roads you can find"). I found myself high on the side of a hill overlooking the plain on which Antrim & Ballymena nestle, and remember just looking down through the mist at fires burning across the countryside - I could spot at least ten spots where burning barricades were clearly blocking access on the main roads.
Its weird - at the time it was just something you dealt with and were used to. Guys I knew at the airport had tales of previous years where they'd had to stay overnight at work because there was no way in or out. They ended up at the airport hotel having a by-all-accounts raucous party with some stranded air hostesses. Every cloud, and all that.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Riots in London
I was planning on posting something about our trip to France for J's birthday. Instead, I've got BBC News 24 playing in the background as pictures of Lewisham, Peckham, Hackney & Croydon ablaze fill the screen and news of trouble spreading to Birmingham filters through.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Bonne anniversaire, mon petite filous
I'm a crispy husk of a man sat before you, after a drunken night at Mango Landin', south Brixton's finest Caribbean-themed pub, saw us usher in J's 30s in some style. Everyone was incredibly generous and on top form, and we eventually made it to bed around 4am. There was only one thing for it yesterday - a hair of the dog and a burritto to soak up the excesses of the night before. Unfortunately, one hair turned into the drinking equivalent of a blocked plughole, and before I knew it we'd been in the pub for 5 hours - or more precisely, been in the beer garden sunshine for 5 hours.
I'm itchy, dehydrated and stingy all over today, which compounded my misery at work after the usual rubbish attempts at a night's sleep on a Sunday. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that it's a 4 day week for me this week; we're off to Normandy on Friday for the extended birthday celebrations.
I'd never heard of Trouville-sur-mer until I googled 'best mussels in northern France' (J's proposal to help us choose where to go), and this small fishing village popped up. A token attempt to research the place later, and I've discovered it's actually pretty famous as being the location for one of Monet's most famous paintings. "The Beach at Trouville", shown above, hangs in the National Gallery in London.
Relaxation is the order of the weekend, and we have our fingers crossed for sunshine. If not though, it'll give me the perfect opportunity to drag J along to see the Bayeux tapestry - something that mesmerised me at the age of about 11, but which I have to confess I'd kind of forgotten about in the past 20 years. Means nothing to J, of course, and trying to explain it to her is similar to her trying to get me all worked up over Grunwald. But I will, hopefully, be able to get along to see it and relive my childhood imagination of the Norman conquest.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Happy birthday J
Tomorrow, my lovely girlfriend Justyna turns 30. I remember when we first met, it seemed so far away - she was a young whipper-snapper of 25 and even I still had a year of my twenties left. Yet here we are, in 2011, still going strong and the big day upon us.
Alas, nearly 5 years of build up has not helped me think of the perfect present for her. 30 is significant; I wanted to make sure I bought something really fitting. Of course, this has translated into me spending the past 2 months stressing about it without actually coming up with an idea for what that might be. I feel shit but didn't want to buy some sort of tat for the sake of it. I'm hoping she's not too disappointed and we can go shopping together at the weekend, or when we're in France for a birthday long weekend towards the end of the month. It just sucks that she won't have anything from me to open, and I know I won't help matters by constantly going on about it - so even if she isn't bothered at first, she will be after me moaning about how crap I am for a couple of hours.
We are, at least, going out for dinner tomorrow, to a small but highly rated restaurant nearby. The menu changes every couple of weeks, but limits itself to a couple of options - you pretty much get what you're given. I hope, for both our sakes, it's at least an improvement on J's birthday meal last year, when we had crossed from the Ukraine into Russia and found a hotel on the outskirts of Rostov-na-Donu. Even then, I had big plans of flamboyant gestures and a luxury hotel room for the night (scuppered when the best hotel in town advised that yes, they had rooms available, but unfortunately no hot water). What I treated her to was a room underneath a raucous wedding reception, and a trip in the dark to a nearby shop to buy bread, cheese and beer due to the hotel kitchen being closed. She didn't complain though.
Happy birthday J - even though I'm rubbish at showing it, you make me the happiest guy in the world.
Alas, nearly 5 years of build up has not helped me think of the perfect present for her. 30 is significant; I wanted to make sure I bought something really fitting. Of course, this has translated into me spending the past 2 months stressing about it without actually coming up with an idea for what that might be. I feel shit but didn't want to buy some sort of tat for the sake of it. I'm hoping she's not too disappointed and we can go shopping together at the weekend, or when we're in France for a birthday long weekend towards the end of the month. It just sucks that she won't have anything from me to open, and I know I won't help matters by constantly going on about it - so even if she isn't bothered at first, she will be after me moaning about how crap I am for a couple of hours.
We are, at least, going out for dinner tomorrow, to a small but highly rated restaurant nearby. The menu changes every couple of weeks, but limits itself to a couple of options - you pretty much get what you're given. I hope, for both our sakes, it's at least an improvement on J's birthday meal last year, when we had crossed from the Ukraine into Russia and found a hotel on the outskirts of Rostov-na-Donu. Even then, I had big plans of flamboyant gestures and a luxury hotel room for the night (scuppered when the best hotel in town advised that yes, they had rooms available, but unfortunately no hot water). What I treated her to was a room underneath a raucous wedding reception, and a trip in the dark to a nearby shop to buy bread, cheese and beer due to the hotel kitchen being closed. She didn't complain though.
 |
| Justyna cuts some birthday bread with my multi-tool, in our Rostov hotel room |
Happy birthday J - even though I'm rubbish at showing it, you make me the happiest guy in the world.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
If you see slightly ugly looking links to another blog like the ones below...
...never fear, it is not spam (at least not by the standard definition - whether or not you class it as such is your prerogative*).
As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've finally got round to starting to blog about the Mongolia trip in more detail - subtly ignoring the fact that this year's Charity Rally departed on Saturday, meaning I'm over a year behind schedule.
As and when I post something new to Steppe By Steppe, I'll chuck a link on here in case anyone fancies a gander.
*if for nothing else, at least Bobby Brown should feel proud that he has ensured a generation of pop fans can now spell the word 'prerogative' without need for consultation of spell checker.
As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've finally got round to starting to blog about the Mongolia trip in more detail - subtly ignoring the fact that this year's Charity Rally departed on Saturday, meaning I'm over a year behind schedule.
As and when I post something new to Steppe By Steppe, I'll chuck a link on here in case anyone fancies a gander.
*if for nothing else, at least Bobby Brown should feel proud that he has ensured a generation of pop fans can now spell the word 'prerogative' without need for consultation of spell checker.
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