What might have been

For a brief few days last week, life was perfect. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, I had money in my bank and ideas on just how I was going to score brilliant marks in my latest uni essay. I had two great flatmates sorting out the logisitics of getting ourselves into a new flat. I was getting messages from my Mum asking what goodies I wanted her to bring over next week. Kiwi was having a birthday, so I had a legitimate excuse to shop. For those few days, all was well in the world. And then, my life slowly reverted to the series of disasters that it always is.

See, I have the theory that my life is more like a chick lit book than I like to think. Yes, this theory might be partly inspired by my current focus on my thesis topic (although which came first, I wonder, the thesis, or my life as inspiration for it?). I am a middle class twenty something woman who still tends to think of herself more as girl than woman. I am one of the professional classes, really but am neither deeply in love with nor terribly good at my job. I am a mess with money and have a deep love of shopping that I rarely get to indulge - which is perhaps the reason why I love the guilty pleasure when I am allowed to unleash the plastic. I have supportive parents who are willing to talk me through any of life's dramas, but often choose not to confide in them due to need to assert my own independence. Moving to the other side of the world didn't hurt my ability to fit into the chick-lit category either; chick lit heroines are often isolated from their families, meaning they need to face up to their problems on their own, essentially. Until recently, I had no love life to speak of. Kiwi is fast approaching the point of being the longest relationship I've ever had. I have a small collection of good friends scattered around the globe. And, like Bridget, Becky, Carrie - hell, Lizzie Bennett, Evelina, you name her - I have wanted more but been unable to put my finger on just what it was.

But with the return of disaster to my life, I have some inkling of what it might be that I want. It's a short, simple list. In no particular order, I want sunshine during summer and a little snow during winter, with neither season invading the other. I want flowers but not hayfever. I want showers that don't leak. I want a bank account that doesn't leak, as well, but think that may be asking a little much in the present climate. I want to be able to turn on the radio, the TV, open a newspaper, without being assaulted by a barrage of disasters. I want to be able to perform brilliant analyses effortlessly during study, and to design and detail buildings that would put the Franks (Lloyd Wright and Gehry), Zaha Hadid, Corb, Mies, Foster, and all the other arhictectural heroes, to shame.

Hang it all, what I really want is a holiday. Thank god it's a long weekend coming up.

Missing

Lost: One attention span. It is only short but is much missed. Since it vanished have been unable to work or study, so any information on its whereabouts would be much appreciated. Last seen some time before Easter running off into the long weekend. If found please return to my desk - either at home or at work.

Pride and Prejudice

Flatmate and I have started the horrendous task of finding a new flat - preferably before we have to leave our current situation, and even better if we can be moved in before my parents come for their visit at the end of next month, so they have somewhere to doss (incidentally, how wrong does it sound to say that my parents, a pair of sixty-plusers who have qualified for senior citizens discounts for a few years now, are dossing?). The chances of this happening are looking increasingly slim.

The London housing market is in something of a slump. In fact, the London everything is in something of a slump, hence the need to move. However, my new revised, run-through-the-dryer-in-spite-of-washing-instructions budget doesn't stretch very far around the area I live now. I always new it was expensive. It's been a stretch the whole time I've been here, given my complete inability to save money (surely it's there for spending, no?). So I'm confronted with the task of finding somewhere suitably cheap and cheerful. But there is a catch. Flatmate is very attached to this area. In fact, I think it will take a bulldozer to get her out, no matter how much she hates out current flat. Based on recent forays onto internet sites, she's willing to either live in the worst flat in north west London, provided it's within half a mile of our present location (with restrictions, of course), or, it seems, to subsidise my rent to a ludicrous degree. It's not that she's ever visited many of the places that she has written off. In fact, some of them she's never heard of. It's more that she has a prejudice against any postcode that doesn't start NW but isn't within 10 minutes of at least 2 of the major London parks. 

Don't get me wrong here, I love the area too. There's the parks, there are bars, restaurants, and amazing transport locations. But there are also rents higher than the GDP of many African countries. And that's when you combine those GDPs together. I'm also realistic enough to figure that if I struggle on my current salary, when the pay-cut kicks in, I'm going to be drowning in debt in a hurry. 

But I also have my pride. I am willing to live in a nice enough but not over-posh part of London, to the east, to the south, to the north and my only prejudice against the west is that it's far from friends. I am not willing to sacrifice the quality of my living premises though. I draw the line at a single room, sharing a room with a stranger, or living without a lounge room. As far as flatmate is concerned, these seem like reasonable sacrifices to make in order to stay in the area. For me, they would be a year of torment, knowing that if I had been able to convince her, I could have had an enormous room in the docklands, potentially with my own bathroom and bills thrown in. I could have lived without having to borrow money. I could have still accepted invitations out. I wouldn't have Kiwi paying all the time when we go out.

So now, my pride runs up against her prejudice. Any physicists out there? What happens when two imovable forces collide? I think the outcome may be quite catastrophic. So I've been looking into flat shares within my budget all over London, and lining up viewings of flats in areas I can afford. She has been contacting agents about flats so far out of my budget that if I was to pay what I've told her I can afford, her rent would not be reduced at all on what she pays now. The question of who wins - or which estate agent does, at any rate - has yet to be resolved. Stay tuned, sports fans.

Ew, gross

This morning on the tube I had the joy of seeing one of those moments that makes you want to rush for disinfectant. I usually have a fairly high tolerance, compared to flatmate's OCD tendancies. I can make it from home to work withot reaching for the hand sanitizer. In fact, I don't actually carry any. Nor do I carry wet wipes in any form. I do, however, find that it's best to find some soap after getting off any form of public transport. This morning's effort just reinforced the lesson drilled into me by my mother.

It started out as an ordinary black-snot-inducing day. I was chatting to a friend the other day who had thought that his mother was referring to steam trains when she warmed him that taking the train in London would make his snot black. He laughed and told her that steam trains didn't run in the UK anymore. He still believed that until he travelled on the Northern line. Now he uderstands.

But it wasn't the colour of anyone's snot, black, green or otherwise, that had my stomach turning over this morning. It was the man who decided that sitting in a full carriage during peak time was the perfect opportunity to investigate just what was inside his nose. He carried out an in depth inspection, delving for gold for the entire journey between London Bridge and Oval. He might not have stopped at Oval, for all I know, it's just that I got off there. What I do know for sure is that, once his inspection of each fingernail-full was carried out, he rolled the discoveries up and flicked them away from him. 

For all the disgustingness of his actions though, there was a part of me that desperately wanted to giggle as I remembered one of the vile parodies of Heman's 'Casabianca' poem that could be found in my primary school playground:

The boy stood on the burning deck

Picking his nose like mad.

Rolled it into little balls

And flicked them at his dad.

And for that moment, I was back in the library reading Alright Vegemite, Far Out Brussel Sprout, or a similar collection of silly rhymes, with all the other grade fours and rolling on the floor laughing. And for that fact alone, I almost forgave the nose-picker.Almost. Doesn't mean I didn't go straight to wash my hands when I got to the office, though.

High Drama

There has been a whole lot going on lately. That's my excuse for not posting in over a month. So here's the quick rundown on everything. I (once again) promise to post more regularly. Scout's honour. Does it matter if I was never a scout?

I've survived yet another round of redundancies at work, although I have been forced to take a pay cut - still a better option than trying to find a new job when I know there are people out there who have ben unsuccessfully lookng for months now. It feels slightly wrong to be celebrating the fact that someone else lost their job instead of me. It's like survivors guilt. We never know why we were spared, only that we were. The feeling when hearing that my job was safe was almost enough to make me turn to religion, at the time. It was a pretty big thing, given that if I had been made redundant, I would most likely have had to head home. And now is not a good time for that. So instead, I just have to find a new, cheaper home, and bid a very fond farewell to my lovely garden flat. Such a shame I didn't really get to use the garden terribly often. But the idea was there...

Parties have started up in London again. There were no Christmas parties last year. Or none thrown by the companies that we deal with at work, anyway. Everybody was edgy and dull. Now, it's the end of the financial year and they all seem to be either launching a new showroom (I was at one the other night that looked like a night club. Apparently, they do fabrics. Not sure where they hid it. Canapes were great, though), or just spending whatever was left in the kitty before the tax man claims it. And fair enough too. So I've had a couple of weeks where I've hardly been home.

Of course, there has been another reason for not being home. He lives in East London, and shall henceforth be known as Kiwi. A little too tempted to put a smiley face in there. I've been indulging in a little too much text speak lately. But, the short version of it is that Kiwi is tall - at last, a tall guy over here! - a kiwi, obviously, and very sweet. Breaking all the traditional roles in relationships, he's the romantic demonstrative one. I'm just along for the ride. Almost put a smiley again. Best move on.

I'm studying again. This time I have to write a thesis, to finish the honours part of my degree. Two years, many many words. I've finally picked a title for it though - Portrayals of fulfilment in Chick Lit. It's the perfect excuse to re-read all my favourite down time authors. And the best part is that it won't even involve me going out and buying any books, because I already have them. Genius, or what? Now I just need the time to sit down and do the work that I'm supposed to be updating my supervisor on...

Part of the reason that my team think we saved our jobs is that the associate who oversees our department is heading back to Australia to get married at the end of next month and not coming back, meaning we will be a team of 3. Well, 2, really, since I'm already back doing architectural work rather than interiors. Last night was the associate's hen do. In a fit of budget consciousness, I decided I couldn't afford the first part of the planned outting, a trip to the races, meaning that when I caught up with them at the restaurant later, most of them were...let's go with merry. Raucous could also be used. It was an entertaining dinner, with plans for karaoke to follow. Just as we were getting sorted with the bill, however, smoke started to billow out of the ventilation system. Quickly gathering all of our things together, we got out of the building in a hurry. We did pretty well, I think. With about 20 at least partially drunk people (I'm averaging it out here) we only lost one jacket and one phone. Most of us had the forethought to pick up the cash that we were about to put in kitty (although one girl claims to have left a £1 trillion note on the table. Good luck getting that one back!). But we did get separated when the fire truck arrived. There were tears and hugs when the other hal of our group was found, and a lesson was learnt by all. It doesn't matter that a tipsy mother followed her daughter out of the building and was seen standing next to her when the fire truck pulled up. When she can't find her five minutes after that, she will get frantic and assume said daughter is still in the building. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the amount of smoke pouring from the windows at the floor we had been sitting on. If I think of it, I'll post a photo on here later to illustrate the drama. It all happened very quickly. We eventually wandered off to our karaoke booking, not a small percentage of us singing "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire". The rest were indulging in a little Gloria Gaynor survival. Had to warm our vocal chords up somehow, I suppose.

And that's it. That's my life and times for the past month. Now I have to go and deal with the roaring headache that I seem to have picked up somewhere between the fire and getting up this morning. Now where did that come from, I wonder?