Highly Strung

When I told my sister I’m moving her first comment was “oh my god, not again, how many addresses have you had now? I can’t fit them all in”. To which my answer was the same answer I always give; “write my address in pencil!”. She then asked exactly how many places I’ve lived in since leaving home almost 13 years ago. I couldn’t give her a number off the top of my head, but now that I’ve had a think, here it is: 18. This number encompasses over 55 flatmates.

Highlights include: the house with 2.5 bedrooms and a changing cast of 12 flatmates, the house on Kings Road with the mental resident caretaker who offered to slice me up, the one in which I met the man I lived with for 5 years, several pubs (where I acquired a temporary case of landlord’s disease) and the one which I had to move out of when the ‘landlord’ got out of jail and required his flat back.

Is it any wonder I’m now paying a fortune for the privilege of living alone? I think not.

Me and the boyf went to view a couple of flats last night. The first was a studio flat in a new development. I was expecting it to be small, however, not quite as small as it turned out to be. It was basically a square room with a bathroom built into one corner and kitchen units along one wall. I reckon I’d have no problem fitting my clothes into the place, however I wouldn’t be able to fit me in it at the same time. It was about the same size as a large walk in wardrobe…

The second place I saw was far better, although about 5 flights up a narrow staircase – good fun with a bike on your shoulder. The flat itself was light and airy and a good size, the location was also good, right in the middle of a vibrant and tendy North London suburb. It’s a lovely grown up type of place. The good news is that I have just spoken to the agent and the landlady has accepted my proposal for a slightly lower rent than advertised.

Exhibit A

It’s easy for some people to say the words, but sometimes it’s the gestures which mean so much more.

Things like making me coffee and toast in bed, bothering to jolly me out of a bad mood, worrying about me, a touch on the arm at an unexpected moment, inviting me out with the boys, treating me when i’m skint, considering my opinion, waiting for me when I fall behind on my bike…often it’s not what you say but what you do that tells someone you love them.

I’ve had an unfortunate falling out of love with bike number 2. This has unsurprisingly occurred only since the sale of Bike no. 1 (which I am oddly missing a bit now) and the purchase of Bike no. 3

No. 2 was a revelation after the heaviness and clunkiness of no. 1. No. 1 still had it’s place as my ‘safety bike’, ie the one I liked to ride when tipsy because I couldn’t travel as fast on it as I could on no. 2. But since the arrival and subsequent breaking in of No. 3 on Sunday (40 miles), it just feels like No.2 has no real purpose. I’m sure I’ll get to like it again soon, the seat is more comfy for a start, but at the moment it is sad, lonely and neglected. I feel slightly bad about the fact that I now have a £550 ornament in my front room, however I can’t really consider selling it because a – I wouldn’t get as much for it as I wanted and b – I’m sure I’ll like it again soon – I’m fickle like that.

I suppose I’ll need it to do the Dunwich Dynamo in July, can’t see me riding all that way on a single speed bike really.

Ah the pitfalls of working in the same office as your boyfriend. I walked into the kitchen today with another colleague and seeing the boyf already at the kettle almost slipped an arm around his waist to give him a wee squeeze. I stopped myself just in time – it’s tricky when we’ve just spent a really nice weekend together

Rather asmusingly a while ago he squeezed past my back while I was talking to a colleague, said excuse me Kirses and placed his hand in such a way that could be regarded as inappropriate (on my arse) – which just goes to show it can be done, albeit subtly. Although I doubt I could carry it off with any kind of subtelty whatsoever.

I was wrong the bag pictured below is not the best bag ever – no, no no. The best bag ever is in fact the blue Freitag messenger bag my very generous boyf gave me yesterday. Rather awkwardly he handed me a brown paper parcel whilst I was in the middle of an enthusiastic show and tell session regarding exactly how many pockets my new bag possessed. It slowly dawned on me as I picked up the package that I may be in need of some serious backtracking upon opening of said parcel. Thankfully as the Freitag is in fact ‘The Best Bag Ever’, it was no chore to enthuse appropriately. I had just been thinking as I wandered toward our pub rendevous earlier that the new bag would probably not fly whilst riding, but its all worked out well cos the Freitag is totally made for it. And like I said to the Boyf; you can never have too many bags…

Design your own here: Freitag DIY

I think this accurately sums up my ambivalence toward February 14th. Women eh? So fucking contrary.

(source: www.meish.org)

Brilliant poster in the window of a Leyton chemist:

WE SELL PARKING VOUCHERS