recycling

I have turned into a fanatic. I’m having flashbacks to myself as a teenager when I frequented the Pentecostal Church. There, I would meet kids who one moment were drinking Scrumpy Jack in Brice Park and the next were reading their testimonies and announcing they were heading to Khartoum to preach the Gospel during the summer holidays.

Except this time it’s not about religion, it’s about waste. I plonked myself down in front of ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ the other night and I couldn’t focus on Anne Hathaway’s transformation or Meryl Streep’s icy candour. All I could see was the single-use coffee cups from Starbucks. Twitch twitch, went my eye.

Then I took the kids to a birthday party at the QFT last Sunday but, stop the press, I HAD FORGOTTEN my reusable coffee cup. Well, what a moral dilemma that brought on. ‘Please,’ I asked the hung-over looking chap at the bar, “give me my coffee out of one of those mugs over there.’ ‘What mugs?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘Those ones,’ I said, pointing to the draining board. ‘But those belong to the staff,’ he replied, looking around him in desperation. ‘Get me away from this zealot,’ his eyes said. Finally my need for caffeine overrode my concern for the environment and I accepted my latte in a disposable cup. However, not before I’d harassed the manager and helpfully suggested buying some cups that they could fire in the dishwasher. (They do have a policy where if you bring your own cup you get a sizable discount, so at least that’s some valuable market research conducted.)

To assuage my guilt about the latte, I took it upon myself to take home three black bin bags full of waste and sort through them, popping congealed popcorn into my brown bin and washing plastic spoons. (The QFT do recycle plastics and cardboard but they don’t compost and I was in a sort of deranged, save-the-earth-one-sticky-snack-at-a-time mood.) LSB landed in from a fifteen mile run and winced when he saw his kitchen transformed into a recycling plant, and sickly sweet ice-cream oozing onto the floor. ‘God help us’ he uttered, before retreating for his shower.

Last night, I inflicted myself upon the good people of the Ormeau Road in Boden café, where gorgeous duo Erin and Jo of ‘The Edible Flower’ were putting on a supper club. Now, if anyone ever deserves a shout out it’s these pair. I swear, I would hand-on-heart consider turning vegan if Erin would move in and whiz me up her guacamole and deep-fry me a few leeks. Their food is inventive and ethically produced with love and creativity. Jo also brews her own beer and her Sloe Wit brew  was the closest thing I’ve drunk to the Bière Blanche I used to guzzle on Réunion Island. There was sun and hedonism in every sip.

But these girls, boy but they are FEEDERS. We were tempted by golden samosas on arrival, and on and on the sumptuous fare came. By the time the main meal arrived I was lamenting my tight skirt and wishing I’d shunned fashion and donned trousers with an elasticated waist-band. Erin and Jo live in Saintfield in a big old farmhouse where they can grow vegetables- they even have their own pigs. Now LSB has to talk me out of getting a goat or a small pig on a regular basis. ‘But it would eat the leftovers,’ I whine, and he shakes his head and reminds me that just because there’s a field out the back doesn’t mean we live in a space suitable for goat habitation.

So poor old Erin is lifting a few glasses and there I am, pestering her about whether she’s going to be taking the leftover tagine back for her porcine friends. My pals look on, as she explains that they aren’t allowed to feed the pigs food directly from people’s plates for fear of contamination but assures me that at home every last scrap of potato peeling gets sent their way. ‘Good,’ I say, before leaping into a cab and leaving her in peace.

Now, at least I have the self-awareness to realise why I’m doing this. Plastic is a hot topic, what with Blue Planet 2 compelling us all to act; but in the face of the world’s madness I feel so helpless, that I think at least if I do something small, like save a few bottles from the Atlantic, well, it’s better than nothing. But feck, I’m going to have to rein myself in, because very shortly people are going to start legging it when they see me coming. ‘Quick, hide my bottle of Ballygowan,’ they’ll say to themselves, before flinging it over a hedge to avoid a lecture.

If you too, are prone to lunacy, don’t be afraid to get in touch. They say ‘misery loves company’, but us mad women, we quite like it too.

Sourweebastard began as a means through which to document the daily trials of life: a place where I could unleash a bit of vitriol and chronicle my woes. You, dear readers, are the unpaid therapists who take time out to read my rants and endure tales of my obsession for recycling, my cranky bowels, irksome children and life with a running obsessed husband. Thank you.

I wanted to flex my writing muscle which has lain dormant for years, stifled by teaching, child bearing, but most of all a fear that what I’d churn out would be so shite I’d never get over the shame. This year, I have indeed churned out some rubbish, as my creative writing teacher may testify, but I’ve written some pieces of which I’m proud too.

Writing, in whatever form it takes is cathartic. It’s healing and it’s humbling. Each time I have told a story for the Tenx9 event in the Black Box, I have delved into my past and confronted times in my life that have been frightening, painful but somehow also quite funny, when one looks back with the benefit of hindsight. I am an anxious over-thinker who is easily irked. I need to work on these less than admirable qualities, while also acknowledging that they don’t make me a bad person, just a person who could do with letting some stuff go and perhaps seeing the glass half full for a change.

So this year I’m going to be a bit kinder to myself. Telling yourself that you’re shit is not only unhelpful but it’s a form of laziness too. It’s a way of saying why bother, sit on your arse, have another glass of wine and tune out.

I am thus going to attempt OPTIMISM. This may be optimistic in itself, (a writer in the Guardian guide made me giggle yesterday when he said that 2018 is likely to be just as equally batshit crazy as its predecessor) but I’m going to try and be less terrified about the world ending in a spectacular face-off between Trump and Kim, and focus instead on the small things I can control.

I am overcome with gratitude when I think of the endless patience of my friends and family when they have to listen to my neurosis and still tolerate my company. My mum is going to read this and say ‘Dear God are you STILL on about the world ending? People will think you’re NOT RIGHT WISE.’ Mum, they already think that. I’m not wise, but frankly, I don’t give two hoots. Sensible people, well, they can be a bit dull can’t they? And we don’t want that. Batshit crazy, all the way.

Happy New Year good people, may it bring you all great things and I’ll keep you up to date with my new found positivity.

Here’s an elf, skiving off work to read the paper on the toilet

This year, I’m not buying any wrapping paper. At all. Not a jot. If I’m really stretched I might pilfer some from my mum who will have a stash (much of which will be recycled so I won’t feel bad). But gift wrap is an environmental disaster of which I want no part. But what about the presents Santa leaves? How do I get round that? Turns out easy enough. I was doing the reading with the girls and the pile of yet-to-read-Guardians caught my eye.

“Here, I came across something about Santa Claus earlier.” I say. Their wee ears prick up. “Turns out that he’s going to do a bit of recycling  and be environmentally friendly this year.”

“Ohh?” They say. (Poor wee buddies don’t have much notion but on I go.)

“Yes, sometimes he uses a boost of diesel to power the sleigh but this year he’s just feeding the reindeer up with lots of pasta for energy and vegetables.”

“Like carrots,” adds the small child, who is still tickled pink with her letter from a certain Mr Claus last week, who alluded to the eye-sight enhancing properties of our household’s favourite root vegetable.

“Indeed,” I say. “They can’t be clattering into skyscrapers and steeples in the dark.”

“Skyscrapers?” interjects the older one, “Like in Majorca, where Dad used to live?”

“No, that’s New York.” I say. “Dad lived in New York. Majorca is sunny with beaches and you don’t get shouted at if you board the subway going the wrong way.” I still recall the ticket seller almost making me cry at Bowling Green.

“Ahh yes.” She nods, probably none the wiser.

Back to the point. “So, he won’t be wrapping up the presents in fancy paper for your stockings.”

“Ohh? What sort of paper then?” they ask.

I glance at the floor. “Newspapers, or magazines.”

“Like the Guardian?” says the older child.

“Quite,” I say. I can’t imagine Santa being a Daily Mail reader. I’m rather  impressed we’ve managed to indoctrinate the children already with left wing papers of choice.

“But there’s a problem,” I tell them. They look decidedly rattled. It’s not hard to discombobulate a four and a six year old when it comes to casting doubt over presents. “He’s raging actually, because they’re way behind schedule in the North Pole.” Their eyes widen. “That’s what it said in the paper anyway, I go on. The flipping elves are sitting round, reading the paper and eating mince pies and drinking mugs of hot chocolate. They aren’t making gifts or wrapping a thing! Santa’s getting a bit fed up.” (None of this was inspired by ‘What the Reindeer Saw’ the other night at all. Oh no, never any plagiarism on this blog.)

I pretend to scan the page. “No, it’s ok. He’s back on track. The elves get stars on their charts if they stop getting distracted and there will be a special treat after Christmas if all their work is done. They are busy little bees again. Phew.”

Big exhalations all round.

“But they probably won’t have time to use sello-tape; they’ll just sort of roll up the presents and shove them in the stockings. Do you reckon that’s alright?”

The girls nod. “It’s what’s inside that counts.” I smile. My job here is done people.

This morning my kids found a brown envelope by the fireplace. “It has our names on it!” they shrieked.  And so there was, plus a little stamp with a funny little creature, bedecked in red and green. Within they found a letter. It read:

Hello girls,

Here is an early Christmas present, from me, Santa. I hear you have been very good. Well done! Keep helping your mum and dad and tidying up. Remember to eat your vegetables, especially carrots. You will need good eyesight to see my sleigh going past on Christmas Eve.

Tally ho,

Santa Claus

 

Well, they were thrilled and gleeful, especially when they shook the envelope and out fell tickets to the pantomime at the Lyric. I picked them up last week when I went to see ‘What the Reindeer Saw’ (which I do recommend if you need a giggle.) The cashier smiled when she heard my idea and gave me fliers so the girls could imagine what was in store for them.

I thought further on the notion of giving experiences rather than gifts when I trotted into my hairdresser’s earlier. “You should do vouchers,” I told Nuala, donning my marketing head. (In fairness, Riah is almost always packed, so they probably don’t need me sticking my nose in). On I went anyway: “Buy a blow-dry for your buddy.”  Who wouldn’t like that; a blow dry when it’s murky and grey and you feel like a sack of shit in January? I’d love it, especially if the friend minded your kids while they were at it: the gift of gorgeousness and time.

I hadn’t intended getting my hair done at all but then I caught a glimpse of  my barnet in a shop window and saw it was in need of some TLC.

“Squeeze me in,” I pleaded. “I’m doing a story tonight at 10 by 9, and you know I can’t do my own hair.”

“You can do your own hair,” replied Emma, who’s a straight talking gal. You just don’t.”

“All the better for you” I replied, and got nicely settled with my Red magazine and a latte. And oh, the joy the occasion brought me. There was an article by Pulitzer Prize winning author Jennifer Egan of A Visit from the Goon Squad fame, and another from my heroine Brené Brown. What sense they spoke, and what unassuming ladies they seemed to be, considering the success of the pair of them. And had I not stepped in off the Ormeau Road for a spot of impromptu indulgence I wouldn’t have seen the magazine and been thus edified.

Emma massaged my savaged scalp (some people bite their nails, I tend to scratch holes in my head for purposes of recreation) and we had a chat. “I’ve been shopping in the charity shops, for Christmas presents,” I offered by way of explanation for what I’d been up to, prior to wandering in to the salon.  (I’d also met LSB for yoga in Hill Street and had brunch in Le Petit Ormeau, so as mornings go, it had been quite marvellous.)

Emma made noncommittal noises as she combed my hair.

“Yes,” said I. “Stocking fillers for the children. They will notice neither packaging nor price tags, so it is senseless to buy useless tat, made in China and shipped over at great cost to the environment. Let us instead buy them pre-loved toys while they are too small to notice the difference.” Emma nodded politely.

And here is my other idea, and one that I think you good people will appreciate. It involves a get-together AND recycling, two of my absolute favourite things. Yesterday I went to my friend’s house for breakfast and lined up in her hall were bags destined for Oxfam. “Give me a look through those,” I said, digging out a little red sparkly bag and a wooden toy. This prompted a thought. How about a pre-Christmas bash (and I would suggest late November to get ahead of the game) where guests bring an assortment of items that they want rid of and thus ‘donate’ as potential presents for other children. The host or hostess provides drinks and festive tit-bits on which to nibble while this glorious merry-go-round of gifts takes place. Rejected items can make their way to the school fair or St Vincent de Paul collections.

And here comes the best bit! You know by now that I have a great hatred of excessive packaging. So, people could come armed with leftover decorations, (perhaps some newspaper and yarn and bits of greenery) and some creative and environmentally friendly wrapping could take place. Doesn’t that sound like a convivial idea?

I must be honest and add that we will be purchasing some shop bought gifts for our kids. I’m not advocating that they get nothing first-hand. But I bought an assortment of toys this morning in the Hospice Shop for under a tenner. On Monday, both the Frank Mitchell phone-in and You and Yours on Radio 4 were about spending less this Christmas. I appreciate that I sound a bit whimsical and mad but any action that stops the bins overflowing with wrapping and plastic on Boxing Day can only be a good thing, right?

The Cathedral Quarter, there’s a fine place to spend a Friday morning, especially when there’s yoga and a spot of spontaneous shopping involved. Not forgetting the company of the lovely LSB, who ditched his bike in favour of a lift since he was racing in the Les Jones 10k  that evening. First off, we stopped for a coffee in Established on Hill Street, but feck me you wouldn’t need to be in any hurry. You could scald the mouth off yourself, and I almost did, on my oat milk cappuccino. “WTF? Am I on the correct blog?” I hear you splutter. You are indeed, it’s just that I went to an Ayruvedic practionner of reflexology and my digestive system is in tatters apparently. I’ve one unhappy colon, amongst a plethora of other minor ailments. That was a fun experience I can tell you. But I must admit to hitting the tea and coffee a lot of late, and chowing down a load of cake. An over-sugared and caffeine fuelled SWB isn’t that much fun to be around. God but I can digress can’t I? LSB ordered a filter coffee, for which I believe they went out the back, flew to Columbia and waited for some beans to pass through a goat before delivering it to us. At least it was nice, or so he claimed. Fecking need to be, the price of it.

So, back to yoga. Denis in Flow Studios was in fine fettle, fairly launching us into some brisk sun salutations. He’s a poetic soul is Denis, urging us to inflate our chests and adopt a regal posture, through Dancer Pose and Stargazer. He ought to be on the stage really, Denis. But I’m glad he’s not, as he’s a dote and I love our Friday morning classes. Helena’s a hoot too. She does the restorative yoga classes, which are truly wonderful. I was telling her about my new diet. “I wasn’t drinking huge amounts,” I say earnestly, “but I was drinking often. Something had to change” “Indeed” agreed Helena. “Drink more!” How I laughed. Nothing worse than an abstemious yoga teacher. Boring bastards.

They have a sale on in Flow Co and I’m ashamed to say, despite not really needing new yoga gear, I couldn’t hold back. Half price for a matching ensemble, and in my favourite colour too, what luck!

(There I go, in a poor attempt at Stargazer)

From there I sauntered over to Dunnes, or Dunnés Boutique as I like to call it. I needed some cushions for my dining chairs as I was having guests round for dinner on Saturday evening. The former chair pads were a disgrace. I could picture the scene: “Oh, don’t sit there! It’s covered in cake and biscuit crumbs. Take this one. Oh shit, there’s congealed egg on that, and HOLD UP! there’s some half masticated pasta on the other. In fairness, I’d take my chances on the biscuity one. Plonk yourself down and I’ll dust you off later.”

So I selected a few fresh cushions at quite a bargain price. “No no, I won’t need a bag. I’m on a recycling mission.” I chirped. The sales ladies were most understanding, in fact they tied the them together and off I went to inflict myself on the good people of Cat Kitson for a new tablecloth. I asked a sales girl to take a photo of me and my purchases and she merrily obliged. Turns out she writes a blog too called ‘Oh So Soph’. It’s  less vulgar than mine and makes you feel a bit shit about your life because she’s so beautiful and chic. But that’s not remotely her intention as she seems a lovely wee girl; not her fault she’s gorgeous.

I was queuing up to buy some fake tan in Superdrug when it all started to unravel. “Oh no! I had six cushions now I’ve only five!” I yelped. I was getting some odd looks but one helpful lady came to my rescue. “Ach are they yours? I saw one in the toothpaste aisle and propped it up against the mouthwash.”

It’s a miracle all the cushions made it home. I left one lying in the carpark  until a nice man having a fag outside the Dunbar Street Depot spotted it on the ground. “You’ve forgotten something love!” he yelled. Belfast people are generally lovely, aren’t they? To cut a long story short the dinner party was a roaring success and I enjoyed giving the new yoga ensemble a whirl today. Here’s hoping next Friday is as much fun.

(what an eejit)

Never a dull moment in our house. You just never know when you’re out and about, where you might spy a skip with stuff destined for landfill and think, I could do with a chair like that. I am now in possession of an office chair, stationery, a few shelves and a child’s seat, simply down to some luck and an eagle eye.

I rang mum to tell her of my loot. “Bin hoking, what next?” she mumbled through a mouthful of wheaten. (I’d rung at half three, apparently it was brunch. They eat at odd hours, those pair.) “Who’s hoking through bins?” I heard the Wise Old Elf enquire.

“It’s SWB, she’s after going through a skip. You’ve given your father apoplexy and him trying to take his soup”, she carried on mildly, not seeming remotely disturbed, despite the hyperbole. “Though is that not illegal?” She then reflected. “You don’t want to be lifted, and you a teacher. Wouldn’t look good at all.”

I explained the situation. I was passing a skip, watching a few blokes toss items in with wild abandon. It was about to be carted off and when I enquired as to where they said: “The dump. What is it you’re after love?” I fecking love bin men; salt of the earth. I can’t walk down the Ormeau these days without a toot and a wave from a sanitation officer. “You one of them hoarders? My wife’s like that. Nightmare to live with, house full of shite” said one, as he dusted down a shelf. “We’ve a small chair too, where is it Decky?” They rummaged a while, then found a little wooden chair, for the mini. She looked thrilled, after staring wide-eyed at the whole interaction. “Take that table too, lick of paint, it’ll be grand.”

I mean where would you get the like?

“So would this suggest that you’re open to accepting things again?” says AAI, ever the opportunist. “Because I have to get rid of some of this glassware, and I’ve a lovely set just the size for a prawn cocktail starter, and you entertain more than I do. Or you could chop up some crabsticks, and serve on a bed of cucumber and lettuce.” “Yes, I regularly serve up starters in stemmed glasses, mum. I’ve all the time in the world to scrub non-dishwasher proof crockery.”  The conversation went on to take a morbid turn. “ I mean you hold on to these things, and you think you’ll use them in the future, then you just have to be honest, at our age you don’t have much of a future left. You might as well just get rid.”

I mean FFS! There I was, all jaunty with my recycling and happy encounter with the bin men and now I have the thought of my parents’ mortality firmly planted in my head. AAI doesn’t dwell on the subject though. “Here’s the cat in, I must go and dry her paws. She went out for her constitutional after her cream.” (The cat is fed cream, served at room temperature on cold days, after her Gourmet Felix, as a dessert.) You’ll not see a glossier coat this side of the Atlantic.

“All right, I’ll go on then” I said. I did have a chair to paint and at least handiwork takes one’s mind off things. It’s still sitting there, unpainted. I had a snooze instead, with a child under each arm. It was that sort of day. And it’s Friday. There’s always gin.

AAI is properly raging. She read the last post and the profanities were just too much to bear. “I was angry.” I reasoned. “It was a totally justifiable rant when I”m on a one-woman-mission to encourage recycling, only to be thwarted at every turn.” “I still feel it’s excessive”, she sniffed. “Language of the gutter. You never know who’s reading this blog, and if they recognise us we’ll be disgraced.” She warmed to her theme. “Your Auntie Ethel came across a man one day, who was rude to her in the Post Office. And she said, I recall it to this day, “I don’t know who he was, but I thought he was very ill-bred”. Imagine if people said that about you! Letting us all down a bucketful.”

The Wise Old Elf looks up from his Bernard Cornwell. He doesn’t normally comment on the blog because he’s embarrassed by me, but he caught sight of the post while checking his e-mails. “Yes, I would temper that language. No need for it: does you a disservice in fact.” He shakes his head, looking genuinely saddened at my descent into vulgarity. “Devalues your argument in fact,” he concludes, determined to hit me where it hurts. “But,” I protest. “I try to be a helpful person. Plenty of those pious ones might look at me askance for swearing, but I don’t see them bin-hoking for Coke cans.” (In a recent display of greenness I set about fishing cardboard boxes, food cans and plastic bottles out of neighbouring black bins and transferring them to the blue one. No wonder my house rarely gets cleaned). “They’re content enough to burn wood pellets in an empty barn to be sure, but you wouldn’t catch them dropping the F-Bomb.”

“Hmmmm,” says herself, not in the least appeased and resolutely unswayed by my argument. So no daughter of the year award for me then, alas.

*Wise Old Elf, so called because of his likeness to the character in a well-known children’s programme.

So how did I find myself up-ending a brown wheelie bin last week? Not the most pleasant experience, olfactory or otherwise. Since the shift to the temporary abode I’ve been concerned (or rather, obsessed) about the recycling, or lack of it. We have neither any glass collection or composting bin. So after 3 months of complaining, I duly rang the council. Well, they sent a man in a van the next day. And as serendipity would have it, I happened to be cycling back from a run just as he pulled in. A lively chat ensued and a brown bin materialised within the week. Ask and you shall receive. Not just as progressive on the glass front, alas. Apparently in flats all the recycling tends to get mixed up with broken glass which poses a health hazard, so it just isn’t done. So I was all excited with the brown bin and saw some others were using it too: result! But then, some fuckwit fired a load of glass bottles in on top of the food waste, plus other rubbish. I nearly went berserk. There was me, fastidiously scraping every last coffee ground into my green bag and carting them down 3 flights of stairs and it was now all contaminated so destined for dumping. I was very irked.

Not to be deterred, I set about hoking out the bottles, but one, inevitably, had smashed. Bugger it, I thought and took off on a run to channel my energies elsewhere. But en route, I spied two council workers emptying litter bins, and stopped to regale them of my plight. “Can’t be up to them,” sighed one, “thos’uns. They see a bin, and they just fuck anything in til’it. They don’t give a rat’s arse”.  We shook our heads; the futility of our quest for a greener Belfast having worn us down. “No”, I said. “I won’t have it, me schlepping potato peelings up and down and all for nothing.” Seeing my distress, the chap sprang into action. “In that case, you’ll need gloves” said he. “And a black bag”.  So off I skipped with my council bag and gloves, and hid them behind a fence while I did my run, before returning to the flat. My renewed vigour waned quickly as the stench was rancid and my stomach was turned. Plus at 5 feet nothing, I was practically inside the bin, and there were spiky shards of glass everywhere. (Should I maybe, just go back to work, I wondered?) But, perseverance pays off. Another fellow came to my rescue, this time from the serviced apartment. He upturned the bin and we sifted through the bags together, chatting as we did so. Life felt better.

And this, dear readers, is what I love about Belfast. It is quite clear, that I am daft as a brush, but people are kind. They could have eyed me with suspicion and sent me on my way and I could have given up on the whole mission. But I didn’t, and I felt a wee bit more positive about myself and the world as a result.

But please, all those in Anna Hill, for fuck’s sake save me the effort and sort your rubbish out next time. We’ve a planet to preserve you know.

So, this week the trauma of life continues. It’s a first world problem alright- we’ve had to move out since I want a bigger kitchen and an extra couple of bedrooms, it’s not like we’re being bombed to shit in Aleppo. But I am looking forward to the day we can all fit round the dining table without someone being brained every time we open the fridge. And since I’m a total midget a few low level cupboards wouldn’t go a miss so I can reach things without being hit on the head by a condiment. I’ve had enough of head injuries of late.

Anyway, it’s amazing how fast one becomes conditioned to doing things. I’ve always been a keen recycler. I recall being taken to play at the school where my dad was a teacher. Seeing the hall littered with Coke cans I found a bin bag and started collecting with vigour, much to the mortification of my friends. At my school I joined the ‘can-crushing’ club, where about 6 of us organised for recycling bins to be ordered and then set to crushing the cans in the greenhouse beside the biology rooms. I still remember the sweet cloying reek of the fermented juice; and the wasps in summer: I was one earnest wee child. Twenty years on, there’s a no cans policy in most schools, though I know much of the paper and cardboard in many is taken straight to the dump which is a disgraceful state of affairs altogether.

It was with great consternation then, that I noted an absence of compost bins in the new apartment. I attempted to reason with myself and let it go, but the OCD crept in. A little part of me dies inside every time a banana skin goes in the bin. So we’re just going to cart it to the dump twice a week, which thankfully is beside where we run, so no wastage of petrol there. Composting is a most worthwhile endeavour, the results of which have already been noted by my pal’s mum, who got a couple of bags from her local dump, and has seen her roses flourish as never before.

LSB has lived up to his acronym this weekend. Since it’s full steam ahead with the extension and the builders are about to ‘break through’ as they say, it’s necessitated a move to an apartment down town. It’s quite New Yorky in feel, high ceilings, big windows, minimalist furnishings…. until we arrived with all our crap. I had sought to adopt a ‘pared down living’ lifestyle for 6 months, but it’s amazing how much stuff one seems to need just to get on with daily life.

I’ve succeeded in rationing clothes, but I need a functioning kitchen. I can’t seem to settle with out knowing I have my herbs and spices to hand, and my favourite pots and pans. Since I’m also prone to burning arses of woks it’s probably safer that I use my own and leave the others in the state we found them.

Anyway, the actual move commenced on Friday, with LSB taking the day off work. Now I’d been emptying cupboards and packing glassware for a week, so emotionally I’d processed we were off. But, not so with himself, who’s been running, or coaching running, or planning f**king running routes all week, so Friday appeared to bring on a mild attack of anxiety. Thankfully this attack didn’t render him inert and he successfully organised broadband and built beds, his main priority being that the Minis’ room was cosy and inviting. This sounds kind and loving but really it’s because we can bear to listen to any more whinging. They’ve taken to our new digs insofar as they see the corner sofa and chairs as an assault course, and when they’re not vaulting over them, they’re lying like baby tigers draped along the tops. The effing bo is still firmly clenched between FJ’s teeth and a steady dribble making it’s way down the fabric. There goes the deposit.

Neighbours looked on in barely disguised horror as they witnessed our removal strategy; I think they thought a lot of knackers had arrived in. I commandeered a large trolley from the local petrol station to cart boxes from the car park, into the lift and up to our third floor flat. I’m not sure the double doors remained unscathed, and some colourful language may have been employed. There has to be some value in a ‘less is more’ style of living.