100 2000

During last night's damp evening out, I was given a really good project by my friend Jonas. He wants me to create a list of the top 100 songs from the Noughties. Now of course this carries quite a bit of personal gravity because I think it's really tricky as there are different impacts one needs to assess before delivering (social, cultural and personal impacts). I think the most important thing is that the Noughties is our formative years where music became extremely important. And of course I truly believe that music is transcendental so it's difficult for me to not place a huge importance on personal choice.

And of course culturally the western world changed post 9/11. So that is going to affect my decision making as well. Essentially I need to flesh out a list of let's say 300 songs then narrow them down. And I'll definitely indicate which ones are on there for personal reasons and which ones are on there because they're just really good.

Ok this is really boring. But I do love a project. And it's gross to think that in just over a month it will be 2010. Yeah, don't like that.

bit more fun

So postmouse, we became shells of our former selves allowing our flat to become a den of filth. That is not like us. It had been three + until we finally did our massive big clean. That was Monday night.

The time change, even though it took place weeks ago now is killing me. It gets dark here at 4.00pm. By the time I get home at 6.00pm I feel like it should be 9pm and I can't be bothered to do anything else but watch the Wire, fall asleep 45 minutes into it and go to bed. So I took a long weekend. So far it's consisted of sleeping for 11 hours and reading countless blogs that I have missed over the past two weeks. Thanks friends.

A few weekends back now, Branson and I celebrated our one year anniversary with martinis and steak. It pains me sometimes that everyone else around us had these huge expectations of what we should do when we're really just exceptionally low key. On the plus as well, staying local means that we don't have to pay for taxis because I'm wearing extravagant shoes. Martinis at the bar down the road, then steak a bit closer to home. Chris' steak was the size of a newborn, that is not an exaggeration. 11oz of lies, that baby was at least 20. But nothing says love like ravaging flesh.

Tonight we're going to see Louis CK. I am very much looking forward to this as we've had tickets for over a month now. And we've watched his two HBO specials at least 6 times since.

fun at first but then it gets a bit sad

That seems to be the general gist of all facets of everything. Minus the blip last week where I wanted to sit on mr. grumps Branson until he agreed to be a nice boy again. He had a staycation and evidently didn't enjoy his own company. Force to be reckoned with considering we never really argue, I could have bitch slapped him last Friday. But I was mature and stuff and told him to start being nice. He was in a fine enough mood by Saturday, and he bought me flowers on Sunday which was all very lovely.

One unfun thing happened which was mouse murder. We've had the little blighter in our lives for quite a few weeks, and he only pops out if it's perfectly silent, or if I'm on the sofa, minding my own business and he feels like scaring the shit out of me. Finally it was an 'us or him' situation; breaking point. Whilst trying to watch the Wire, mousey came squirming out of his gap under the stove and darted behind our sofa (which up until that moment, we hadn't realised he was running behind there). Chris thought he had trapped him against the back wall of the flat using our sofa, side table and chair as blocades. I was essentially marooned on the sofa for fear of mousey shooting up my leg. Tricky bastard however shoved himself into a a crack between our baseboard and wall and took off (after about an hour of Chris, mop in hand fiddling around, basically I just wanted to watch the Wire). Then the little shit was seen zipping through our kitchen on the countertop which is clearly disgusting. Chris speeds over trapping him with bottles of olive oil and cereal boxes. And because this mousey has evading our sticky traps and poison baits, Chris thought it would be genius to have one escape route from this makeshift kitchen fortress and force him onto one, however this is the smartest mouse in all of London; mice have obviously evolved here quickly since the Industrial Revolution and can easily outwit two chumps such as us. So he figures out there's a nonstick strip on the trap and runs up that and behind the sofa again, except this time, this time we've blocked off the crack with newspaper and there's no escape for our bright young thing. Chris has now gone primal, wearing rubber gloves, running around, saying 'little shithead' over and over and over again. Then drops a sticky trap down along our back wall until finally, after I have now been sitting panicked on the sofa for over an hour hear the horrid squeals of success. Poor mousey finally stuck and got his poor little legs all twisted.

He kept squeaking until Chris put a tupperware container over him and he found solace in the dark. I'm now crying because it's terrible and heartbreaking and I leave mr grumps to do the dirty work whilst I literally go in the bedroom and hide under the covers. Now if you'd like to hear the rest of the story I can tell it but it's terribly inhumane and Chris and I have been emailing back and forth how disgusted we feel with ourselves and the guilt that's churning in our stomachs. But I must remind you that this was psychological warfare. This mouse hadn't eaten any poison (even with bits of chocolate dumped in it, which by the way, we found pieces of under our sofa), avoiding sticky traps that were set up by his favourite running points. And he managed to avoid Chris' trappings twice in one evening.

So that's not fun at all. But we're doing a massively flat blitz on Saturday which is of course, always fun.

plaits

Having a lovely evening to myself, but I'm not entirely sure what I should do with myself. So I impulse purchased on purpose a mini bottle of red and taught myself how to fishtail braid. Silly evening alone. Count Christopher went back to B'ham during his staycation to see his parents and grandfather leaving to my own devices i.e. cooking frozen meat and watching Gossip Girl. I sometimes wish my life was a modicum more interesting but it isn't without its charms; later this evening I'm going to plan my power outfit for big pharmacy industry meeting I have on Friday. Again it's conceptually lame. I should probably watch a movie.

But it's plain to see that I'm bridging being adult and being bored quite nicely. I think the threshold is girliness. Yes. I am wearing lipstick right now and typing apple sauce. I should knit or crochet or polish Chris' work shoes perhaps. If modern woman is glass of wine, slouch, man's sweater (yes, wearing a boy sweater I bought myself, not stolen from CB), listening to Stone Roses on a Tuesday, we're entertaining sad world. Not that I'm the absolute depiction of modern woman; I think now just boredom.

My hair looks very nice though.

cherie

So what I'm lazy in September? My dad came to visit; my in-laws came to visit. Chris & co. did a dj night at Koko. Umm...that's pretty much it. I finally finished 100 Years of Solitude but I have a feeling that was at the beginning of August. Oh yes, they're all blending nicely together now.

bricks

I went to a house party last week that was fun but a bit filled with mean people. I referred to the kitchen as the 'bitchen'- insert obvious reasons. I find it shocking that people go to house parties only to create the same atmosphere of an exceptionally pretentious bar. I managed to find salvation in my friends bedroom where we discussed children's shows. And this is what I learned:

medium

I received a lovely email from my friend Pippa last night during the euphoric state I was in after seeing Animal Collective. She commented that I've been rather m.i.a. from the internet. This email was sent via her new iphone. Fair enough my friend!

It's hugely in part to the fact that London has actually had amazing weather the past few weeks. Yes, the occasional monsoon has fallen at night but during the day it's been warm, sunny and lovely. A horror of horrors, my legs have some semblance of a tan. I type this as a large rain cloud looms over London Fields where I was hoping to lay down and read a book on my day off. Might have to wait it out. These past few weeks haven't been particularly turbulent rather radically fun. Just blame it on the weather. This week, Chris and I took our leftover pizza, freshly made salad and went to sit in the park with beers. Dreamy Wednesday night, especially when a cricket match was taking place. And I know I keep banging on about this to Chris, and probably to everyone in general, but I love where we live. We've just renewed our contract for the 3rd year, and even though moving is a pain, I simply wouldn't want to. This might be a premature but I doubt we would ever leave this flat until we buy. And our first purchase will definitely be in this area. But that's not a few years now.

It's really wonderful feeling that everything is mostly back on track. Before it felt a bit like dancing on hot coals, not knowing exactly where you can land and for how long.

Ok, I've probably jinxed myself now.

tit

I can't blame a fake nomadic life for having not written anything in weeks, both digitally and hard copy. In fact, it's completely the opposite. Truthfully, I am now settled, withe employment, and haven't done anything remotely self-destructive in weeks. This is an achievement. An old friend from home visited nearly a month ago who sympathised with my situation, which is now to say past situation, which is, really nice to say. But I could see myself reflected in her that I had become a slight nutter. I wasn't nearly morally bankrupt but had become a bit of a social deviant. I'm now feeling myself shift back. Or I guess forward.

The only kink is now I don't know how to end my novel. I am far to smug right now to pull from real life and inject into art.

Here are our sweaty, rainy mugs from a day at a music festival 10 minutes up the canal from us.

diva

I'm pleased to see we're all intrigued, but all slightly terrified. And speaking off, I made Chris read the post bellow, and he too is a masochistic googler, read up on it and is now afraid to use the toilet. I think he just took three steps backwards from what Tampax was initially trying to achieve. I'm just glad they're innovating for down there, and I would suggest it's most likely women. That's great too.

Honestly, Christopher shuddered. But his reaction wasn't dissimilar to my own. I am an awful girl and I don't want to talk about it. I suppose this is very telling but I am very uncomfortable chatting about that topic. Ooops. See below. No no. Not that below. This bellow.

riot gurrrl

monday morning catharsis.

This could possibly be horrific for a boy but not any less horrific than my initial reaction. Because I'm daft and evidently have a traditional vagina.

Morning ritual is reading through all emails, facebook, twitter, blogs, then Guardian. I read virtually every new article on the Guardian everyday (I have now ODed on Michael Jackson and will pass those up). So there was a lovely article on a viral campaign that Tampax is doing where a teenage boy wakes up with a vagina. Poor kid.

So there are some wild tangents I'll be conducting, heading from here to there so try to keep up. I hate the Guardian comments- I think in theory it's a great idea to have a rolling dialogue where the journalist can partake in conversation but practically, people are just too shitty- especially on the internet. I've felt like this for the past year- the internet is now a platform for people to be nasty. Faceless conversations with strangers erupts in some sort of racist fodder (check out YouTube comments for that, it's shocking). I'm just annoyed with people who have no authority exercising their right of speech (fine of course, but because they're faceless, nameless, soulless, it's an excuse to be the worst version of yourself, offering uneducated opinions such as 'why would the Guardian write an article about Twitter at Glastonbury....ummm no one is holding a gun to your inflated head forcing you to read it. That's my biggest pet hate right now, people complaining about content when they're the ones who took the time to read it, and obviously not lured under false pretense, that was the headline: Twitter at Glastonbury). Fuck. I digress.

So yes I hate it. But I am a gross person and evidently a hypocrite because I too read things that evidently I don't want to read but of course must read. I just realised how contradictory that is, but I don't care. Sometimes Guardian comments offer great insights into iced coffee recipes and cheap Euro hostels. But today, post Tampax post, I was reading through and everyone kept commenting on the Mooncup, how the mooncup saved their life, the environmental advantages, the comfort. So my mind had to of course paint a terrified portrait- this article was emphasizing the importance of women discussing their first periods therefore perhaps the attitude of these comments where leaning towards a free love, blessed vagina.

Admittedly, I was scared. But that never stops me from googling things. So I looked this thing up. I don't think I would ever use it myself, but it's wonderful to know that someone has created another option. Hmm...I'm having a difficult time putting this into words. It's like if a tree falls in the woods scenario; or even ignorance is bliss (adamantly disagree). I guess my biggest point is that I'd like to think of myself as a progressive, modern woman of the world but had no idea about silicone cups. Ultimately, you go through life thinking that tampons are your only option and then someone unexpectedly presents you with option B and it's nice, you know?

This probably makes zero sense whatsoever. Which happens from time to time, especially Mondays when I learn something new in a forum which is conducive to pissing me off.