Sometimes, I am dumb

So, yesterday morning, I was doing a bit of tidying before my friend Alexcia came to stay, and had two bags of rubbish to get rid of. I carried one in each hand, and held my keys in my left hand, and took them to the communal bins.

I left my front door a bit open, but as I was walking away, I heard the wind slam it shut. "Whew", I thought, "good thing I have my keys."

I got to the garbage area, opened the big metal door and swung the bag in my left hand into the bin. As it was going in, however, the handle of the bag looped around my front door key and pulled it into the bin.

That's right. My keys. In the garbage. My front door. Locked.

Now, just to give you the right mental image of my stupidity, the bins made of metal, about five feet high, around four feet in diameter and on wheels. They're really big.

My keys were sitting on a black bin bag, and were about half way down. Obviously, I couldn't get them.

Someone had left a washing machine sitting in the garbage area, which is where we all leave big stuff to be picked up by the garbage men. (Actually, it was sitting pretty much right where the tree on the left is in this entry.) And I had a genius idea.

I would wheel the giant bin to beside the washing machine, climb up on it, and reach into the bin, and grab the keys. And then, ta da! I'd be all set.

I opened both the huge doors and wheeled the bin out. Due to the kind of wheels on it, I had to kind of turn at as I pulled it, creating a nice spinning out motion. I finally got it to the washing machine, climbed on, and reached in. And was still about ten inches away from the stupid keys.

So, I spun the stupid bin back into it's storage room.

I decided to knock on the door of the one neighbour I kind of know. She's nice, in a "lecture me about life in general" kind of way. But, of course, she wasn't home.

I was really stumped. Julia wasn't going to be home for ages, Alexcia was arriving in a few hours and I was totally stuck.

Then, like a beacon of hopeful light, a door on the building opposite opened. An young-ish woman walked out and I immediately ran up to her, all "excusemeI'msostupidbutIdroppedmykeysinthebinandneedhelpdoyouhaveacoathangeroranything". After she figured out my crazed speech, she told me that she didn't live there, but was just the carer. A teensy tiny little old woman walked out behind her, and I went into the whole speech again. The teensy tiny little old woman (or TTLOW) went and got me a Marks & Spencer hanger.

I raced over to the bin, and reached in. I was still about 8 inches away from those damn freaking keys. Dammit!

TTLOW called out to see if I was having any luck, and when she heard I wasn't, mentioned she had a stepladder. She walked back into her house, and I followed her in, because she was teensy and tiny and shouldn't be carrying ladders for me.

I grabbed the ladder, hauled it over to the bin, climbed up, reached in with the hanger, and ..... SUCCESS!!

I snagged the key ring on the end of the hanger, and was back in business. I carried the hanger and stepladder back to TTLOW and thanked her profusely. She really was very nice.

So, half an hour of idiocy later, I was back in my flat.

Needless to say, I will be carrying my keys in my pocket every time I go to the bins now. The lesson, she is learned.

Feelin' crafty

Every once in a while, I feel a little bit crafty. Please see: the scarf I've been knitting since 2003, the pillowcase I've been embroidering for a year, and all the various books I own on paper mache, knitting, quilting, and a zillion other things.

I painted my kitchen a few weeks ago, from a nasty light blue to a delicious dark red, and it looks awesome. But it really highlighted the fact that the chairs that were left behind by the previous owners? Yeah, they were ugly.

Chair one, on the left, is a perfectly nice wooden chair with a nasty yellow seat. Chair two, on the right, was a puffy disgusting mushroom coloured monstrosity that was gross, gross, gross.

So, what's a crafty girl to do?

Well, re-cover them, obviously.

I bought some awesome fabric on eBay, along with a staple gun, some upholstery foam for the seats and some black paint. Sorted!

I started with the ugly yellow chair.

And what happens when you're trying to take a photograph of a chair?

That's right. A cat jumps on it.

Turns out that these chairs are really cleverly designed and it's super easy to remove the seat. Once you get the cat off, of course.

Let the painting commence!

I decided to move into the living room, where the floors are newer and more expensive and harder to clean. And there's a TV to watch while I paint. Really, what would you choose?

I did put newspaper down. I'm not an idiot. Thank god Julia reads four hundred papers a day, so we had lots to use.

The chair already looked much less ugly when I finished the painting, which was pleasing.

Sadly, the staple gun I spent all of £3 on eBay wasn't up to the task of actually, you know, stapling stuff, so I had to get a replacement for £4 at Woolworths. God, what am I? Made of money?

The staple gunning was the fun bit. The realizing that I almost didn't have enough fabric wasn't fun. Stupid bigger-than-they-look seats.

Fortunately, I did have just enough to get both seat covers finished. Yay! And they look so much better now. It's almost like I went and bought attractive chairs. Clearly, that would be crazy talk, but it's almost as if I actually did that.

Again, taking a photo of a chair? A guarantee that a cat will jump on it.

"This chair is so comfortable and pretty! I wish I could stand on it all day!", is clearly what Lucy is thinking.

Go on. Try and tell me these aren't some fabulous looking chairs that look great in my new red kitchen.

Because I won't believe you.

Painting, finally!

It finally happened, people. I finally got around to getting my place painted. Woo hoo!

Sure, it may be a full eight or so months after I picked the colours, but it's done, and it looks fabulous!

Using a clever lure of pizza, red wine, beer and snacks, I enticed five friends to help me. So last Saturday, Leanne, Alexcia, Sarah, Buni and Heather came over and we painted.

Look how pretty!

Such hard workers! That pretty colour is Sea Urchin 6, in case you were wondering.

Look at them paint their little hearts out.

The kittens were not happy with whole thing, and spent the whole day either hiding in my bedroom or trying to escape the kitchen in order to hide in the bedroom. Buni managed to make friends with them, but other than that brief moment of friendliness they spent the whole day being VERY unhappy. And Beez hissed at poor Alexcia, which didn't help her terror of cats much, I have to say.

I didn't get any photos of the bedroom painting, which was less fun than the living room because it was smaller, hotter and more crowded.

But isn't the purple pretty? That's the Homebase own brand equivalent of the planned Spanish Serenade. Stupid Homebase's paint mixing machine was out of order, but luckily I found a pre-mixed colour that was practically exactly the same. Sweet! It was crappier paint though, and necessitated a second coat.

My plan to reward the girls with pizza didn't go exactly as planned though, because they delivered Heather's supposedly no-cheese vegan pizza was delivered with no mozzarella cheese, but with parmesan. Because that's clearly not "cheese". It took over an hour and about six phone calls to get a replacement. Poor starving Heather. But she kicked some ass and got the money back for it.

But look! Success!

This is the living room before (as it was just after I moved in):

And after (well, before everything was put away, but after painting):

And my bedroom before ( just after the move, again):

And after:

Yay!

This just in: I am a dork

Long ago, I accepted my dorkiness. I understand that I get unreasonably excited about things that so-called "normal" people have virtually no interest in. These things include, but are not limited to, the following:

• Spreadsheets and databases
• Organization of most kinds ...
• ... Especially alphabetizing
• Trivia of all kinds ...
• ... Especially film and TV
• Several TV shows that safely fall into the "geek" category
• Pub quizzes
• Steve Guttenberg films
• The collection of the above films
• Board games
• Bullet pointed lists

I mean, come on. I have more than one blog. That should sum it all up right there.

So it should be of absolutely no surprise to anyone that I am very excited about my newest project: replacing all my videos with DVD's.

Seriously I am excited about this beyond all reason. This is largely space motivated. The shelves that I bought for my living room are full. Each of the little shelves can fit either six videos or eleven DVD's.

People, it's just about the math.

So, naturally, I went a bit crazy on the ebay and the play.com and bought a bunch of super cheap replacements. Luckily, it turns out that most of what I have on video is not worth very much money, so easily replaced.

The next step will clearly be to sell all the videos to some other suckers who have no problem living in the past. Videos. Can you even believe we still have those? They may as well be records run by a prehistoric bird on the Flintstones.

Of course, this will mean that I will have to hold on to my VCR for the sole use of the Steve Guttenberg Collection (which, by the way, has a special shelf all to itself.), because many of those bad boys are on video. But doesn't that just make the project more special?

Why, yes. Yes, I think it does.

Burgled.

You know what the absolute last thing you want to find when you come home from a spontaneous and kick-ass night of drinking, dancing and karaoke singing is?

That your home has been broken into and your things have been stolen.

I got home at about 11:30 on Wednesday night after a night of much merriment, to find that my key wasn't working. It wouldn't turn in the lock for some reason. Now, I was a bit tipsy and perhaps not thinking so clearly, so I just thought "hmm, lock isn't working. Weird. I'd better call Buffy."

So, I call her, she confirms that the back door is unlocked (STUPID!), so I climb over the fence into the back garden and go in the back door.

I walk through the living room, and head straight for the door to find out what's wrong with it, and I realized that the little switch that stops the door from being able to open has been flipped. The switch that can only be flipped from the inside.

And it occurs to me - someone has been inside my house.

I walk back to the living room to see my laptop gone, the couch and chest of drawers pushed out of the way, the doors to the sideboard open, my old handbag emptied on the couch and an empty fishbowl which used to hold foreign money.

I didn't even see this when I walked through before. It just didn't register, you know?

I immediately think of the cats, and find them both in my bedroom, hiding. It's then that I notice my room - my desk has been pulled out from the wall, the TV is tipped over, the DVD player is gone, the bowl of change is empty, the fan is on the floor, the desk drawers are open.

It is amazing how fast you can flip from a little bit drunk to stone cold sober when you need to. I called 999 and got the police, and told them what had happened. They said they'd send a car over.

My first instinct is to call Jess, who I'd just been out with. She was appalled for me, and offered me a place to stay that night if I didn't want to stay alone. I then called Heather, who I'd been drunkenly talking to and sharing the joys of karaoke only moments earlier. And then I called Buffy to let her know we'd been burgled. In those three phone calls, I probably used the word fuck more than I have in my entire life.

And then I called my mom. Because when something horrible happens, I want to call my mom. It's probably the first time I've ever been glad they're an 8 hour time difference away, because it was only 4pm their time, so I didn't terrify them by waking them up in the middle of the night.

I was pretty much over the shock and crying part of the night when the police arrived, about an hour later. I took them through the place and showed them what had happened, they made their notes and told me a crime scene investigator would be by the next day to look for fingerprints, so I should try not to touch anything.

It was probably 1 by the time they left, and I was both really tired and unwilling to sleep. So, I made some pasta and watched a TV movie about John Ritter as an abusive husband who learns that it is bad to hit women. Very inspiring, really. It was about 3 when it was over, so I turned all the lights in the flat on, and tried to sleep in my room. I didn't get much sleep.

The next morning, I called a locksmith first thing, then called my insurance company. I went through everything with the insurance people, then they called back to say that they'd get someone to call me today to go over it again.

The locksmith came and started changing the locks. I have updated and very awesome locks now.

Then the crime scene guy arrived and started dusting for fingerprints and the whatnot. It was very little like CSI, disappointingly. He said there was very little of use, fingerprint wise, which was disappointing but not really unexpected. Have you ever heard of a break-in where they actually caught the bad guy? Other than on TV?

I spent the rest of yesterday being all depressed and lazy until I finally mustered the energy to put the living room and my bedroom back to rights. Then I locked all the windows, dead bolted the doors (even the front door, which I normally never do when I am home.) and went to bed.

I spoke to the insurance people again this morning, went through everything twice and gave them the list of things that were taken.

I am now missing:

• My laptop. With every photo I've taken in the past three years, other than the ones that made it to flickr, and every song I've downloaded in the past three years. And everything I've written.
• My digital camera with it's 1gb memory card.
• My new mobile phone
• the DVD player from my bedroom
• about £200 in foreign money
• My wireless broadband modem
• The Sims 2, which was in the laptop.

They then had to refer me to another company, who have to call me to arrange to come out to get all the info. And the earliest time they can come to see me? Next Thursday. And then it'll take however long for the company they put me in contact with to replace the stuff.

I spent all day yesterday thinking things like "aw, the kittens are so cute, let me just grab my camera ... shit." and "how much did the DVD player cost? I bet I can find it online if I just ... shit."

Oh, and the cash? Not covered by my insurance because it wasn't a violent entry. Stupid burglars couldn't even do that right.

I am a plant killer no more.

I am a miracle worker. From mere seeds, I have created life. Truly, I have staggering abilities.

I have flowers! In my garden! That I planted myself, and they didn't even die!

To truly appreciate how cute that flower is, you really need to see it in detail. Isn't it just beautiful?

And not only that - the seeds in pots are a-bloomin' too!

And the plants that I bought and then re-potted? They're flowering and looking beautiful!

Seriously, I'm so proud of myself. Go me!

Garden Update

And speaking of gardens, this was the garden growing situation on April 30th.

Three weeks later, the same pot. I think I might have flowers soon!

It's all very exciting!

In which Alice is proved wrong

Remember when I had problems with pigeons? No, not that time. The other time.

Anyway, Sean left this comment at the time:

You think the pigeons are bad?

Just wait till the squirrels find your pretty feeders.

On the up-side, you will get to watch the ominous Squirrel/Pigeon war as it unfolds. In future days, you will be able to refer to it as the war of aught-six, and discuss the cunning infantry rushes, or the role of Air-power in controlling strategic feeder positions.

Or, you could just dust off and nuke the site from orbit.It's the only way to be sure.

And what was my response? I laughed. Oh, I laughed.

Don't worry about me, I laughed. Squirrels aren't nearly as common here as they are in Canada. I've only ever seen them in parks. I'm sure it won't be a problem. Ha ha, I laughed. Squirrels. How silly.

So, I'm sitting this morning, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the Golden Girls (it was the episode where Blanche gives the other girls a share in the house to avoid one of them being evicted and Dorothy finds out that Sophia was married before she married Dorothy's father).

Anyway, I hear a bit of rustling in the garden. And what do I see?

Oh, that's right. It's a squirrel. And I can't be sure about this, but I think he's eating a peanut from the feeder. His eyes weren't as glowing red and evil as they appear in the photo. He was actually kind of cute. Or, he was until he started to make a run for it.

He knew I was watching! Look at him! He's out to get me!! I'll be keeping an eye on this little sneaky squirrel, you can count on that.

But I've got to say. I'd take ten thousand of these little bastards over even one pigeon. They're vermin, I tell you. VERMIN!

(And now I've got a terrifying vision of ten thousand evil squirrels out to get me. Enter nightmares ........ now.)

The Garden Saga

So, you know how I have a garden right?

Well, up to this point in my life, I've been what's known in the horticultural world as a "Plant Killer". It's not pretty, but it's true. I have never managed to keep a plant alive. Not once in my whole life.

What's even sadder is that genetically, I come from a good people. My mom is an amazing gardener. She's incredible. But could I have inherited the good gardening gene? Noooo, of course not. I got things that are of little to know gardening use. Which is all well and good, but doesn't solve the problem we've got here.

Anyway, I now live somewhere with a garden. And I am determined that it will be beautiful. Even if it kills me.

There are already some plants in the garden, so I've been working around what's there. I started with pots - lots of pots in which I've planted seeds and plants and shrubs.

I ran out of dirt, so I can't plant more of them, but I think it looks pretty as it is. I've got a colour scheme worked out. Pinks and oranges and yellows, with the occasional red and white thrown in for a bit of a kicky surprise. I'm going to get lots more pots, because the bit on the other side of the door must be equally filled with pots, so as to look as equally precious.

There was already a raised flower bed, so I planted some ivy there and a few plants and then lots and lots of seeds. LOTS of seeds. In all liklihood, too many seeds. We'll see when they grow. It also was a bitch to weed this part. There was this crazy plant that had these huge roots running through the whole thing and I cursed them many a time as I was trying to dig them up. But it's essentially weed free now and chock full of seeds.

I also planted bulbs. "Oh wait, Alice!", I hear you saying "you've gone mad! Pots and seeds and bulbs! It's craziness, I tell you!". Well, you may be right. I'm not saying you're not. But there was a bit that looked kind of flower beddy when I took out all the weeds and I went a little crazy with the bulb buying, so I put them all in here. I did the math and there are something like 135 bulbs in this tiny patch of dirt. Too many? Most likely. We'll see how many live.

So, that's the plant bits. The lawn is currently looking a bit nasty, because I killed the weeds, but haven't replanted seed yet, so it's a bit patchy and ugly. It'll look better, I promise.

I bought cheapo furniture at Argos, and I have to say, it will be a delight to sit out here when the plants are all a'blommin' and looking super fantastico. A delight, I say!

And the plants - they're growing! They really are! Maybe I'm not a plant killer after all!

Now I just have to clear up the rest of the crap that's in the garden. It's harshing my pretty garden buzz, I tell you.

These are the flowers I've planted. It's all very exciting.

Bulbs

Anemone
Crispa Marginata Begonias
Dutch Iris
Dwarf Fowering Gladioli
Homeria
Peony
Ranunculus
Sparaxis
Zephyranthes

Seeds

Aster
Calendula
Candytuft
Chrysanthemum
Clarkia Elegans
Cosmea
Eschscholzia
French Marigold
Godetia
Lavatera
Mesembryanthemum
Nasturtium
Nemesia
Poppy
Stock Virginian
Zinnia

Too many? Perhaps. Perhaps.

Damn birds!

So, you know when you have good intentions, and it all turns horribly wrong?

Now, as you know, I have recently moved into a fabulous new flat with a delightful garden. It's all very exciting, and I'm looking forward to the whole "actually keeping plants alive" thing that is the whole goal of having a garden.

I also get a fair bit of wildlife in my garden. There are foxes that use my garden as a pathway into the neighbour's place, which is very cool. There are also birds in my garden, which I do really like. I like the birds, for the most part. They're pretty and make lovely bird noises. You know, chirping and whatnot.

In my garden planning, I've been looking at furniture and plants and all sorts of things, but I decided what the garden really needed was a birdfeeder. You know, for the birds and whatnot.
I took a peek on eBay, and found a birdfeeder that looked very pretty. It had a flat tray for birdseed, three hanger things for hanging birdseed and a water tray. Perfect, say I! I bid on it, got it and within mere days it had been delivered to my house.

I went to my local Woolworths and bought some birdseed for the tray bit and and some hanging birdseed things for the hanging bits and put it all together.

And, I have to say, it looked pretty freaking good. I set it all up, and the next day, although I hadn't seen any birds yet, I noticed that the tray was empty.

The birds have discovered my feeding station, I though. Delightful!

I refilled the tray and waited in anticipation for my first bird sighting.

About a week later, I got it. I went to feed the fishes in the morning, and noticed some birds eating from the tray.

Was I delighted?

Sadly, no.

Because the birds that decided to visit my feeder? Pigeons.

That's right. I was the inadvertent feeder of the Balham horde of rats with wings. God damn.
So, now my back garden has become some kind of pigeon sanctuary. And I believe my hatred and/or fear of pigeons is well documented.

And so it happens, that as I was attempting to attract birds, now I have to figure out how to get rid of them. Because I haven't bought my garden furniture yet, but when I do, I don't want it covered with pigeon poop. Gross, gross, gross.

Such a disappointment. Stupid pigeons. Always ruining my fun.

Shattered Ambition

So, when I moved into my new place, I was super excited about all the decorating and painting and unpacking and arranging of furniture. I went out the weekened after I moved in and bought my paint.

The living room is going to be Sea Urchin 6 (a very light greeny colour, for those of you too lazy to click) on three of the walls, and Spainsh Serenade 1 (a dark purpley colour) on the wall that faces the couch. I've got the purple couch and the white chair, so the trim will be white and it'll look super. It'll be very modern and calming.

My bedroom is going to be Waterlily Blush 3 (a dusty rose sort of colour). The furniture is all going to be white, as is the trim. It's going to be very pretty and girly.

The hallway is Rum Caramel 4 (a warm taupe-y colour), which is very warm and inviting without being too blah and neutral. Again, the trim will be white.

So, I buy the paint for the walls, and for the trim (Brilliant White in Eggshell). And I paint two thirds of the hallway.

That was about a month ago.

I've done no painting since. In fact, the thought of doing any painting makes me so tired and exhausted that I want to lie down and have a nap right here.

I know I should just get it done, and I'll be so happy because it will look so good and I'll be so glad it's done.

But, apparently, I am just that lazy. I'm hiring a painter. To be fair, he's a friend of Buffy's so it's not like I'm getting in quotes and having contractors and all the whatnot. But still. I am going to pay someone to paint my house because I am too lazy. I am shamed.

(But I bet it's going to look even better. I mean, he's a professional. I'm a mere amateur! I'm sure he'll do much better work. And probably won't get tired and sulky and sit down with a cup of tea and an episode of Scrubs when he should be working. And now I can say things like "Oh yes, my painter recommended I do .... you know, something involving paint" and impress people with my grown-up-ness.)

So. Much. Stuff.

When I moved over to the UK four and a half years ago, I was only planning on staying for a year. So, I packed two suitcases and put the rest of my stuff (the contents of a one bedroom apartment) into storage, and trucked on over to the UK.

But as you've no doubt figured out by now, it didn't quite work out like that. Turns out I like it here, and decided to stay. Now that I've bought a place and have a more-or-less permanant base, my parents decided that it was time to send my stuff over. And of course, I heartily endorsed that decision.

Becaue my dad is ever so organized, he went through everything in storage, took photos and asked me what I wanted to keep and what could be sold/given away. I decided that most of the furniture could go, since the hand-me-down ugly but comfortable peach swivel armchair didn't really fit with my planned decor, and the cost of shipping over my Ikea coffee table was about the same as buying a new one. So, I pretty much gave away all the furniture.

That leaves books, CD's, videos and general junk. Oddly, all of my DVD's have mysteriously disappeared, Dad. Don't think I won't be checking out the parental film collection the next time I'm home.

Anyway, last Saturday, my stuff got delivered. 26 boxes. Well, there were a few things not in boxes, like the little triangle tables and the leopard print butterfly chair, so there were maybe 22 boxes and four assorted bags of other stuff.

But that's still a whole lot of boxes.

Now, I bought these great shelves on eBay, which are 2 metres high and 170 cm wide with six shelves. So, lots of storage space, yes?

Well, when I put all my books that I've bought in the four and a half years that I've been here, and the 9 boxes of books that came from home, and put two rows of books on each shelf, the shelves are full. I may have to do some weeding out.

I've spent the last week finding places to put all my stuff. I've still got to find places for my grade 7 math award and my high school music award. Though I am proud of my achievements, I don't think I really want those bad boys on display.

I had some very emotional times when I was unpacking. And yes, I did speak to my things. And no, I don't think that makes me crazy. I mean, the Minnie Mouse figurine and I have known each other since I was about 7. It would just be rude if I didn't wish her a warm hello. And the Winnie the Pooh figurine was purchased at Disneyland when I went to California with Wendy when I was 16. Good times, I tell you.

I now have all my school stuff from when I was a kid, including all my school ID's and I've also got my Cabbage Patch Kids and all the books of my childhood. I'm currently re-reading Don't Care High by Gordon Korman and the Emily books by L.M. Montgomery and I've got some Christopher Pike books and a few RL Stines (Fear Street, not Goosebumps. Please, I'm not a child.) and some Judy Blumes and about 30 Babysitter's Club books in the line-up.

It's a bit weird having all my stuff here. Everything I had before it got here was purchased in the last four years. So, none of it was really ugly or unfortunate or unattractive. Because I've got pretty good taste. But now I've got some stuff that I love, but that I really don't want on public display. I'll have to figure out how to merge that with the stuff I've got and not have it be hugely unattractive. I'm clever. I can make it work.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to read Babysitter's Club #8 Boy Crazy Stacey.

Finally ... The Flat Saga

I know it's a bit late, but it's time to let y'all know the story of the flat. It's been quite a journey of delays and aggravation, and I know you'll all enjoy reliving it with me. Journey back with me, won't you to ...

August 2005

The flat search begins. After much internet searching, I realize that I cannot afford to buy a flat in North London. This is a somewhat scary proposition, as I've lived in North London for four years - the entire time I've been in this country. In fact, I can count the number of times I've been south of the river on one hand. (Not counting the south bank, because let's be honest - that's not really south is it?)

So, I begin searching and call some estate agents and going to look at places. The first place I look at is really nice, but I get all "oh, you can't put an offer on the first place you look at, that's stupid, blah, blah, blah", and by the time I decide to put an offer in, it's gone. The lesson? She is learned.

September 2005

The looking continues. I see some gross places, some nice places and some places I could actually live in. And the looking continues.

October 2005

The looking continues. I get involved in a bidding war on a flat that's pretty cute. I lose. It's upsetting. But, I find another flat in the same estate and take a look and it's not too shabby. And, I put an offer on it. And exciting news! It gets accepted! Woo hoo! I assume it will be a matter of weeks before I am able to move. I am an idiot.

November 2005

I get myself a solicitor (or "lawyer" to you North American folks) and a mortgage advisor and get started on the horrifically lengthy process of buying a flat. Seriously, you have no idea. I get approved for a mortgage pretty quickly, which was a relief, because I have bad credit. My solicitor gets things moving on the paperwork front. There is a LOT of paperwork. Lucas, who I work with, told me that it would take three months to get into my flat. I laughed at him and told him to shush because there was no chain and it would all be super quick.

(As an aside, a brief lesson in British property buying. Until you actually exchange contracts which happens right when you exchange money, anyone at any time can back out of the house buying and/or selling procedure. That means you could have spent money on things like surveys and mortgage stuff and if someone swoops in and offers more money for the flat, they can just HAVE it. You've got no rights at all. It's called "gazumping", which is a cute word for a crappy thing to do. If you're in a chain of people buying and selling, if one part of the chain falls apart, the whole thing does. It's weird here people. Weird.)

Anyway, it's all moving along. I tell my solicitor that I want to move in before Christmas. My lease on my flat that I'm renting runs out at the end of December, so if that doesn't happen I'll possibly be homeless.

December 2005

My solicitor calls me at the beginning of December to tell me that there is no way I'll be in before Christmas. I am annoyed. Fortunately, I can extend my lease for a month. Still - annoying. The paperwork continues. It moves ever so slowly. So. Slowly. Christmas comes. Christmas goes.

January 2006

It's the New Year. We're post the "Incident" (which we are still never speaking of again, by the way). I begin packing, in the hopes that I will be moving on the 8th of January. I get a call from my solicitor. I'll complete on the 18th of January. Annoying. But at least I don't have to pay another month's rent. I buy a couch (which is a WHOLE other story of annoyingness that I will get to later). I book movers. I buy a new TV. And finally, finally, finally three months (damn that Lucas and his rightness!) after my offer is accepted, I get to move in . FINALLY. The movers I booked were awesome. Seriously, so amazing. The move itself went pretty smoothly, which was a relief. And now I'm in.

Sigh. Aaaand relax. Now just to renovate a bathroom, get the new carpet and floors installed and paint the whole place. And learn to garden. How long can that take?

I've got a few photos of the place, which you can see here.

Seriously, can you believe it took three months? Madness, I tell you. Madness.

News! Fabulous!

Finally, finally, finally, I've moved into the new place. Delightful!

I'll post about the stress of the move soon, but right now I'm so freakin' tired.

Also - moved! Woo!

Adventures In Lighting

So, remember how the light in my flat burned out?

Yeah, that was 29 days ago.

It took me that long to fix it. I know.

It's because it's impossible to reach the light from any of the stepladder/accessable furniture combinations that I could come across. Other than dragging my chest of drawers into the middle of the room, which I wasn't keen on doing as it's covered in loads of crap, and I couldn't be bothered to move it.

What's a girl to do?

Well, thankfully a girl got a new fabulous dressing table delivered from eBay, so she could get rid of her old desk, but thankfully she hadn't gotten rid of the desk top and, as if by magic...

It's the world's least safe climbing device! Especially when you're standing on the top rung, and you realize that you have to reach behind you to get the lightbulb, and it seems a bit wobbly for a minute.

But, just when you think all is lost...

Ta da!

Isn't it pretty? I'm liking this whole lighted flat thing. I think it might catch on.

You Know What's Really Annoying?

When you move into a flat, and it's got these great high ceilings, and you're all like "Oooooh, this is so fabulous! Look at these great high ceilings! And the super huge windows! How fabulous!".

And the flat is great, because even though it's small, the super high ceilings make you feel like it's got more space than it has, and when you're living in a room that holds your bed, your fabulous £10 chair, a chest of drawers, a desk and that's about it.

But then, one day, just after you get home from work, your overhead lightbulb burns out.

"No problem", you think to yourself. "I'll just get the step stool and change it. Isn't it clever of me to have a spare lightbulb in the flat?"

But oooooooh, no. It's not going to be that easy.

Because when you stand on that stool, and reach as high as you possibly can and stand on your very tippy-toes, you're still about a foot short of being able to even touch the lightbulb, let alone change it.

Did I mention that your bedside table lamp is also burned out? Because it is.

You attempt to pull the bed into the middle of the room and put the step stool onto the bed, but after taking one step, realize that this is a horribly bad idea, since it's about the farthest thing from steady it could be.

Stupid high ceilings. Not so fabulous now, are they?

Stupid lack of light in my flat.

Where the hell am I going to get a ladder?

People, there is exciting news!

So, remember how I'm house searching?

And how I was putting an offer in on a flat? Well, there is fabulous news! The offer has been accepted! And, baby, those orange velour floor length curtains are ALL MINE!

Woo hoo!!

Well, it's not finalized yet. It's very complicated, buying property in this country. But my offer was accepted, my mortgage has been approved, I have a solicitor, and the ball, she is rolling.

It's a delightful ex-council flat in Balham, which is a lovely area in south London. It's a two bedroom flat, with a garden. It's not in the nicest condition right now, but I'm all excited for getting new flooring and painting and all the fun stuff.

This is what the living room looks right now.

I will be making it look prettier.

And this is the kitchen.

You'll not the ample counter space, and unattractive wall units. I haven't decided what exactly to do here, but I'm pretty sure I'll leave it as is, and just paint the doors. I think the appliances are in okay shape, but I may have to replace them. The kitchen's also big enough for a table. Delightful!

There is also a garden, and I have full plans to be an amazing gardener and make it fabulous. (The sound you hear right now is my mother's hysterical laughter.) It isn't in good condition right now, but this is the garden of another flat in the same estate I looked at.

Isn't that cute? I could totally make a garden look that delightful. After I buy a bunch of "Gardening for Dummies Who Are Also Plant Killer" type books. Those must exist, right?

I'm very excited about the whole thing, as you can imagine. And, I'm getting a pull out couch for the living room, and you know what that means. All guests will be welcome at Casa Alice!

Yay!

I've got tons and tons of paint samples, and gardening catalogues and all sorts of things. I'm working on a colour scheme and styles and all kinds of things.

I've still got to get the survey done and hopefully they'll only have good things to say about the structure of the flat.

Fingers crossed.

Also, yay!

Adventures of the house hunt

Some of you may know that I've been on the lookout for a flat in London lately. Oh, that's right. I'm going to be a property owner. Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm going to own a tiny fraction of a flat and the parents and grandparents are going to own the majority of them. I'll be repaying a teensy tiny mortgage and paying them rent. Along with the person who will be renting the other room (hi Heather!).

So, I've been doing searches for properties, and figuring out what things cost and having a look. This will likely surprise many of you, but I'm looking at south London. That's right, Alice Never-ever-crosses-the-river-ever is going to move south. It's a wild and crazy time, I tell you. Wild and crazy.

I've seen quite a few flats, and I have to tell you - it's pretty depressing. I've learned quite a few things in my flat hunting time.

1. People have horrible taste. I would fashion avenge them, but it's far far far too depressing. One of the flats I looked at yesterday had orange velour curtains. In 2005. Floor length orange velour curtains. Sweet Jesus, why?

2. It turns out I'm very specific in what I'm looking for. Who knew I'd be so fussy? (Shut up.) It turns out that I'm quite particular and I want a garden. Not that I'm a gardener, mind you. I'm what's known as a "Plant Killer" in the horticultural sphere.

3. I have virtually no money. Which is even more depressing when you realize that I'm looking at spending what could buy you a three bedroom house in downtown Toronto. And I'm looking at two bedroom flats, the largest of which has been around 750 square feet. And I still have no money here.

4. Not getting a property is very distressing. It's like a personal insult - why didn't they want meeeeee to have it?

5. I'm going to put in an offer on another flat tomorrow. Hopefully that'll go a bit better.

I do like the flat hunting procedure though. Especially when the owners aren't home. You're supposed to snoop around to see how big closets are and how much storage space there is. It's not sneaky or anything! But you can feel a bit guilty about doing that when the owners are in, so I always recommend a non-supervised viewing.

And I like the planning - figuring out how much furniture will be required, and if the kitchen needs to be re-done, how much would it cost, and all that kind of thing. Delightful!

I'm hoping the offer tomorrow goes well. With any luck those orange velour curtains could be mine. Score!

The Birds

I had a very scary experience the other day. I'm really lucky tha I managed to survive. I could be writing this from beyond the grave, if not for my quick thinking.

It was a warm Sunday, and I had my window open. Now, it's quite a large window, which is lovely. I look out onto a flat roof and if my fish weren't in the way, it would be very easy for me to climb out and enjoy the roof.

Or, very easy for someone to climb in. You know, to steal my furniture or tv or fish. Fishnappers can be such trouble.

Now, don't worry. I wasn't accosted by strange men climbing in my window. I was not murdered by crazed daytime thieves. That's a huge relief, I'm sure.

I was across the room when I heard a vague fluttering sound. "Well, that's odd", I thought. I went and looked and what did I see?

Pigeons.

But not just one pigeon. Not even two pigeons, out on a nice Sunday afternoon date. This was a horde of pigeons. Or whatever the word is for a group of pigeons. They looked like a horde to me. A marauding horde.

There were dozens of them. Well, maybe a dozen. But that is a lot of pigeons. And they kept settling in one area, and then leaping into the air and flying around all crazy like.

This is probably when I should let you know that I'm a little afraid of pigeons.

But look how close they were!



They could have easily flown in and pecked me to death - that totally could have happened!

I did the wise thing and closed the window. I probably could have chased them away by throwing things at them or yelling, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself.

I've seen The Birds. I know what the horde is capapble of.

Mice!

Recently received in an email: “Your blog has been entertaining but light on "Alice's life" details lately. How do expect people to stalk you properly when you don't disclose more aspects of your personal life?”

Good point, anonymous commenter. Good point. (Not that I encourage the stalking. Cause I really don’t think I have time for it. And now that I have proper curtains, I think the whole stalking proposition will be far less appealing to the peeping Toms out there.)

So, what’s going on in Alice’s life? Mice. That’s what.

Little horrible, disease carrying, terrible, scary (and yet disarmingly cute) mice.

Imagine, if you will. I am in my bathroom, brushing my teeth. And what do I see running from the steps in the kitchen to the bathroom door? A mouse.

Now, do I scream? Do I leap onto the toilet seat and start shrieking like a housewife in a 1950’s sitcom? No, I do not.

I think, “Aw crap. Not again.”

I do, however, shriek when I see the second mouse run across the floor as I'm standing in the kitchen. This is, of course, after I am already aware that the mice are there. I am ridiculous.

But I digress.

As many of you* may remember, I have had these issues before. It was autumn 1998. Steph and I were living in the basement apartment on Palmerston. And the mice, they invaded.

Twice.

The first time, we tried the traps. I became a heartless mouse killing machine. Steph discovered that she’s a bit of a wuss when it comes to dead rodents. And yet, no matter how many we killed, there was always another to fall out of the kitchen cupboard when you open it in the middle of the night. And let me tell you, you haven't heard shrieking until you've been attacked by an airborne mouse in the dark.

Finally, we got rid of them when we cat-sat for my parent’s cat Max. Max may have been hugely overweight and lazy, but she was a mouse killing machine. She scared them away, and they stayed away. Excellent kitty.

Then they came back. Like a horror movie – they just wouldn’t stay dead. (Okay, we didn’t have zombie mice. They were just regular mice. But still – ew!) By that point Steph had fled the apartment. Clever girl. So, I was facing the second mouse invasion alone.

Since traps hadn’t worked the first time, I tried poison. Ahhh, poison. I was told how it works, and even though it’s really really not pretty, I didn’t care. Like I said - heartless. And it seemed to be doing the trick. The damned mice were being defeated. I had beaten the rodent invasion!

Only not really. The mice refused to leave. Even though they were poisoned and dying, they were still so stubborn. And then I got my kitty. (Not to kill the mice. Because she was so pretty. I'm not that heartless.) And my kitty scared away the mice. And I’d really rather not get into the upsetting details of the whole cat-eating-poisoned-mouse-emergency-trip-to-vet-do-you-know-how-hard-it-is-to-give-a-cat-pills period of time. But the mice, they were gone.

And then I moved country and lived in three different flats before moving into this new one. This new flat that I love. Except for the mouse thing. I do not love the mice.

So, the weekend was spent cleaning. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. And buying a rubbish bin for the kitchen. Turns out a garbage bag on the floor is a little too mouse friendly. I really hope they were confined to the kitchen. I did have a dream that I felt one of them walking across my feet as I slept. And I choose to believe it was a dream, thank you very much.

I hope they’re gone. I really do. If they’re not, then it’s time to get a cat.

I wonder what the fishes will think about that?

* Ha! I like to believe that there are “many” of you out there. Delusional? Perhaps.