Ahem.

 


I have returned.


 


And re-decorated.


 


Oh, heck, you got pink paint all over your nice coat. Oop. Sorry. I'm sure it'll come out with a bit of white spirit.


Bet you wish I'd stayed away now, hey?
4.3.05 15:46


Cough, cough, cough *expire*

I am unwell. And yet I am in work, sitting at my desk, coughing and sneezing in a rather baroque fashion.


Wherefore is this? you ask.


A-ha, say I. This is all part of YAAGers' Cunning MasterPlan (Pat. Pend.).


The Cunning MasterPlan (Pat.Pend.) involves working as little as possible during March. Some would have it that April is the cruellest month. I disagree. April is merely spiteful, the calendar equivalent of the classmate that ties you to a tree with your own scarf during breaktime. March, on the other hand, is a hard-faced wifebeater of a month. The sort of month that ties kittens into a sack and throws them in the canal.


Thus, in order to avoid March, I am going on holiday twice. On Sunday, Trilby and I jet off to Portugal for a week. Then we're spending five days in France with The Flatmate. But that still leaves twelve days of March. Some whittling needs to be done if I am going to make it into April alive.


So I am in work, playing the "I'm-so-sick-but-I'll-muddle-through" card. Meaning that I could probably manage to take a couple of days off in a "I-feel-even-worse-today-can't-make-it-in" sort of way.


See? I told you the plan was Cunning.
7.3.05 11:21


Just to update all you Vicarious Romance junkies...

- Trilby and I are still together, and still in love. The 8-month mark is looming. We have bought a PS2 together, which is the 21st century version of plighting your troth.


- I spent New Year in Belfast and met Trilby's Mum, Dad, and five (five!) brothers. I thought they were all lovely. I have no idea what they thought of me.


- The YAAGers clan and the Trilby clan met for dinner in a Japanese restaurant. I had just watched "Meet the Fockers", so was terrified that our respective fathers would end up scrapping among the sushi. Fortunately, everyone rubbed along nicely. Still, our parents have met. This is a very interesting development.


- We now feel comfortable enough to fart in front of each other. A landmark, I think you'll agree (though not necessarily a welcome one).
7.3.05 11:42


YAAGers (bouncing on the bed): Ooh, ooh, it's Red Nose Day! Let's all do something wacky!


Trilby (still in the bed): Stop it.


YAAGers: Or zany! (bounce, bounce) We could be wacky and zany!


Trilby: I'm warning you.


YAAGers: Kooky? We can be kooky, right? (bounce, bounce, bounce) Or crazy? Spelt with a "k"!


Trilby: Right, that's it, you're getting a spanking.
11.3.05 10:09


Because everyone loves a bandwagon...

11.3.05 12:06


Kitemare

A while back, I bought a kite. A stunt kite, as it happens. It looked like this:



Pretty snazzy, I think you'll agree.


Now, I had it in my head that flying this uber-kite would be something that Trilby and I would do together. The wind would whip my hair about my face and give my cheeks a rosy glow, we'd laugh and fall over picturesquely and everything would be in soft-focus.


I have evidently seen too many romantic movies.


So I held off from flying the kite. No windy Sundays in the park for me, heck no. I was waiting for The Perfect Moment. I thought it had come last week. We were in Portugal together. The sun was shining in a Krishna-blue sky. We'd cycled to a remote beach, our cheeks were flushed, our pulses were up. And the wind was whipping my barnet about like an over-eager hairdresser. "Let's fly the kite," I suggest. Trilby answers in the affirmative.


 


It's just a thought, but maybe I should have spent some time figuring how to put the thing together before venturing into a force 6 gale.


 


Forty-five minutes and a lot of muttered swearing later, Trilby manages to disentangle the red spaghetti that were the kite lines. "Right. Excellent. Fine. Now, how the hell do the lines attach to the kite..?"


Another half an hour of (more audible) swearing ensues. The thought crosses my mind that, had I a gun, I would willingly shoot the kite.


Finally, the kite is ready. I slip the straps over my wrist. Down the beach, Trilby is holding the kite above his head. It quivers, tugging at the lines, eager to be airborne. "Ready?" yells Trilby. "Ready!" I yell in reply.


He lets go.


The kite soars high into the sky.


I am jerked off my feet.


The kite swoops majestically downwards.


I land on my bottom in the sand.


The kite plummets into the sea.


Both of the lines snap, leaving me with a pair of strap bracelets.


A moment of mute horror. Then Trilby (being a man of action) runs into the sea to save what is now not so much a kite as rather a very expensive plastic bag. I remain on my bottom in the sand, opening and shutting my mouth like a cod fish. Trilby squelches up the beach, trailing the lines behind him. His shoes, which he had neglected to remove before dashing into the sea, are full of brine. He deposits the kite in the sand next to me.


Trilby: Let us never speak of this again.


 


The manufacturer is going to receive a very stiff letter. The kite was quite obviously faulty. Oh yes.
22.3.05 10:39


Dilemma of the day

Would painting my nails at my desk make my contempt for this job, and Clerkenwell Towers as a whole, a little too obvious?


 


The nail polish is pearly pink, if that helps.
22.3.05 13:27


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