I have always been a victim of the Sunday Blues. Part of it is my fault - i've always been excitable, and therefore have always really looked forward to the weekends, have planned lots of things I love, and packed lots of activities in. And so on Sunday, when it is over, I feel a huge sense of anti-climax.
The other problem is that I have often worked Sunday evenings, and while I now no longer do (more or less) the sinking feeling of having the weekend cut short, of dreading work, stays on.
But today I spent my Sunday as it should be, as, I believe, God intended. I woke up late, went to the gym (hence feeling ever so slightly righteous) and went with the Boyfriend to meet some friends. We sat in a pub, watching football, chatting, eating Sunday food, and drinking good wine. And then we left and went to another pub where we did more of the same.
As we came home on the bus, falling asleep on the Boyfriend, I felt so contented. Full, sleepy, and with not a touch of the usual Sunday Blues. I shall be spending more of my Sundays like this.
Sunday 31 January 2010
Friday 29 January 2010
J D Salinger
Wednesday marked the passing of an icon for all lost, alienated, confused and lonely teenagers. Jerome David Salinger, celebrated, yet reclusive author of The Catcher in the Rye died at the age of 91.
Known for The Catcher in the Rye, he also wrote other stories, often looking at life, families and growing up (both literally and emotionally). He was a notorious recluse, his privacy something he held so dear that he entered legal battles to maintain it, and never parted with the rights of his work (hence why there has never been a film version of Holden Caulfield).
I've always been a reader, and so it was inevitable that at the age of about 15 I would read his most well-known book. Often referred to as a Bildungsroman, it traces the events, thoughts and feelings of Holden Caulfield, the main character.
And yet it is strangely opposed to the concept of a typical bildungsroman, which traditionally traces the maturity, and the journey to adulthood from adolescence. The Catcher in the Rye seems more focused on what is lost during this transition, rather than what is gained. Caulfield is in a constant battle against growing up. He is lost, indecisive, always looking back and idealising innocence and youth.
The book represents the confusion and fear of adolescence, of growing up, of sex; it embodies the constant state of flux and imbalance one feels as a teenager. Perhaps this is why Holden Caulfield seems to unanimously appeal to teenagers the world over. There is something about him that actually speaks to the reader, in a way that is so direct, so real that it is impossible not to identify with him. For me it is his superiority, which is actually a mask for insecurity and a form of self-preservation; a quality that I so easily recognise in myself, both in adolescence and at times in adulthood.
And so to Mr Salinger, though you have departed, Holden Caulfield still lives on, forever appealing to the awkward teenager.
Known for The Catcher in the Rye, he also wrote other stories, often looking at life, families and growing up (both literally and emotionally). He was a notorious recluse, his privacy something he held so dear that he entered legal battles to maintain it, and never parted with the rights of his work (hence why there has never been a film version of Holden Caulfield).
I've always been a reader, and so it was inevitable that at the age of about 15 I would read his most well-known book. Often referred to as a Bildungsroman, it traces the events, thoughts and feelings of Holden Caulfield, the main character.
And yet it is strangely opposed to the concept of a typical bildungsroman, which traditionally traces the maturity, and the journey to adulthood from adolescence. The Catcher in the Rye seems more focused on what is lost during this transition, rather than what is gained. Caulfield is in a constant battle against growing up. He is lost, indecisive, always looking back and idealising innocence and youth.
The book represents the confusion and fear of adolescence, of growing up, of sex; it embodies the constant state of flux and imbalance one feels as a teenager. Perhaps this is why Holden Caulfield seems to unanimously appeal to teenagers the world over. There is something about him that actually speaks to the reader, in a way that is so direct, so real that it is impossible not to identify with him. For me it is his superiority, which is actually a mask for insecurity and a form of self-preservation; a quality that I so easily recognise in myself, both in adolescence and at times in adulthood.
And so to Mr Salinger, though you have departed, Holden Caulfield still lives on, forever appealing to the awkward teenager.
Wednesday 27 January 2010
Home
For those of you that know me, you will know that despite having relatively few issues in other parts of my life (touch wood) when it comes to flats and places to live, I seem to have all the bad luck.
When we moved into a flat in Leamington Spa in our second year, the entrance to the flat was down an alley, where all the overflowing wheelie bins for the entire street were kept. This not only contributed to the slightly funky smell, but also accounted for the strange characters we used to find down there (drunk people urinating, old women looking through the rubbish, we once even found a tramp asleep in one of the bins). There was also a bird that died in the alley. It's decaying carcass then stayed floating about in a large puddle (not great drainage down the alley) for the best part of six months.
Then the brief stay in Clapham South. Not a lot to report other than the sub-zero temperatures inside the flat. It was warmer outside. And no I do not jest.
And finally my flat now. Before moving in we were so excited - a grown-up flat without problems and weird quirks. But alas not. As time has moved on the list of problems has become extensive - the door that leads to a 14ft drop, the badly done electrics, meaning that every fortnight we are plunged into freezing darkness for days, a boiler only comes on sporadically, a bathroom fan that always leaks, a hole where a dishwasher should live. But it has been the events of the last week that have been the most worrying. We have started hearing a sqawking, like a bird (a large bird) in great distress.
Doesn't seem so bad I hear you say. But the noise is coming from under the floor. We have now realised that the decking out the back of the flat is over a big hole, that runs under my room, the kitchen and the living room, and culminates behind our door that leads to The Hole. And this poor distressed animal seems to be running around in this hole. We've heard it behind The Door, under the living room, the kitchen, and off-putingly under my room.
We don't really know what to do. Siobhan's only suggestion was to open The Door. My response was no.
I'll let you know if we have any developments. For now though, I'm looking at new flats.
When we moved into a flat in Leamington Spa in our second year, the entrance to the flat was down an alley, where all the overflowing wheelie bins for the entire street were kept. This not only contributed to the slightly funky smell, but also accounted for the strange characters we used to find down there (drunk people urinating, old women looking through the rubbish, we once even found a tramp asleep in one of the bins). There was also a bird that died in the alley. It's decaying carcass then stayed floating about in a large puddle (not great drainage down the alley) for the best part of six months.
Our front door down the alley. And one of the many neighbouring wheelie bins.
We then moved to a lovely big house, but it was again a little odd. There were two kitchens but both missing vital kitchen appliances (a working fridge, cooker, table, sink with both working taps). Between the two we had more or less one fully functioning kitchen. There was a bathroom in the kitchen, a mad person living downstairs and a shower with a door that never shut.
Outside the big house on Leicester street.
I then moved to London, and a grotty little flat in Brixton. While I loved it in many ways, it was a nightmare place to live. It was on two floors, but each floor had a separate front door (so going for a wee in the night, you would have to take your keys, let yourself out of one door and into the next, and back again). We also shared the flat with a number of furry, squeaky friends, despite numerous visits from pest control, and the ceiling in the kitchen came down not once, not twice but three times. It was also above some rather shady businesses.
Me painting the kitchen in the hope of making it look a little nicer after the ceiling came down the second time.
Then the brief stay in Clapham South. Not a lot to report other than the sub-zero temperatures inside the flat. It was warmer outside. And no I do not jest.
And finally my flat now. Before moving in we were so excited - a grown-up flat without problems and weird quirks. But alas not. As time has moved on the list of problems has become extensive - the door that leads to a 14ft drop, the badly done electrics, meaning that every fortnight we are plunged into freezing darkness for days, a boiler only comes on sporadically, a bathroom fan that always leaks, a hole where a dishwasher should live. But it has been the events of the last week that have been the most worrying. We have started hearing a sqawking, like a bird (a large bird) in great distress.
Doesn't seem so bad I hear you say. But the noise is coming from under the floor. We have now realised that the decking out the back of the flat is over a big hole, that runs under my room, the kitchen and the living room, and culminates behind our door that leads to The Hole. And this poor distressed animal seems to be running around in this hole. We've heard it behind The Door, under the living room, the kitchen, and off-putingly under my room.
We don't really know what to do. Siobhan's only suggestion was to open The Door. My response was no.
I'll let you know if we have any developments. For now though, I'm looking at new flats.
Sunday 24 January 2010
The North part 2
So last night I made my first journey into the unknown part of North London - Stoke Newington. Now, believing that I would be leaving all that I know and love, I prepared for the journey as any good traveller would - a book, drink, snack, Uggs (for long distance walking) ear-muffs, and especially re-charged my phone in case of emergencies.
So I got on the tube at Stockwell, preparing to get off at Finsbury park. I promptly fell asleep (a skill that has been perfected over months of erratic shifts) and woke up.... at Finsbury park. A mere 20minutes later.
I then came out of the tube, got some cash out (in case there were no cash machines in the black hole, alternatively known as Stoke Newington) called Mini, got some nonsensical directions, that culminated in getting the 106 bus.
So the journey still had the opportunity for the epic proportions I'd anticipated. But approximately 7minutes later I was at the stop next to her house. And I had arrived. Just half an hour after I had left. It takes me that long to get to the other end of the high street in Clapham.
Her flat is beautiful (except for the building site literally behind her house - it causes very little hassle as the hours of operation are a very considerate 8am-4pm monday to friday) and cheap (due to said building site). And it was filled with old friends. The kind that need no explanation for anything because they just know. And despite not seeing them for months, and one having got a new job, and another having been to four different continents since the last meeting, and one fresh from an 11hour flight from Hong Kong, give it 30seconds, and we are back to being at school, and nothing has changed.
We eventually left the cosiness of the flat to explore the wonders of Stoke Newington Church street - The Three Crowns was first. Good atmosphere, decent drinks, limited seating (unless you were eating, which no one was - so 15 free tables in the "dining area" and about 30 people jostling for standing space in the pub area - but we had a table so were happy), and a bit on the loud side. Fine for a night out, less ideal for a catch-up.
So we moved on (first stopping at a cash point - yes they DO have them!) to the Gold Bar. Which may become my new favourite place. Music but not too loud, beer garden, small interior, but somehow there always seemed to be just enough space, wonderful Caiprinhias and White Russians (Sophia's tipple of choice) and prosecco on tap - the way to any girl's heart. At least, any of my girls.
Obviously by 2am it was clear that I would not be faffing about with night buses, and therefore the epic journey home was a no go. But with a flat as big and nice as Mini's, sofa cushions and duvets was more than perfect for a sleepover.
And the best part - after a lazy breakfast and tea and chats and more tea and more chat it still only took half an hour to get home.
Maybe I shall be venturing North a little more often.... that is, if it'll have me.
So I got on the tube at Stockwell, preparing to get off at Finsbury park. I promptly fell asleep (a skill that has been perfected over months of erratic shifts) and woke up.... at Finsbury park. A mere 20minutes later.
I then came out of the tube, got some cash out (in case there were no cash machines in the black hole, alternatively known as Stoke Newington) called Mini, got some nonsensical directions, that culminated in getting the 106 bus.
So the journey still had the opportunity for the epic proportions I'd anticipated. But approximately 7minutes later I was at the stop next to her house. And I had arrived. Just half an hour after I had left. It takes me that long to get to the other end of the high street in Clapham.
Her flat is beautiful (except for the building site literally behind her house - it causes very little hassle as the hours of operation are a very considerate 8am-4pm monday to friday) and cheap (due to said building site). And it was filled with old friends. The kind that need no explanation for anything because they just know. And despite not seeing them for months, and one having got a new job, and another having been to four different continents since the last meeting, and one fresh from an 11hour flight from Hong Kong, give it 30seconds, and we are back to being at school, and nothing has changed.
We eventually left the cosiness of the flat to explore the wonders of Stoke Newington Church street - The Three Crowns was first. Good atmosphere, decent drinks, limited seating (unless you were eating, which no one was - so 15 free tables in the "dining area" and about 30 people jostling for standing space in the pub area - but we had a table so were happy), and a bit on the loud side. Fine for a night out, less ideal for a catch-up.
So we moved on (first stopping at a cash point - yes they DO have them!) to the Gold Bar. Which may become my new favourite place. Music but not too loud, beer garden, small interior, but somehow there always seemed to be just enough space, wonderful Caiprinhias and White Russians (Sophia's tipple of choice) and prosecco on tap - the way to any girl's heart. At least, any of my girls.
Obviously by 2am it was clear that I would not be faffing about with night buses, and therefore the epic journey home was a no go. But with a flat as big and nice as Mini's, sofa cushions and duvets was more than perfect for a sleepover.
And the best part - after a lazy breakfast and tea and chats and more tea and more chat it still only took half an hour to get home.
Maybe I shall be venturing North a little more often.... that is, if it'll have me.
Saturday 23 January 2010
The North
I am a little partial to some northerness, but one area of the North that I generally avoid is North London. Not out of any snobbiness, but I just don't really go there.
My parents live in Queen's Park (lovely but a little dull) and when I first moved to London that was where I spent much of my time. Maybe that is why it has never appealed - I didn't have an unhappy time there, it was just insginifcant to the fun and enjoyment I have had in Brixton.
But after embracing the Northernness of Wigan and Bolton last weekend, the Boyfriend surprised my by taking me to dinner in the Northernness of London (Angel). This in itself was somewhat surprising - the Boyfriend is from the most southern of South London, Croydon.
So off we went, on the familiar Northern line from Stockwell to the unfamiliar Angel. We got off, assessed the situation and went off to find the restaurant.
Some things I noticed in Angel:
1. Not many black people
2. A lot of trendy people
3. Too many students
4. Nearly everyone, both male and female, seemed to be wearing Uggs.
None of these things (except maybe point 3) were a problem. They just seemed very apparent.
We went to a lovely restaurant, Di Monteforte, on Liverpool Road (indepedent restaurants seems to be something that Angel does well - another lovely place is Le Mercury on Upper Street - good, cheap French food). It was Sicilian, and the service was brilliant, it wasn't overprices (2 courses and a Bellini for £14.95) and the food was tasty. I had mussels (YUM) and swordfish (also yum, but the mussels really were wonderful - the creamy white wine sauce had a bit of a kick - unexpected but definitely worth it).
We then headed off to some bars. The Angelic was lovely (though rammed), the King's Head was my favourite - great atmosphere, we found seats, saw someone accidentally set themselves alight, and the drinks were yum and not mega expensive), a Pitcher and Piano (can't go wrong, although they are all rather samey), and another one that I can't remember, but I believe it was good.
Upper Street is great - everything one needs for a night out next to each other and in a row - you just can't go wrong. And posted at either end of the street is a tube station we can use to head home - perfect.
I did enjoy North London, and we shall no doubt venture out there again, but getting off the tube in Clapham, and seeing the familiar Falcon, with its enourmous heated beer garden, and limitless range of random beers (most notably Fruli for the Boyfriend, and the Royal Oak with it's random yet delicious list of cocktails, and it's deceptively small, but cosy interior and I know that despite the draw of the North, it is the South that holds my heart.
Saying that, I'm now off out to Stoke Newington, promised by a friend that this will forever change my mind. I'll let you know
My parents live in Queen's Park (lovely but a little dull) and when I first moved to London that was where I spent much of my time. Maybe that is why it has never appealed - I didn't have an unhappy time there, it was just insginifcant to the fun and enjoyment I have had in Brixton.
But after embracing the Northernness of Wigan and Bolton last weekend, the Boyfriend surprised my by taking me to dinner in the Northernness of London (Angel). This in itself was somewhat surprising - the Boyfriend is from the most southern of South London, Croydon.
So off we went, on the familiar Northern line from Stockwell to the unfamiliar Angel. We got off, assessed the situation and went off to find the restaurant.
Some things I noticed in Angel:
1. Not many black people
2. A lot of trendy people
3. Too many students
4. Nearly everyone, both male and female, seemed to be wearing Uggs.
None of these things (except maybe point 3) were a problem. They just seemed very apparent.
We went to a lovely restaurant, Di Monteforte, on Liverpool Road (indepedent restaurants seems to be something that Angel does well - another lovely place is Le Mercury on Upper Street - good, cheap French food). It was Sicilian, and the service was brilliant, it wasn't overprices (2 courses and a Bellini for £14.95) and the food was tasty. I had mussels (YUM) and swordfish (also yum, but the mussels really were wonderful - the creamy white wine sauce had a bit of a kick - unexpected but definitely worth it).
We then headed off to some bars. The Angelic was lovely (though rammed), the King's Head was my favourite - great atmosphere, we found seats, saw someone accidentally set themselves alight, and the drinks were yum and not mega expensive), a Pitcher and Piano (can't go wrong, although they are all rather samey), and another one that I can't remember, but I believe it was good.
Upper Street is great - everything one needs for a night out next to each other and in a row - you just can't go wrong. And posted at either end of the street is a tube station we can use to head home - perfect.
I did enjoy North London, and we shall no doubt venture out there again, but getting off the tube in Clapham, and seeing the familiar Falcon, with its enourmous heated beer garden, and limitless range of random beers (most notably Fruli for the Boyfriend, and the Royal Oak with it's random yet delicious list of cocktails, and it's deceptively small, but cosy interior and I know that despite the draw of the North, it is the South that holds my heart.
Saying that, I'm now off out to Stoke Newington, promised by a friend that this will forever change my mind. I'll let you know
Friday 22 January 2010
Walking
It seems that on my race to become an OAP (see earlier post regarding soup) I have also become a fan of a walk.
I remember, when Lucy and I were younger, and happily playing in a warm bedroom, when the parents would utter the dreaded words "Let's go for a walk". Our hearts would sink, and grudgingly we would pull on our shoes, and step out into the cold, normally wet day and trudge along for what felt like hours. And Lucy and I would conspire to never force our children to do the same.
And yet, 15years on, and I have become a devoted fan of the walk. And recently have started walking home from work.
It all began one day when I was terribly tired, but had to stay up, and could not have coffee (as it prevents me from sleeping later on). And the only activity that suitably appealed was the brainless activity of walking. And so I walked. Along to Waterloo. And then down towards the Imperial War Museum, past the Oval Cricket Ground and down the rather beautiful Kennington Road.
And suddenly I was nearly home.
It has now become an almost daily routine (unless I am of course in a hurry, or it's raining, or I have too much to carry - don't get me wrong - given any excuse, and I am happy to jump on the tube).
And as I walk along, I realised that London really is a beautiful place to live. So often I am whizzing past on the bus, reading a magazine, or sitting underground on the tube. But as I walk home I am passing the London Eye, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament. I get to cross the Thames, and walk over historic bridges.
Sometimes it takes simple things to make us stop and slow down. But I am so glad that recently I have started to do just that.
I remember, when Lucy and I were younger, and happily playing in a warm bedroom, when the parents would utter the dreaded words "Let's go for a walk". Our hearts would sink, and grudgingly we would pull on our shoes, and step out into the cold, normally wet day and trudge along for what felt like hours. And Lucy and I would conspire to never force our children to do the same.
And yet, 15years on, and I have become a devoted fan of the walk. And recently have started walking home from work.
It all began one day when I was terribly tired, but had to stay up, and could not have coffee (as it prevents me from sleeping later on). And the only activity that suitably appealed was the brainless activity of walking. And so I walked. Along to Waterloo. And then down towards the Imperial War Museum, past the Oval Cricket Ground and down the rather beautiful Kennington Road.
And suddenly I was nearly home.
It has now become an almost daily routine (unless I am of course in a hurry, or it's raining, or I have too much to carry - don't get me wrong - given any excuse, and I am happy to jump on the tube).
And as I walk along, I realised that London really is a beautiful place to live. So often I am whizzing past on the bus, reading a magazine, or sitting underground on the tube. But as I walk home I am passing the London Eye, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament. I get to cross the Thames, and walk over historic bridges.
Sometimes it takes simple things to make us stop and slow down. But I am so glad that recently I have started to do just that.
Tuesday 19 January 2010
Bouncers
I went to the North at the weekend (one of my favourite place after London, containing some favourite people) and while I was there I went to the theatre.
This was theatre northern style. It was in an old working men's club (of which I was oblivious to the existence of prior to the weekend) ni Horwich (small place between Bolton and Wigan) and was an AmDram performance. I went because the money raised helps two favourite people put on a performance of Footloose.
The play was Bouncers. One that I had never seen before, and though I had heard of it, I was little aware of the genius of said play.
Using just 4 actors, it is a series of sketches tracing a night out on the town, starting with the meeting at the hairdressers, the bus stop, the pub, and the club, the taxi home. And it is from the perspective of 4 bouncers, four girls and four boys.
In each of the characters it was possible to see elements of our various friends. Sexy Susan flirting her way through the club, plain Elaine complaining that she was sweating. The boys urinal talk, and attempts to pick up girls, and the sleazy DJ's smooth talking.
The social observations were both acute and hilarious, accurate, but without going too far and becoming farcical. And the northern accent adds a level of comedy in itself.
As it was an AmDram production it was only on for one night, (although after the success of Saturday I believe that it is being performed again on 20th February at Horwich RMI for any that are interested).
This was theatre northern style. It was in an old working men's club (of which I was oblivious to the existence of prior to the weekend) ni Horwich (small place between Bolton and Wigan) and was an AmDram performance. I went because the money raised helps two favourite people put on a performance of Footloose.
The play was Bouncers. One that I had never seen before, and though I had heard of it, I was little aware of the genius of said play.
Using just 4 actors, it is a series of sketches tracing a night out on the town, starting with the meeting at the hairdressers, the bus stop, the pub, and the club, the taxi home. And it is from the perspective of 4 bouncers, four girls and four boys.
In each of the characters it was possible to see elements of our various friends. Sexy Susan flirting her way through the club, plain Elaine complaining that she was sweating. The boys urinal talk, and attempts to pick up girls, and the sleazy DJ's smooth talking.
The social observations were both acute and hilarious, accurate, but without going too far and becoming farcical. And the northern accent adds a level of comedy in itself.
As it was an AmDram production it was only on for one night, (although after the success of Saturday I believe that it is being performed again on 20th February at Horwich RMI for any that are interested).
Thursday 14 January 2010
A perfect evening
There is something incredibly indulgent about going to the pub at lunchtime, settling into a booth, and drinking, chatting and laughing with an old friend until suddenly it is half past seven, and you're in work at 4am, and so you must head home.
And then you head out of the cosiness into the cool evening. The tipsiness just at the right level to ward against the chill, but not too much that you dread the morning.
And then coming home to a big bowl of hot soup, toast and bed. One of the plus points to finishing work at midday.
And then you head out of the cosiness into the cool evening. The tipsiness just at the right level to ward against the chill, but not too much that you dread the morning.
And then coming home to a big bowl of hot soup, toast and bed. One of the plus points to finishing work at midday.
Saturday 9 January 2010
Bruges Part 2
Well, for those of you that don't like suspense - we made it. And relatively incident free.
My father roused us all at the god-awful hour of before 6am (I say it was awful - it was for everyone except me - one of the few perks of working day shifts, night shifts, early, shifts and really early shifts is that my body clock is well and truly broken, and therefore early starts, no sleep and timezones have no effect on me whatsoever).
We stumbled out to the car (I had already showered, washed my hair and had a bowl of porridge - Lucy looked like a rather unwashed cousin It). And got in the back (with a duvet - best treat ever!). I promptly fell asleep and so missed the drama of moving the car off our street, making it through London, and only woke up when my father's voice and language hit fever pitch.
This was because we were on a motorway (I forget which one) and the car was sliding about, and there was so much snow coming down that looking through the windscreen was like looking at a TV with no reception. And there was a stupid Harvey's furniture van trying to overtake us, but because the snow was so bad, it was impossible to see lane markings, or even the hard-shoulder or central reservation.
We slowed to 20mph, let the stupid Harvey's van speed off and then all took deep breaths. My father then asked my sister (who he had convinced to bring her MacBook) to look up the weather forecast, thus demonstrating naivety on two fronts
a. As Lucy pointed out - It's snowing.
b. Where on earth was she supposed to pick up a Wifi connection (apparently my father, until this moment was unaware that a MacBook, or indeed any laptop needed such a thing to connect to the internet).
Anyway. Once we were back on track, we actually made it to the tunnel in pretty good time. So good in fact that we were able to get on an earlier tunnel being one of just 4 cars that had turned up.
Obviously I slept on the tunnel journey (surprisingly short - only 40mins) and once we were off the other side the roads were fine, the snow minimal, and Bruges a mere hours drive. The gamble had indeed paid off.
My father roused us all at the god-awful hour of before 6am (I say it was awful - it was for everyone except me - one of the few perks of working day shifts, night shifts, early, shifts and really early shifts is that my body clock is well and truly broken, and therefore early starts, no sleep and timezones have no effect on me whatsoever).
We stumbled out to the car (I had already showered, washed my hair and had a bowl of porridge - Lucy looked like a rather unwashed cousin It). And got in the back (with a duvet - best treat ever!). I promptly fell asleep and so missed the drama of moving the car off our street, making it through London, and only woke up when my father's voice and language hit fever pitch.
This was because we were on a motorway (I forget which one) and the car was sliding about, and there was so much snow coming down that looking through the windscreen was like looking at a TV with no reception. And there was a stupid Harvey's furniture van trying to overtake us, but because the snow was so bad, it was impossible to see lane markings, or even the hard-shoulder or central reservation.
We slowed to 20mph, let the stupid Harvey's van speed off and then all took deep breaths. My father then asked my sister (who he had convinced to bring her MacBook) to look up the weather forecast, thus demonstrating naivety on two fronts
a. As Lucy pointed out - It's snowing.
b. Where on earth was she supposed to pick up a Wifi connection (apparently my father, until this moment was unaware that a MacBook, or indeed any laptop needed such a thing to connect to the internet).
Anyway. Once we were back on track, we actually made it to the tunnel in pretty good time. So good in fact that we were able to get on an earlier tunnel being one of just 4 cars that had turned up.
Obviously I slept on the tunnel journey (surprisingly short - only 40mins) and once we were off the other side the roads were fine, the snow minimal, and Bruges a mere hours drive. The gamble had indeed paid off.
Friday 8 January 2010
Bruges: Part 1
Now. My father is very kindly taking myself, my sister and my step-mother to Bruges this weekend. We are only going for one night, to a nice hotel, and out for a lovely dinner.
There is, however, a possible hiccup. The snow.
We are due to go on the Eurotunnel (not as many problems as the Eurostar). But we need to:
1. Get ourselves to said tunnel.
2. Which means getting ourselves and the car off the ice-rink, otherwise known as Brooksville Avenue.
We also have a little time pressure (what good scenario doesn't?) as we must be back on Sunday, and so cannot get stuck over there because:
1. I am working at 4am Monday morning
2. Lucy is due to catch a flight to New Zealand, also on Monday, and this flight has cost her an arm and a leg, not to mention her life-savings.
Jennie (step-mother) decided that we needed to be prepared. We then realised we have no thermos, and the biggest spade we have is one Lucy and I used to use on the beach.
So, before even attempting to get in the car, it is off for a trip down Kilburn High Road to hunt out rather more suitable supplies.
I shall keep you posted on events as they unfold.
There is, however, a possible hiccup. The snow.
We are due to go on the Eurotunnel (not as many problems as the Eurostar). But we need to:
1. Get ourselves to said tunnel.
2. Which means getting ourselves and the car off the ice-rink, otherwise known as Brooksville Avenue.
We also have a little time pressure (what good scenario doesn't?) as we must be back on Sunday, and so cannot get stuck over there because:
1. I am working at 4am Monday morning
2. Lucy is due to catch a flight to New Zealand, also on Monday, and this flight has cost her an arm and a leg, not to mention her life-savings.
Jennie (step-mother) decided that we needed to be prepared. We then realised we have no thermos, and the biggest spade we have is one Lucy and I used to use on the beach.
So, before even attempting to get in the car, it is off for a trip down Kilburn High Road to hunt out rather more suitable supplies.
I shall keep you posted on events as they unfold.
Snow
It's been snowing now for three days, and I must say, that I am delighted.
Despite the fact that very little of it has actually reached me (living in Brixton and all - tad too urban to expect that much) I still feel that sense of surreality. Trains are running funny, the buses are going slightly different ways, and some people are really and truly snowed in.
And yes, many people have started to moan, and criticise the train people, and the airports, and the gritters, but I'm just enjoying it. Yes, the pavements are a little hazardness. I have already fallen down once, and yes it was flat on my bottom, and two very helpful Brixton youths helped me up.
And yes, we all look like we are auditioning as extras for this year's Dancing on Ice. But I wish people would just enter into the spirit, and not complain, and pick holes in council decisions and shortcomings. We never see much of the white stuff, and so while it's here, lets just embrace our inner child, and love it for what it is.
Despite the fact that very little of it has actually reached me (living in Brixton and all - tad too urban to expect that much) I still feel that sense of surreality. Trains are running funny, the buses are going slightly different ways, and some people are really and truly snowed in.
And yes, many people have started to moan, and criticise the train people, and the airports, and the gritters, but I'm just enjoying it. Yes, the pavements are a little hazardness. I have already fallen down once, and yes it was flat on my bottom, and two very helpful Brixton youths helped me up.
And yes, we all look like we are auditioning as extras for this year's Dancing on Ice. But I wish people would just enter into the spirit, and not complain, and pick holes in council decisions and shortcomings. We never see much of the white stuff, and so while it's here, lets just embrace our inner child, and love it for what it is.
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