It is a standard joke that if I am not well everyone in the world has to know about it. But achieving that can be a bit tricky when it is 4.42 am, you are alone in the guest room to give your spouse a chance at sleeping and in any event have no voice. Unless you have a blog to use as a platform for all your whinges and whines that is. But that's such an easy way....
In I'm Feeling Lucky: Confessions of Employee Number 59 Douglas Edwards writes about his time at Google in the early years. He says that there used to be a screen in reception at the Googleplex which showed a constantly scrolling report of what people were searching for and that he liked to go and watch it now and again. Now, he is no longer at the company, but I like to think that somewhere over in California, some geek now knows from my desperate middle of the night searches that I cannot sleep because I cannot breath and that I need to know why I cannot breathe, whether it matters what colour the substance that is causing me not to breath is, when exactly I can expect to be able to breathe, what I can do to enhance my chances of being able to breath, whether Sudafed Extra or Lemsip has a greater concentration of phenylephrine hydrochloride and whether there is a cheap red A5 Finchley Filofax on sale anywhere. ( Hey, I'm ill, not dead. Some things in life are important. Plus I need a pretty place to write down the answers to my searches).
But seriously, Google ought to get the Nobel Health Prize. ( There is one of those, right? Hang on, let me google that.) Because tucked in its pages, after all the usual stuff involving steam and eucalyptus oils and the stuff like that I have been trying since Thursday) was the advice to lie on your front in your bed with your waist at the end of the bed and hang your top half of your body hanging to the floor. And that was it! Days of pain, stinking like a koala passing wind and feeling like concrete had been poured down my nostrils. Gone. I can breath. And as a happy by product I can tell you that if you are not to slide off the nice matress protector and smack your aching bonce on the floor, you get a good abdominal toning exercise too.
I notice Google has a new privacy policy. Do I care if they store enough information linked to my IPP address to be able to tell the FBI that I have a nocturnal interest in neti pots? Nope. I just told the world all of my own volition that I was making out like a bat in the middle of the night. I don't care.
I CAN BREATHE!!!!!
For anyone who might be planning a trip to Tasmania, who is thinking of a holiday but is not sure where to go or who is an armchair traveller with dreams may I recommend a visit ( preferably physically, but initially virtual) to the Topiary Haven. This is a self contained apartment which we were able to use over the Christmas period during our Grand Round the World trip when it was being prepared for rental as a business and we found it fabulous. And as regular readers know we had five star expectations for that trip which this accommodation easily fulfilled. The owners have now launched for public holiday rentals. It is close to the Launceston Gorge as shown above where I swam in the open air pool and was very excited to come face to face with wallabies during my picnic. The very professional website has lots of goregous slideshow pictures of all the rooms, to just the endless detail this pickypicky traveller needed when planning her trip!
It ought perhaps also to have a blue plaque on the door ( or whatever the Australian equivalent is) as the place where my chapter of the Twelve by Twelve book was written!
I should be open that this place is the new business venture of my Uncle Barry and Auntie Diana but I think you will see that I would have recommended it anyway. Now, let me just go to expedia to plan my fanstasy return visit...
You know the question. You win a million, a squillion, whatever. What would you do with it?
Can there be a better suggestion than this true story from George Clooney featured in Esquire Magazine?
"There's ten of us, we've been best friends for thirty years. Ten guys. And their wives, and their kids, are all family now. I'm not big on keeping up on the phone, none of us are. Some guys I won't talk to for two months and then you pick up the phone and hear, "So, anyway." There's no guilt or where have you been? or what's been going on? or why haven't we talked? There's an ease to it.
I remember when Richard Kind's dad suddenly died. This was about seven or eight years ago — maybe more. Richard's a really wonderful character actor. He loved his dad, and he was very grown-up about passing on the news. He called and left a message: My dad died, I'm in Chicago, the funeral's going to be in New Jersey tomorrow morning. I'll talk to you when I get back.
This was five o'clock at night. I was in L. A. Rick is a Jew. They bury the next day. They don't screw around. They get you right in the ground. So I called up Michael, Grant's brother, and told him Richard's dad died. He said, "We should be there." The guys were all around the country. One was in Denver. One was in San Diego.
So I got a jet and we spent the whole night flying around the country. San Diego, Denver. We landed in Trenton, New Jersey. Richard didn't know anything about it.
We got to the synagogue, this giant synagogue, with the people up front. And Richard didn't know we were going to be there. We're sitting there, the nine of us in the back row. And Richard gets up to speak about his dad and he sees his nine best friends there. And what I loved about it was that all of us understood that there are moments in your life that are real passages. Your father dying is a very big one. Because you are now the man of the family. We understood how important that was at that time."
I admit. I get cranky from time to time. I am not perfect. But at least I am not secretive about it on top. Let me share.
Today was the day the builder, finally, after many broken promises started to build the bespoke islands for my studio. One for cutting, one for pressing, on castors so they can push together. I had a detailed conversation about my requirements and at his request I drew a detailed picture with precise measurments and instructions...... On the left a 500m base unit, on the right a 1000 one. Side panels on each side? On top worktop 160 cm length. Four castors and all made to the same height as the kitchen island in the kitchen. No problem he assures me. And I am sure you crafty people agree: not a complex and challenging design.
I get home. The cupboards are the wrong way around, the worktop is 164 cm and the whole thing is 4 inches higher than requested with the effect that it is too high for cutting and too high to sit at with the bar stool which I left with them as they were constructing it. Like I said.Cranky.
So I ring the builder. Oh no problem he said. He told Dennis it might be too high. He knew it was too high but it was easier to do it that way than to cut the side panels down. But he did tell Dennis he can alter it.
Very Cranky. I mean,why build it knowingly wrong only to have to re do it?
I go and relay the conversation to Dennis. He denies that any such conversation or any conversation capable of being construed as possibly being akin to such a conversation took place. One of them is flat out lying to me and I am not betting it is the one I have known for nearly twenty years who didn't decide to knowingly build it wrong in the first place.
Past Cranky now. It is for times like this I have a design bath with bubbles. I go and soak. And wash my hair, finishing a shampoo bottle in the process. I get a new one out of the storage cupboard and notice that the label has changed. It is the same in all respects save that the new one is missing the words : 100% satisfaction guaranteed.
WHY????? What have they done to my shampoo that they know in advance I will not be 100% satisfied? I mean what does a shampoo have to do in the first place to make me 100% satisfied? Clean my hair that's what. How hard can that be? Oh and not wind me up again after my relaxing bath. So I guess it was a self fulfilling prophecy to remove that label. What stupid brand manager / PR person came up with that one then?
Sigh.
I wanted to wait until my studio was all done and perfect before I showed more photos. But I could not wait that long to get in and start working so I thought I'd do the slow blow by blow account for you over the coming weeks. As you will see the studio already has interesting features. Some permanent, some definately not.
The wooden desk came from my Chambers when I was a barrister and is now my sewing desk. The glass desk is my writing and computing area and came from John Lewis. The black drawers are supposed to hold all my fabric and threads. Of course they don't. But there is other storage space so that's OK. The boxes under the desk will be tidied away too and either an inspiration board or a set of narrow shelves will go at the side of the desk in the eaves. I have not quite decided yet.
In front of the desk you see my innovative design towel. This low cost work area is at optimal height for maximum backache and is also of optimal uselessness as a cutting surface. It will be replaced by a kitchen island type worksurface made from kitchen cabinets on castors on Monday. Or on whatever day the builder thinks counts as Monday. I am not saying he lies, but let's say he does not have perfect timetabling skills. That island will have an overhang,hence the bar stool, so I can sit and do design or fusing work there. The artistically embellished ( with rips and burns) ironing board will be replaced by an identical ( save for being slightly narrower) island. This means i can push the two togther if I ever need a large surface still. My main design wall will go between the pressing surface and the desk and extend over the side of the desk. Being a loft conversion, wall space is not in good supply so the design area is maybe not as big as is ideal but it is big enough.
The one straight full height wall there is will house the shelves that match the cherry desk. The books currently on the window seat will fill about half the shelf space so there is plenty of room left and on top I plan African baskets that my friend Magie is going to go and pick for me on her next trip to Ghana. My wadding roll and scraps boxes will go in the window seat, on which there will be cushions, of course.
To the left of the desks area are the stairs and the reading nook area, which will have low bookcasing all around and an arm chair and foot stool.I am debating between a deep pink and a green colorway in a stripe fabric. I am going to go back to the shop on Friday to choose. I may put a secondary design wall at the foot of the stairs. Also to the left of the desk you can see the door to the bathroom.
Now, I have to tell you about my design bath. First of all, I can see the design wall from it, perfect for seeking inspiration. Then, it is an air bath. No nasty chrome outlets. Just tiny pinprick holes.
But press a button and you get this:
AND... Lets say I run the bath and then decide I need just five minutes more quilting time. I can press a button and my bubbles will come on in exactly five minutes time. And if I keep doing that so that my quilt gets bigger but the water goes cold I can press a button and it will heat up the water that is already in the bath without me having to add more. I love this bath. I bought it with the last cheque I got from the freelance lecturing work I used to do and everytime I use it I have a moment when I remember the fun parts of working in London on expenses, the hassle of travel, the joy of making large groups of people laugh and the misery of being ill alone in a hotel room. This bath makes me both proud of what I achieved in my day job to be able to buy it and inspired to achieve (albeit with different criteria) with my art.
On the other side of the bathroom is the toilet. The seat remains in the hall down stairs and you will see that we have a leak. Sigh. The builder came out tonight to isolate the water and is coming first thing tomorrow to sort it out. Frankly, I am amazing myself with my patience these days.
You will excuse me not blogging last weekend but I was busy decorating my studio. It's nearly ready!!! It needs a little more paint and stain and some cabinetry building and some furniture ordering and some cushions ordering but only the paint and stain will stop me beginning to move in and thats a matter of days now. Yipee!!! I am so excited. Photos of the moved into studio will follow in due course.
And now for the shameful confession. I have never done any decorating. Ever. Bar painting a bit of furniture. Mostly because if you casually say to my Dad ," I'm thinking that the dining room might need decorating soon" his usual response is ," I can't get down to do it until Tuesday". He loves it. And all my life I have been under the impression that he had special super-skills and that he clearly changed into his decorating pants in a phonebox. And due to my failure to ever decorate in my life I think my parents thought that my practical abilties were such that I'd struggle to work out how to open the door of a phonebox.
But here's the thing. Decorating is fun. Lots of fun. And cutting in is not some high precision engineering task. It's painting in a straight line with a brush. I did I think seventeen or so hours at the weekend and didnt want to stop. Turns out its like dyeing fabric. Start with boring, add colour, get pretty. What's not to love?
So tell me, what else have I been missing out on? This splitting the atom stuff... Just like unpicking a seam, right?
Today was an exciting day. Look what was waiting for me when I came home. Aren't you jealous just because of the packaging alone? And I know its not November but it came earlier than expected.
Mrs B's Emporium of Reading Delights in Bath has made one of my blogs before as the first shop where any member of the Twelve by Twelve group spotted a copy of our book in a proper bookshop rather than a quilt shop and subsequently as the shop where I was filmed for the BBC news. So it is fair to say I am predisposed to like it. But, I have to say I was a little sceptical of its latest innovative gift offering - A Mr B's Reading Year. In effect this is a postal version of their Reading Spa only it lasts for longer and you have to supply your own cake. ( Although, now I have said that it would not suprise me if a 'with added brownie' version of the gift is launched soon.) The idea is that they spend sometime getting to know you and your taste in books , either in person or by telephone or email. Then, each month except January, when you are presumed to have Christmas books ( and I assume the staff to be too knackered after the Christmas rush to be bothered) you get a personally chosen book with a note explaining why it was sent for you, written by your own personal bibliotherapist.
Now, the idea is great but I did wonder whether it was possible to know enough about the content of enough books and to know the reader well enough to get eleven good matches. But when I was in Bath this time I read three books I would not have picked up had they not recommended them and loved them all. And I am half way through one I did pick up all by myself but, as it was hardback, I would probably have put it back and awaited the paperback, had Ed not enthused about it so much, by the time he had finished, I was cradling it like my child, lest anyone abduct it from me. So I decided to let them challenge themselves on me and bought myself a gift.
This is what was inside my package.
Initial reaction: Doubt. The cover makes it look like a knock off of Angela's Ashes. Which, as a book was great. As the precursor of the misery memoir genre it was not great. But when I turn to the back cover, I understand. Although I have to say, it does not seem that they have had to try very hard. The blurb uses all the key words I would say I, liked in a book iin two sentences : love, friendship, community, race, faith, music, barbecue and the language of rabbis. Actually, on second glance, the Jewish connection turned out to be my mistake. It is about the language of rabbits. but thats quite intriguing too.
It says it is a debut novel ( good because if I like it there is no great expense of getting all the back catalogue) and that the author is in the ranks of chroniclers of American Life such as John Irving and Garrisson Keillor ( not good as those are two authors I have not read but always knew I probably should and if this book is good I will probably have to buy the back catalogue of TWO authors. And Mr B, if you are reading, no you can't send me those authors the next two months. That's cheating.) Dennis gets a spoiler email to check I do not already have a book they intend to send. His first impression of this book was the same as mine: that it looks like a Fried Green Tomato at the Whistlestop Cafe type of book, which is like saying it is a Helen Mirren type of actress.
So, I just have to finish The Submission by Amy Waldman and I can tuck into this one with good expectations. I read but rarely blog about what I read so I plan to blog my package each month then later tell you what I thought of it. You could buy a copy and read along if you like. If you want the packaging as much as I did Mr B's ( a shop in which incidentally my only financial interest is that they stay open so I can part with money in their premises) now have an internet shop.
A good marriage requires a fair division of household work. So tonight we split tasks between us. Dennis learned how to cook breaded hake,
and I did the washing
And ironing.
Fair, no?!
Dennis is on a Charles Dickens kick. He has read two biographies of him, has declared that he is going to read all his novels in the next twelve months, went to see Simon Callow perform two of his plays last week and today decided that he really did need John Foresters biography as well. Which is the official one, is reprinted in three volumes and costs over £65. Or, if you buy it on Kindle £2.82. There is, I think a point at which every staunch 'I prefer a book over the evils of Kindle' person reaches their conversion point. Dennis just reached his.
So I began to teach him how to download his book. Twenty seconds later, it downloads. All 900 pages. He is very impressed and has a read of the first few pages to get used to turning pages on the Kindle. So then I show him how to download it from archived items on the Kindle app on the ipad. ( Because someday I might not be such a nice patient wife and I might reclaim my Kindle just when he wants to know what Dickens had for tea the day he finished Little Dorrit.) Of course the Ipad version opens at the place he was at on the actual Kindle. His eyes grow wide.
" So it knows what page I am on?"
" Yup."
He looks at the Kindle and looks at the ipad with renewed respect and then says,
"So, these Kindle and Ipad things. They are female then?"
