Signed off

I've been signed off work with stress, which until this morning I was feeling guilty about. My blood pressure blew about three months ago and I've been taking Cozaar to keep it down ever since. However it doesn't seem to be helping with the barely suppressed panic that I'm not getting stuff done. I've been shutting my office door and yelling at colleagues when three of them try to ask me a question at the same time. I've been trying to do two tasks that require me to be in two different rooms at the same time. I woke up at 5am this morning with a racing heart because I'd forgotten to put the rubbish bins out. Physically panicking because I hadn't put the bins out. Sheesh.

It was at that point that I realised the doctor was right to sign me off work.

I've made a list in my office outlook tasks today of the various personal, professional and financial procedures that need to be done before I leave in September. It's about 40 tasks long and each of them are going to need an appointment, or two or three, before they're over. They consist of things like sorting out what I want to take with me, issuing a call for tenders for movers, getting the movers in, making a will, selling the car, renting out the spare room, getting medical check-ups, sorting out admin with Scouse Doris who is staying in the apartment, etc etc etc. It's a lot.

I'm hoping making a list with deadlines will help me deal with it better, cut the elephant up into chunks. Anyone got any other advice?

In which I am HORRIFIED by Delia Smith

I cannot believe my ears and eyes this evening watching Delia Smith's appalling new show. I NEVER thought I would see this day, and I am absolutely aghast.

She has completely sold out to convenience food. Tinned mince. Frozen mashed potato. "Why don't you have some of these spicy potato wedges in your freezer?".

Well I'll tell you Delia. Because they are covered in preservatives, colourings and other E-numbers, and I don't control the salt and fat contents. How could you. How COULD YOU! Besides which, her tinned mince (catfood?) shepherds' pie just looked revolting. As did the potato wedge dip. Urgh. Urgh Urgh Urgh.

I'm disgusted. I'd like to say I'll not watch her show, but it's like driving past a culinary car accident. You can't tear your eyes away from it. I hope she's getting paid a hell of a lot for it by the convenience food lobbyists, because it's going to ruin her reputation.

Delia. Unfortunately, she's not having a laugh.

Christmas shopping

I'm off to Strasbourg for a spot of Chrimbo shopping. In the replacement car with no radio. In the meantime, Daphne organised a Blogger's Christmas Dinner.

The McChe

New artist of note.

Busy

You may be wondering where I am. I'm all three ways of megabusy right now, but what I'd particularly like to proffer is my excuse for not making it to Zed's MBIAT Reading To Wallstrom Exercise.

I was on my way, honest, but then I had a car crash.

Arthur ('cos she's Arf a car) and I were idling at a traffic light on a one-way street, minding our own bloody business, and a large yellow van containing three construction workmen, who proved to be delightfully polite and apologetic, came off the traffic lights opposite and drove straight into us.

I have a slightly sprained thumb.

Arthur has a bust radiator, has lost her windscreen wash tank, and, I suspect, has serious electrical damage which may include her power-assisted steering.

I'm waiting to hear more from the expert, but it's quite possible she may be a write-off.

The photo below is what my car used to look like, except lavender.

Christmas shopping recommendation

Zoe's book is out. It's a very cute little hardback with an alarmingly accurate, as far as I can tell, Lucy Pepper cartoon of Q and Z on the front. Buy it here.

LOVED Provence

I'm back. It was fabulous, and of course exhausting. No, we did not dance on Le Pont D'Avignon, nor did we record ourselves singing the song on a DVD to take home with us. But we saw Salins du Midi's salt pans at Aigues-Mortes, the Roman theatre at Orange, the Roman arena at Nimes, a very well-appointed museum of modern art at Bagnols-sur-Cèze, and a mad mad Provençal print cloth shop in Aix-en-Provence which I had vowed to bring my mother to when I saw it in 2005. I bought so much cloth for tablecloths that I had to mail it to myself. I'm hoping Scouse Doris will help me sew them all.

Good times: listening to the England vs. Tonga match with my father on his tiny transistor radio 1930s stylee, eating fabulous prawns with aioli sauce, rich stew made from a fighting bull calf with saffron rice, fabulous.

I'd tell you more, but I'm sorry, the rugby's on, Ireland versus Argentina, and it promises to be a humdinger. And may I say, the best of Irish luck to a fellow home nation. Wager, anyone? I thought not.

BLOGMEET 7/9/2007

Kitty O'Shea's, Brussels. See link for directions.

My favourite cover band, Take This, are playing.

Be there or be somewhere else.

How angels get wings

Tippler's boyish fantasy about a particularly unorthodox good deed that allows an angel, though somewhat fallen, to earn her wings, has triggered me to reveal to you a conversation I had a couple of Sundays ago.

A small child had been entrusted to us for the morning by her sporty and elegant mother, which explains the following exchange:

Small Child: "What are those flappy, wobbly bits under your arms?
Me (somewhat flabbergasted, and therefore operating entirely on reflex): Well, I'm trying to grow wings.
S.C.: REALLY?
Me: Well, yes, you see you can't grow them overnight, it takes a bit of time, so this is just the beginning.
S.C. (horrified, but somewhat fascinated): How do you do it?
Me: Well, you go to the doctor, and she tells you what you need to do, and after a while you wake up one morning and there are these here wobbly bits (wobble them for effect) and then a bit later bones start to grow inside, and then eventually feather ducts grow in the skin, and then the feathers come out, and you can start learning to fly.
S.C.(turning to Scouse Doris for confirmation): Really? Is it true?
Scouse Doris (who has never, to my knowledge, actually lied) nods with a very serious look on her face.
S.C. thinks for a good 45 seconds, and then: That's NOT TRUE!

Well I can't think of any other explanation why I've got these (frankly rather modest) wobbly bits under my arms. So clearly it must be due to my impending ascension to a higher plane.

Support Our Boys

The Spanish Goth and Tippler have entered the Big Blogger House. We should all go and support them. Tippler is particularly in need of the support of close friends, as he packed in a rush and forgot his banana slings. One of you may care to take over on that particular task. I have to go and ... go and.... go and oh, um, rearrange my sock drawer. Immediately.

Politics

And as the Beeb settles for a week of non-stop clematis trimming, a girl's thoughts turn to alternative activities. Politics, of course, is always a popular pastime for those with nothing better to do with their leisure hours. Daphne is painting Madrid red, which sounds far less boring than it probably is, and Tippler and Eliab have found a politician prepared to offer them personal services, apparently not even in exchange for a vote. Honey is observing riots in her street and raging herself about another issue, which I must say I agree with her on.


Sport of course is a far more useful pastime than politics although sometimes the two can be combined. Issues such as immigration have certainly been tackled effectively by the Iranian cycling team. Economics come into play when it comes to taking up sports activities. I myself have been pestered by Scouse Doris to join her rather chic gym, but I nearly balked when she explained that in order for weight loss to occurr (other than the extraction of notes from my wallet) I would actually have to GO. My own personal planned economy is affected; but the income allows the gym to employ assorted handmaidens and handimen to fluff towels, etc, thus helping the economy turn and increasing the alluring opportunities Europe can offer. I myself shall be looking out for any buff young Omar Sharifesque Iranian spinning class teachers.

I should read my mail

It was only whilst reading Scouse Doris's comments this afternoon that I realised that Brom-Man is passing through Brussels again, and consequently there will be a Blogmeet tonight. I was gutted because no-one had told me. That's OK, I thought, I know when I'm not wanted.

And then I phoned Zoe.

Turns out I really should read my blogmail more often...

See you all at O'Farrell's this evening. Happy hour starts at 5. Oh look, it's 5.10.

Scouse Doris

Scouse Doris is blogging! OMG!

The dinner is claimed...

.... by Drama Queen. I have not as yet met the Drama Queen, as she has not as yet deigned to turn up to a Blogmeet. She'd better turn up for the dinner. I have been known to fly into fits of pique when peeps disrespek' my soufflés, man.

In the meantime, I am now faced with the dilemma of whether to divulge Mrs T.'s blog details unto you. Some of you have already found her, Sherman, Gosling, and are probably now wishing they'd put 2 and 2 together a bit earlier and rendered themselves eligible for a bit of duck. Some of the rest of you are still searching. Well, anyway, what I recommend you do is start watching people's sidebars. You'll get there sooner or later. Holler out in the comments when you do.

Mrs. T's blog...

... remains elusive. I've got the clue from Tippler's blog and have google oogle oogled 'til I just can't google no more and it just ain't there unless she's claiming to be a Danish pensioner. But this wasn't the point of the exercise. The point of the exercise was that I was planning to reward the kind person, plus guest of his or her choice, with one of my fabulous dinners, in exchange for the URL.

The menu would have gone something like this:

Crevette grise and parmesan soufflés on a bed of lamb's lettuce, wholegrain mustard vinaigrette, accompanied by a perfectly fresh Pinot Grigio

Pan-fried duck breast with a marmelade and port gravy just slightly touched with star anise and a little cinnamon, gratiné dauphinois, steamed courgettes drizzled lovingly with Austrian pumpkin oil, served with a suitably cuddled Australian Shiraz

A perfectly aged Chaource cheese served with homemade sun-dried tomato bread rolls, served with port

My own apple and almond tart with Dorset organic vanilla ice cream, served with coffee or tea and a Calvados

Sigh. It's such a pity that no-one seems keen to claim it...

New flatmate - and it's Scouse Doris

The house is all a-flutter this morning as the oft-beblogged Scouse Doris moves her belongings 9 houses down the street to join me in my apartment, which heralds the end of the stagiaire-flatmate era. I started taking flatmates in 1997 because I caught myself sharing my dinner with the cat and realised that I was turning into one of those self-sufficient bra-hitching cigar-smoking spinsters that have men achieving personal bests in the Great Escape Steeplechase and I couldn't be doing with that. Over the years having flatmates has hopefully brought me adaptability and negotiating skills that could come in useful if ever Cupid's arrow actually stuck for more than five minutes. He needs to use something with a point to it (wow, that works on so many levels) and at the moment all he's actually using is suckers.

It's been fun having a new bright young thing in the house every five months or so, I've learned a little Italian and Spanish and German and Swedish and I've made a whole bunch of friends. But now it's me who's thinking of travelling, mid-term at least, and I want to leave the apartment in the hands of someone stable and permanent. How much nicer for that person to be Scouse Doris, fellow sci-fi fan, gastronome, and seeker after knowledge. Our differing libraries alone will keep us in after-dinner conversation for years. The only danger will be that it might turn into one long party. We have decided to impose an alcohol ban when we're home together without guests. I have a strong suspicion there'll be a lot of people dragged in to dinner.

Speaking of dinners and guests, the Mrs. T's blog competition is still open. By all accounts, Tippler has found her blog, but as he has not as yet vouchsafed its URL unto me, he can still be beaten to it. Until I get the address, the dinner remains unclaimed.

Win a dinner!

OK. Mrs. T says she's started a blog, and she wants us all to go and hunt for it.
I've googled her, and it seems she is either running a pierogi and desserts delivery service, a triathlon in Chicago, was the first woman Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, takes photos on Cape Cod, or runs a blog reviewing handbags, none of which sounds remotely like the Mrs. T I know.

I can only assume Mrs T. is writing under a different name than that which she comments with. In which case, how are we ever supposed to find her?

I hereby announce I will cook a dinner for the first of you to give me Mrs. T's blog's URL. Mrs. T and her husband are not allowed to enter this competition.