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« November 2007 | Main | January 2008 »
I haven't looked at The Real Estalker for a while, but perusing the pics today I spotted this little beauty.
It belongs to model Carolyn Murphy (who I've never heard of) and is just gorgeous. I've been imagining pulling up outside this house, parking my pink Nissan Figaro and moseying on in to find George Clooney cooking my tea... naked.
A girl can dream.
Every time I go to New York (and I've been five times now), I find something else I want to do and think, "Oh, well I'll have to come back."
I still haven't been to any of the galleries or museums (no, not even the one in When Harry Met Sally!) and, talking of WHMS, I haven't been to the Boathouse Cafe (where Sally tells Carrie Fisher and the ginger one that she and Paul have broken up and Carrie Fisher gets her Rolodex out) or to Riverside Park where Tom'n'Meg meet in You've Got Mail.
I'd quite like to do that trapeze thing that Carrie Bradshaw did once, plus I *still* haven't spent enough time in Lower Manhattan, Tribeca or the Meatpacking District, or the Upper West Side, where I'd rather like to pretend I live. Or Harlem. Or Brooklyn. Or Coney Island.
And then I read this post on the fabulous The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl, which I've only just discovered (thanks, Claire!) and I have to add bike-riding to the list. Sigh. It's a hard life...
Oh and finally here's the other side of Top of the Rock (with a quick glimpse of Diane - in the pink hat - halfway through).
Wasn't it fabulous?! I couldn't believe Alesha won, but I was thrilled that she did. Um. Did he drop her at the end, or what?
I haven't watched Morecambe & Wise for years, but when I saw this on an advert, I remembered why I used to love them so much. If you don't at the very least smile when they start dancing, then you must be dead inside. Dead inside!
The toilet is repaired!
Let's never speak of this again.
... if I didn't have to wait for a plumber, I could go and poo in the park.
"Hurray!" I hear you shout. Something that's not poo.
No, in the midst of all the crappy (heh) stuff that's happened over the last couple of days, I bought a new bag. Isn't it lovely? I keep picking it up and stroking it. I'm sad you can't see the lining, cos the lining's real purty.
P.S. It's by Nica and if this blue one was in stock I might have had to buy that too (but probably remove the tags).
I've just watched the T4 Enchanted special and I have to say, if I don't get to see this soon, there's going to be a tantrum.
It's got New York, McDreamy, Amy Adams and ... a singing chipmunk. A singing chipmunk, people!
Now some have said that I am too cynical on the whole TomKat thing. Some people think they're really in love, etc. Maybe they are (they're not). But even if they are (they're not), I find the following utterly unbelievable and not a little disturbing.
In a recent interview, Katie said Tom's "first two children are incredible, really smart and kind. They call me 'Mom'."
Now how likely is it that his children - aged 14 and 12 - happily call 29-year-old Katie "mom"?
As PopSugar adds, "Serious ouch for Nicole Kidman who recently said that Connor and Isabella don't call her mom and now Katie is just throwing it out there that they do call her that. Maybe it's all part of their arrangement."
All part of the arrangement? Yes, I think it probably is. And even if it's not, I'm guessing the name change has been forced on Connor and Isabella (because, seriously, come on!).
What is Tom Cruise doing?!
I've been corresponding with a dance-obsessed American author named Beth Kephart. I tried to send her the links to some of Alesha's dances, but the didn't work, so I'm sticking them here to see if that works.
If you're not interested in Strictly then just talk amongst yourselves (also, I'm sad for you).
Beth, the dance starts at 3.35 mins in case you're not interested in all the waffle.
So plumber no. 4 who assured me someone would be coming out between 12 and 5 has just assured me that someone will be coming out tomorrow instead.
So I'm thinking I could liveblog the pooing in a bucket. You interested?
(P.S. I'm sorry, Maz!)
I'd never heard of this song until it was playing on someone's MySpace page and my ears pricked up. Googled it, YouTubed it and discovered this version from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (haven't seen the film, but now I've seen this clip it's going on my LoveFilm list). Love it!
Thanks to Emily, I just read this (warning: it's a little bit rude) and upset Harry by laughing too much.
Listen, the loo's still broken, how much is too much?
While I'm here, if you're interested in shocking celeb gossip (and if you're not, you're no friend of mine) then check this out. I repeat. Good grief.
Tuesday
2.30am - Get in bed with Harry who's crying, boiling hot and breathing very shallowly. Can't sleep for worrying (and because his breathing is so loud!).
5.00am - Me and H get up and come downstairs. On the way, notice that the toilet is blocked. (Had bought recycled loo roll that didn't seem to be flushing very well. Now nothing's flushing.)
6.30am - Wake David up to look after Harry so I can try and sort the lav. Strip off (in case of splashback), stick arm in bin bag, tie tights round my face (due to smell) - I'm painting a pretty picture, ain't I? - and pull out all the loo roll. Flush. Nothing happens. Shit. (I have - very hot - shower... in case you were worried.)
7.30am - David goes to work.
8.00am - Ring MIL to ask if she can take Harry to the doctors if I can get him an appointment.
8.15am - David rings to say that the car's packed up on the motorway and he's waiting for Green Flag. (Last week Green Flag told us we needed a new battery, it definitely wasn't the alternator. We bought a new battery. Today Green Flag say the alternator's the problem.)
9.00am - Get doctors appointment for Harry for 11.
9.00am - Get plumber booked for between 10 and 12.
10.30am - MIL turns up and takes Harry to the doctors.
11.00am - Plumber turns up and plunges the loo. Says it's a drainage problem and the drains man will ring me.
11.30am - MIL returns. Harry's asleep in the car. He's got a chest infection. Ask MIL to stay for drain man since I'm supposed to be meeting my friend Zoe for lunch in Manchester. Tell her she'll have to wee in the bath. And that there's no milk.
11.55am - MIL drops me at train station.
12.00pm - Miss train. Phone David. Who phones MIL. There's a problem with access to the drain. Go home. Lip quivering. Drain man has managed to "rod" the drain, but not clear the blockage. Drain man tells me the pipes are too small at 3 inches - "the average stool is 4 inches".
1.00pm - Haven't got Zoe's mobile number so have to ring Urbis and ask them to find her and tell her I'm not coming. Sulk.
8.00pm - Third plumber comes. Plunges the lav with a mop (!). Says he thinks the drain's collapsed. Suggests we poo in a bag.
9.00pm - Concentrate on blogging to take mind off prospect of pooing...
Wednesday...
Can only be better. Surely.
It's not a very clear picture, but the sound's great...
In case you can't understand him (and generally me and David are the only ones who can) then at the beginning he says, "No! I sing!" in response to me trying to take his pajama bottoms off him. He needed them for his interpretive dance moves, you see. It then goes "Five golden things, four storybooks, three topknots, two fluffy birds and a Rocket in a humdinger tree."
So when you've only got one morning left to get all your work done and you haven't even started writing your Christmas cards yet, it's inevitable that the kid'll get sick and have to stay home from preschool, isn't it?
Poor Harry's cough is getting worse, plus - remember when I did that story for Practical Parenting that mentioned "eye infections caused by snotty little fingers" and asked if that was a real thing? - well it is a real thing. Cos Harry's gone and got one. Yuck.
Last night he was so hot and his breathing so shallow that I didn't think I'd be able to sleep for worrying, so I put him in bed with me instead (and David got in Harry's bed). That was a mistake. Between the coughing, the tucking of the toes into my crotch (why must he always tuck his toes there? Why?), the 4am chorus of The 12 Days of Christmas (Fimbles version - see video tomorrow) and a request to go "upstairs" (he gets upstairs and downstairs mixed up), the patting of my face and stroking of my hair (which was very sweet, but not when I was so, so tired), I had an appalling night's sleep and I don't think Harry's was much better. We slept in until 8am though.
Looks like he'll be missing his preschool Chrismas party. Pah.
... can someone explain Rhydian to me?
Did he turn up with his hair like that or did they do that to him?
* in case Kylie and Jason do Especially For You.
UPDATED: Not to worry. He's the Welsh Josh Groban, clearly.
So a couple of weeks ago I brought my (very heavy) computer downstairs and found it much easier to write my novel without the distraction of the internet.
This morning I brought it down again and planned to leave it down all weekend. Got a chunk of writing (okay, rearranging) done this morning and within a couple of hours (okay, minutes), started having internet withdrawal. I didn't want to cart the computer back upstairs just to check my stupid emails, but then I had a thought...
Where was the internet connection coming from? Yes, it was in my office, but where did that wire actually go? I followed it to the connecting thing in the wall and wondered if I could just connect downstairs. I pulled up all the wiring, brought it downstairs and tried to plug it into the phone socket. It didn't fit. I took it all back upstairs again.
Then I realised that the connection upstairs was an extension and the wire actually ran down the stairs. To what? And where? I couldn't remember. I wandered around the lounge a bit, scratching my head and then remembered... It's connected to the sodding cable box, isn't it. Obviously!
So then it was just the small matter of getting the wire, pulling out the telly, changing the connection, bringing the computer into the living room from the front room, restarting everything... And here I am!
Of course, the first thing Harry did was bring me a DVD to play on the computer. Despite the fact that he's already watching a DVD on the TV. If he really thinks he's going to watch two at once, he's got another think coming. (He's sitting next to me now, mouth hanging open in front of the Tweenies Christmas while clutching Baby Shakespeare hopefully.) (He's just said, "Baby d'Einstein? No, not the TV. The 'puter!")
Oh and I only had one interesting email. And 12 boring ones.
(But it will actually be useful for getting ahead on some work over the weekend - I realised this morning that I've only got one morning to work next week and then it's the Christmas holidays!) (Also for finally finishing watching those Rescue Me DVDs that won't play on the TV.)
Yesterday morning was Harry's first Nativity service and I ... didn't cry. I know! To be fair, I couldn't see him for most of it. We tried to keep our heads down because we thought if he saw us, he'd want to come and sit with us. He was a shepherd and he was very cute, if a little bewildered...
Since then he's been saying, "Back to church? More church?" and I've been saying, "Not til next Christmas, mate!" :)
He is being particularly cute at the moment...
Yesterday, he was watching an alphabet thing and it got to W. "What begins with W?" I asked. "Wocket!" said H. Do you think he's a genius?
This morning, he stubbed his toe. I lifted his foot up, kissed all his toes and said, "There. That's better." About 20 minutes later he stubbed his toe again. Lifted his own foot up, kissed all his toes and said, "There. Tha' better."
In WH Smiths yesterday he wanted me to lift him up to look at a "cave". (It was actually a hole in the countertop.) Once I lifted him up, he leaned over and shouted into it, "Anybody there?"
The other day when I was lying on the sofa feeling sorry for myself, Harry brought me a cushion and my book.
He is, quite literally, a total joy.
And, as you all believed I would, I've started to think another child might not be an utterly heinous nightmare. Don't get excited, the idea still doesn't fill me with bliss, but it doesn't want to make me throw up or cry either (and yet the thought of giving birth again still does).
David's cautiously excited and the other night I was looking through the Ikea catalogue (one of the other Things That Make Me Happy) and there was a picture of four kids jumping on a sofa. Holding it up, I said to David (sarcastically), "Hey, why don't we have four kids?" and he, snuggling up against me, said, "I did always imagine us with three." "Oh for god's sake," I said. But the thing is, I always imagined us with three too.
Pray for me.
Last Saturday morning, driving through the wind and rain to pick David up from the train, I was listening to Jonathan Ross who was talking to John Barrowman. Usually the combination of Ross and Barrowman would have been enough to brighten my day, but then Jonathan said he was going to play an Osmonds song called Let Me In from their "concept album", The Plan.
Again, simply the idea that The Osmonds had once released a concept album warmed my cockles, but then Jonathan played the song. I didn't know I knew it and I don't know how I know it, but I sang along with the chorus so heartily that I steamed up the windows and I arrived at the train station in a state of cheesy music bliss.
And it was a good job because as I sat waiting for David, engine running, radio and lights still on, the stupid battery died again. Yes, while the engine was running!* The radio went first and, while I was poking it and thinking, "Oh crap, David's going to be gutted if the radio's broken, I wonder what happened. Can you still buy car radios", etc., etc., the engine coughed and I realised the horrible truth, but it was too late.
David, hungover, came out of the station to be met by me, contrite. I tell you something, though, walking to Halfords with icy needles of pain drumming into our faces cured David's hangover good and proper!
* There was some worry that it was a problem with the alternator, but the nice man from Green Flag said the battery was charging fine. He did suggest that we might like to buy a new one though, before winter sets in proper. I think we'll be buying one of those chargy things too (why does anyone bother with jump leads when you can charge it yourself with a little box?).
I'm (in theory) going to have an internet-free weekend, since I'm going to cart this (very heavy) computer downstairs and finish my novel in front of the Christmas tree (with a litre of Bailey's). But I didn't want to leave you hangin' so here's another one of my favourite things.
Craig singing beautifully (and being suprisingly sexy), Anton singing, um, not quite so well, but being his charming self, and Bruce actually making me laugh. Let me repeat that. Stick to the end of this video because Bruce (yes, Bruce Forsyth) says ... something ... funny.
I've mentioned it before, but it really does give me a little frisson of delight whenever I see that Marian Keyes' monthly newsletter has arrived in my in-box. This month was no exception. Well, apart from the fact that the following made me laugh so much I had a painful and unpleasant coughing fit. (Has anyone else got this cough? Doesn't it feel like you're going to tear something vital?)
Massages were included in the price of the week but Himself refused to have his. When pressed he admitted that he feared that he might ‘make a show’ of himself on the table and confuse the masseuse into thinking he was looking for a ‘happy ending.’ I mentioned this to Caitriona my sister, who is a nurse and no-nonsense about this sort of thing. “Oh it happens all the time,” she sez. (the show-making, not the happy ending.) “The girls are well used to it. If things get out of hand, they just hit it with a spoon.” I relayed this information to Himself, who remained doubtful. I came up with a solution: we would have a trial run.
So off we went and when things reached optimum position, so to speak, I gave it a stout clatter with a soup spoon, but sadly mes amies, the stout clatter wasn’t sufficient to deflate things. We were baffled and so were all the others in the dining room. (My little joke. We were alone.) I offered to inflict an even stouter clatter, but he cupped his hands protectively around his region, telling me to get lost, that I might bruise it. We considered that we might be using the wrong sort of spoon, Himself seemed convinced that if the spoon was wooden it would do the trick, but we had no way of getting our hands on a wooden spoon, so we decided that all things considered, it was probably best if he opted out of the massages.
Finally! I know you've all been desperate to hear about it. So, Sarah is one of my oldest friends. I met her and her sister, Susan, outside Matt Goss's place about 15 years ago. I was singing Bucks Fizz songs, they joined in, and the rest is ... er ... history.
So Sarah's getting married at the end of this month and so, at the end of last month, I headed to the Big City (London) to give her a send-off. Due to the hopelessness of British train travel, we only had time at the hotel to get changed, slap on some slap, eat a couple of doughnuts (London = Krispy Kremes) before heading out into the night late afternoon.
The bride to be is in the middle, working the cleavage. :)
We went first to the Absolut Ice Bar. This is an, um, bar made of, um,
ice. No, really. All of it: the glasses, the seating, everything. It's
minus 6 and you get a lovely thermal cloak and gloves to wear.
I know this pic is a bit blurred, but I love it because of the background. We look like some sort of dementedly happy secret society!
It was really good, but I couldn't have stayed there much longer than the allotted hour. I'd only managed to take one sock with me to London (?) and one of my feet was freezing (don't worry, I had boots on).
From there we went out into the surprisingly warm air and to Pizza Express. On the rest of the photos I look drunk and demented - even though I wasn't! It's so unfair!
From Pizza Express we went to a ... nightclub. Yes, a nightclub. Me! It was full of sickeningly young and attractive bastards who lucky Sarah got to kiss and have her photo taken with since it was her night. Pah.
On the way home, there was a guy walking alongside us and he started
chatting to Katy. I glanced at him. Looked. Looked again and then said,
"What's your name?" "Roger," he said. "You used to be a model!" said I.
"And your brother was too! And you had a single out!" He agreed to it
all and seemed rather excited to have been recognised. "Susan and Sarah will
know you too!" I said before shrieking, "Susan! Sarah! Look! Look who it is!!" They ran
back and were just as excited as me (and Roger).
"We saw you at the Fast Forward Funday," said Susan, brilliantly. Roger was so delighted that he almost came home with us. I almost let him. I mean, look at him. Woof.
I'd really like to Google him, but I'm not sure "roger the model" would get the results I'm looking for... (Due to more sensible Googling I found him! Look! I forgot he was in The Lion King - that would have been a cooler thing to mention than the Fast Forward Funday... Check out his modelling portfolio. Lisa, I bet you recognise him, don't you?)
So back at the hotel, Sarah was more than a little the worse for wear and we had a chat and some more doughnuts before heading for bed. I'd like to say I had a good night's sleep, but I was woken more than once by violent retching. And, for once, it wasn't me. Sorry, Sarah.
So, as Susan said, we met a famous person, got in after midnight and someone was sick. A top night all round.
So I took Harry to school this morning in the car. Absolutely torrential rain and his school is on a busy road with lots of splash back from the traffic, so I climbed over and got out on the passenger side.
When I got back to the car no more than 10 minutes later, I noticed I'd left my lights on. When you open the driver's door you get a pinging warning, but I hadn't opened the driver's door. And the battery was flat. Stupid teeny feeble car.
Luckily David was able to come back from work and give me a jump (wah-hey!) but he then told me to give the car "a run out". Since I only drive about three routes, I drove the one that I thought would give me the longest go at the highest speed (50! Wheee!) and so I eventually got home at 11.15. Instead of 9.15.
And then, just in case the car gave me any more trouble, I had to leave to pick H up earlier too. (I didn't want to leave it too late to walk and then find the car wouldn't start again.) So I had an hour and a half to work. Poo. Funny how I managed to fit it all in though, eh? Amazing how I can faff about and fill however much time is available.
Anyway, car didn't give me any more trouble and a lovely day was had by all. Well, not David, since he was at work...
Tonight I'm going to watch Ugly Betty, finish the book I'm loving (The Bermudez Triangle by Maureen Johnson) and drink Bailey's. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the hen night. Don't get excited, it wasn't debauched. I'm too old for debauchery...
I added a daily Peanuts cartoon to my Google home page a while ago and this one made me laugh.
When we were in America a few years ago, we saw an exhibition of Tom Everhart's Peanuts paintings and I love them.
This one, of Woodstock, is called Calmly Insane in My Nest. I wonder why it appeals...
I do love Woodstock, not least because I had a dodgy haircut (it involved a root perm - a root perm!) a few years ago and David took to calling me Woodstock.
December! Can you believe it? I've decided that, for me, December is going to be all about fun, rest, relaxation and housekeeping. Not cleaning (obviously), but finishing things I've started (not least my YA novel), doing my tax return, organising my files, hanging pictures and mirrors, getting rid of stuff ... that sort of thing. Also seeing friends. And going to London for a wedding and (squee!) to see Avenue Q again. I'm very excited actually.
I'm also really excited about Christmas this year. It's been a bit flat for a while and I've struggled to get up much enthusiasm (it's hard to get excited when your presents include dish clothes and washing-up bowls), but, for the first year, Harry's taking an interest and, yesterday, we bought out tree. It's only about 5ft high, but once it was out of the bag it was massive, at least five feet wide too! It takes up about a quarter of our front room. I bought loads of extra decorations and fairy lights and tonight we're going to play Christmas music, eat mince pies, drink Bailey's (well, that'll just be me) and decorate the house. I can't wait.
Despite not being religious myself (and nor is David), I want Harry to know what Christmas is about. When, at preschool, the teacher asked that question, the answers ranged from "Rudolf" to "presents" to "snowmen" and "cake", but no-one mentioned the Little Baby Jesus. Luckily, one of my favourite children's books of all time is Jesus's Christmas Party by Nicholas Allan. It teaches the Christmas story in an entertaining manner and without banging you over the head with that pesky religious aspect (!). I used to recommend it all the time when I worked in Waterstone's and everyone loved it.
In other news, I still feel like hell on wheels. I'm now totally bunged up, with a hideous hacking cough, watery eyes and a throat that feels like I'm swallowing razor blades. But am I feeling sorry for myself? Yes, I am.
