All About Me

Ever wondered how many places/things/people named Alice there are?

(Come on, I know you have.)

Well, Wikipedia is there with the answer.

My favourite is 291 Alice, an asteriod belt. Awesome.

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.

Seriously? No soul?

I got this over at Janice's blog.

You Are 36% Abnormal

You are at medium risk for being a psychopath. It is somewhat likely that you have no soul. You are at medium risk for having a borderline personality. It is somewhat likely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at low risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is unlikely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer.

How Abnormal Are You?

I'm mildly offended by this. Only mildly though, so maybe it's right.

Question of the Day!

So, I was having a conversation a little while ago with my lovely flatmate Buffy about what you call the person that you're dating. Obviously, it's easy if you're married. But what about before then?

She felt she was too old and grown-up to have a "boyfriend", so was looking for an alternate word. Now, I've got to be honest with you. When I hear people call their significant other their "lover", I want to vomit. I don't know why it grosses me out so much, but it does. I think it's because in my mind it brings up 1) the idea of those people having sex, which is not always pretty or 2) them saying it with a ridiculous accent "Have you met my lovvvvverrrrrrrrrr?"

But the alternatives aren't that great.

"Partner" really only works if you're gay. Otherwise, it just doesn't work for me. It sounds like you're trying too hard, you know?

And I also have a problem with people who are all "my man" about their men friends. I don't know why, but it gives me the skeeves.

Personally, I have no problem with "boyfriend", even though I would hope that the next person I date is not so much a boy.

Now that I've offended you all by being mean about the words you use to describe your special fellas and ladies (Hi! Sorry about that! Don't hate me!), I'm going to take an informal poll. Internet, this is your chance to have a say. What do you think? What's the ideal word? Or, if you've got alternates, votes in the comments please!

What is your word of choice?
	Partner
	Lover
	Boyfriend or Girlfriend
	My man or My woman
	Person with whom I shop at the Do-It Centre
Free polls from Pollhost.com

The Age Gap

One of the editors we work with pretty frequently is Canadian, although he's lived in the UK for ages and ages. But because we have the Canadian-ness in common, he often likes to regale me with Canadian facts and trivia. One of our previous converstaions involved Vancouver, and how I possibly would end up out there if I moved back to Canada. He then told me that it rains six months of the year in Vancouver. That was maybe a week or so ago.

This is a conversation that occured this morning. (And I'm not being as abrupt as it seems - I was making a cup of tea. It takes a lot of concentration.)

Editor: You know, it rains six months of the year in Vancouver.

Me: Yeah, you mentioned that.

Editor: That's what you get when you live in a rainforest.

Me: That's true, I suppose.

Editor: And their team didn't do well this year.

Me: The Canucks? Do they ever do well? I thought they sucked.

(Note: I know very little about hockey. The Canucks could be awesome. I've got no idea.)

Editor: Well, they've never won the Cup, but they've made it to the playoffs a few time. You'll remember the playoffs in '82?

Me: Not really. I was 5 in 1982.

[Pause]

Editor: Well, maybe you've seen history programmes about the playoffs in '82?

Excellent recovery! Well played, Editor. Well played.

Welcome to Barcelona!

What's that you say? You'd like to see photos from my trip to Barcelona? Really?

That's so sweet.

Okay, here you go!

And sadly, no. There are no photos of the fashion avenged. I'll do better next time.

Fashion Avenger: Barcelona Edition

Dear People of Barcelona, Both Residents And Tourists,

Hi there! How y'all doing? It was super to see you all when I was in Barcelona last weekend. Wasn't the weather nice? And yes, I did get a bit of a sunburn, thanks for pointing that out. I did forget that you can burn when it's cloudy, it's true.

But we're not here to talk about me, are we? No. No, we are not.

I can't address all of the issues that we encountered on my trip, but there are a few of you that I wanted to speak to. And yes, I'm sure you know who you are.

Girl wearing the asymmetrical short stripey skirt with black checked patterned tights and white flats? Yeah, what the hell were you thinking? Do your friends hate you? Did you lose a bet? Are you actively trying to repel guys? You didn't really think this was a good look, did you?

Lady wearing the white macrame-type top with a skirt that looked like a jean miniskirt with more white macrame-type crap hanging down to your ankles? First of all, ew. I'm really really hoping this was a holiday look, and you don't actually wear this crap in public in a town in which you know people. Because they must be so embarrassed for you, and I don't want that for them. They've done nothing wrong.

Woman with the too-tight jeans/crop top combo with quite a fair bit of stomach bulge hanging out? Look, I don't mean to be cruel, but the size that you think you are? Is not the size that you are. And I really don't want to hurt your feelings, because I'm sure if you dressed in clothes that were the right size, you'd be all cute and stuff. But as is, you made me turn away from my giant beer to comment "sweet mother of god, did you see that?" to my friend, and it wasn't in the good way, if you know what I'm saying.

Lady wearing see-through plastic stiletto heels for a day of tourist type activities? Just FYI, those shoes make you look like a whore. It's 3pm and you're in line for a cable car. More of a "daytime" look is really appropriate here. Your whoreish-ness is scaring the children. You can't tone it down for the day? Seriously?

I know I seem like I'm being a bit harsh on the ladies, but there are just so many more ways you can go wrong in women's fashion. And, oh people of Barcelona, so many of you were getting it so wrong. Now, that's not to say that all of you were badly dressed. Lots of you looked perfectly fine. And you're a lesson to those who persist in wearing clothes that make me want to poke my own eyes out with a fork to prevent myself from having to look at them.

Let's just hope that lesson gets learned.

Come on, Barcelona. I've got faith in you. You can do better. I know you can.

Love,
Alice

Amusing Stories from My Recent Canadian Visit, Part 2

I went out for dinner with an old friend from back in the day while I was in Toronto. Not that she's old. She's my age. We've just known each other since we were 10, which is definitely the longest I've known anyone that I'm still in touch with, not counting family and/or family friends.

Anyway, I haven't seen her in ages, and we met up for dinner and drinks at this really nice restaurant in the Annex which I will not name due to the incriminating story I am about to relate.

She got to the restaurant first, and was waiting when I turned up. (I wasn't late, just to clarify. I got there mere moments after she did.) We were eating at a cute little restaurant, and there was only one other table of customers when I got there. As I was about to sit down, the waiter (and possibly owner) swooped over to take my coat. We took the bold move of ordering a half litre of wine - red, not white, as I no longer drink white post "The Incident", which we no longer speak about so I don't know what you're talking about.

Waiter/owner man left us alone with our menus and wine for a while, and there was much catching up and amusing banter of the "my mom saw your grandmother at the airport" and "hey do you know what so-and-so is up to?" and "your little brother has a beard??" variety.

We'd pretty much decided on food when waiter/owner man swooped to the table again. He was a swooping kind of guy. The other table had left by this point, so we were the only customers in the place. We ordered our main courses (I ordered the paella) and smiled politely.

Waiter/owner man: No appetizers for you ladies? You must have the appetizers!

Us: Thanks no, we're thinking we'll get dessert instead.

Waiter/owner man: The desserts are disgusting.

Now, this caused us a moment of confusion. You've got to understand that he said this with absolutely no humour or sarcasm in his voice. It was a total deadpan "The desserts are disgusting." Needless to say, we weren't sure quite what he meant by this. Were the desserts actually disgusting? Was he kidding? Were they so good they were disgustingly good? What did he mean?

After an awkward pause, we decided that he was kidding and laughed awkwardly. He chortled to himself and swooped away.

We exchanged a look of "well, that was weird" and continued the catching up and amusing banter. Much merriment was had.

The food arrived and the waiter/owner man insisted on introducing himself and learning our names. Um, okay. Sure, why not? It's a friendly place, right? That's nothing to think is weird.

The food was really nice, and when we were done, we did indeed feel in the mood for desserts, assuming they weren't disgusting. Once again, waiter/owner man swooped to our table.

Waiter/owner man: You're finished! How was the meal?

Us: Delightful, thanks. What desserts do you have?

Waiter/owner man: Oh, they're disgusting. We have an awful chocolate cake, it's very rich. We've got a disgusting lemon tart, it's horrible. Our rice pudding is absolutely repulsive. The apple pie with ice cream is sickening, and our house speciality is the cheesecake, which is nauseating.

Us: [confused pause]

Waiter/owner man: [smiling in anticipation of our disgusting order]

Us: [confused look exchanged] Uh, I guess the chocolate cake please?

Waiter/owner man: [grinning] You'll love it. It's disgusting.

So, he clearly meant disgusting in the "disgustingly good" sense, but that so was not clear when he was describing the desserts. What is up with that? How is belittling your food and calling it gross a good selling technique?

From now on, I will be using this terminology at every opportunity.

"And your haircut is finished. What do you think?" Disgusting.
"Congratulations! You've won a million pounds!" Disgusting!
"And how do you take your coffee?" Disgusting?

And for the record, the cake was pretty good.

Amusing Stories from My Recent Canadian Visit, Part 1

The day after I flew into Toronto, a friend of mine had his thirtieth birthday party. The timing, was she not excellent? It was at a bar/restaurant type place in Toronto called Alleycatz. Note the super cool "z". This is no ordinary bar, my friend.

Actually, it was really nice. There were about 20 of us for dinner, and the bar bit had a band playing and they were really good. The food was excellent, the drinks were plentiful, Sean got some great gifts, there was cake and party favours. An excellent night, wouldn't you say? But what could make this night better? What could add some hilarity to this night?

That's right. The fakest English accent ever. Ever!

When we got to the bar, we were seated by the hostess lady (after the mandatory coat check - clever bastards!) and then the waitress came over to the table. Now she looked completely normal. And then she opened her mouth.

Waitress: Fancy a drink, luv?

Now, I am prone to exaggeration. I'll freely admit that. But you need to believe me when I say that this was the fakest English accent ever. It was just so bad. It was a mix of every stereotypical accent you can imagine. So, so bad.

Now I assumed that as I live in England, I would be more aware the badness of this atrocity than the others I was with.

But sometimes, I underestimate my friends sometimes. As soon as she left, I couldn't hold in my disbelief. And that was quickly backed up by the others at the table. Seriously, such a bad accent.

Anyway, they all were pressing me to bust her on her fakity fakeness. And I would have loved to have done it, really. But at heart I am a nice and somewhat shy person (shut up, I totally am), and want to make her cry in front of a huge table of people. A goodhearted friend tried to step up and help me out.

Goodhearted Friend: That's a great accent. Where are you from?

Waitress: Oh, thanks. I'm from Manchester.

Me (in my head): Manchester? Like fuck you are.

Now, I'm sorry for the profanity, but really. Manchester has a quite distinctive accent. It's easy to figure out when someone is from Manchester, just by their accent. And sure, if people live in London or the south, they can lose their regional accents, blah blah blah. If she was from Manchester, I'm from ..... well, somewhere that I am clearly not from. Paraguay, let's say. If she was from Manchester, I'm from Paraguay.

And, because I would like to be a meaner person than I am, I devised a clever test to check her supposed Manchester origins.

Me (planned clever test): Oh, you're from Manchester are you? I live in England myself. I forget, what are people from Manchester called again?

Waitress (anticipated response): Um, Manchesterites? Manchestersons? Manchesterians? Fine. Fine! I don't know. I'm really from Mississauga. Stop harassing me! [runs away in shame]

Me (anticipated glee): Glee!

Because there is no way she would have known the answer to that question, unless she'd actually lived in Manchester, or at least somewhere in the UK.

For those of you that are curious the answer is Mancunians (pronounced Man-cue-nee-uns) or Manks for short.

And seriously, fakest accent ever.

(And just for the record. I did not actually confront her. That was all imagined. Did I not mention I'm a wuss?)

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.)

Gutteberg update!

Finally! New films at the Steve Guttenberg Project!

You've been a-flutter with anticipation, haven't you?

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.

Best. Scene. Ever.

So, I just finished watching Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle (also known as Harold & Kumar Get The Munchies in the UK, because the wonder of White Castle has not made it to these shores).

Now, I don't know if you've seen this movie, but it's a delight.

Not only is it delightful, but it has the single best scene I have ever seen in a movie ever, in all time, ever, ever, ever.

Harold and Kumar are in a car, listening to soft rock of the 80's. A classic tune, one which I currently have on my iPod, known as Hold On by the fabulous Wilson Phillips comes on the radio. And they sing along.

Now it might not seem like much. But I laughed so hard I almost cried, and then I rewound it and watched it again, and again laughed so hard I almost cried.

Best. Scene. Ever.

B.O.R.E.D.

So, you know when it's a really slow day at work? And you've recently received a delivery of DVD's and cases that used some unusual packing material?

And say it looks like this:

Sometimes the answer is so clear, isn't it?

People, it's the First Annual Styrofoam Hat Day. And I could not be more excited!

How cute do I look?

Jessica's gone for more of an upturned brim, which I find quite sassy.

And I'm serious when I say we're making everyone wear them.

And yes, Jess and I are sitting at our desks right now with the hats on. And we look SO GOOD.

One more Valentine

I do take requests. Sarah, this one's for you.

It's a good old-fashioned Valentine's Day!

I miss being in grade school sometimes, don't you?

Remember when you were in the second grade, and the day before Valentine's Day, you decorated a brown paper bag to stick to the side of your desk to act as your Valentine's mailbox? And then your mom took you to the store, and you got to pick your Valentine's cards. It's always a tricky decision. Too obvious and cheesy and everyone else will have the same ones. Too esoteric and unexpected and your classmates will think you're a freak. You finally decide on your selection, and then the tricky part comes. Allocating the cards. You sit down with the list of your class that your teacher helpfully handed out the week before and start divvying them up. The cutest boy in the class clearly gets the most suggestive card. Or at least, the most suggestive card that the Care Bears selection has to offer. The gross boy that everyone hates gets the one with a bad pun and a drawing of a frowning lemon. You don't want him to think you like him, do you? There's always one "best friend" card, and it's always tricky to think of which of your seven best friends to give it to.

I miss those times. I also miss getting thirty Valentine's cards.

In a tribute to the Care Bear card days of yore, I give you my Valentine's treat to you.

Happy Valentine's Day, from me to you.

Enjoy it like you're eight years old.

Sad Times

We really are living in sad times.

I just heard *NSync refered to as "Justin Timberlake's old band".

Does no one appreciate the beauty of On The Line?

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.

Now that's what I call fabulous

This made me laugh so hard I almost cried.

Brokeback To The Future.

I defy you not to find this hi-freaking-lariuos.