I like that I get comments. Far from making me feel like a bad blogger and reprehensible, they make me cheery. And how can one not feel cheery on a Friday evening, with the sun streaming in... April is not the cruellest month, I find.
We've just checked the fridge situation and found eggs and noodles. So, whilst we think about the myriad concoctions that these might become, we've opened a bottle of wine as we watch all the possibilities that the weekend has to offer unfold at our feet.
This afternoon I tapped away at some work from home as I've been suffering again from a wretched affliction. My voice this week has varied between squeak and sexy, husky tones... with a less than sexy cough. Perhaps that's why April is a cruellest month - it's the change of season and Mr Elliott was known well to be an insatiable hypochondriac.
Last weekend, the last weekend in which I was the age of twenty six, I went to Pamplona. There were no bulls involved. I'm not particularly keen on the bull fighting aspect of the city. I'm not an afficionado in that respect but very keen on the two euro bottles of reserve wine. Moi bueno! We took the wrong way back to Santander in the hired car on Sunday and found ourselves winding through some beautiful, mountainous forest roads. Sometimes, the wrong way can be the right way.
And now, once again, I find myself a year older. And, as we all do, I look back on my achievements over the last twelve months. And you'll be pleased to know that my painting is two coats away from completion. I think then it takes a few months to dry proper and a bit of varnish over the top and voila! I'm too proud; I've added the photo above in the hope that you'll be proud too (although don't be too hard on my early unveiling).
My hair's a bit longer. The book is taking shape. Goodness me, what with all these achievements, I might as well just quit now, I'm doing so well.
This year, I'm tackling the Anna Karenina and come to the conclusion that I must go to Russia. That will be an event. And it's just another reason why I cannot drag myself away from London, regardless of a quiet yearning that I have to go back home and start setting up shop. Not literally. I don't want to set up a shop. Although, that would be a nice life. I'd have a crafts shop. I'd engage my crafty friend Bri Bri to make my wares and it would double as a tea shop where you can come and sit and take in the scenery and the people walking by. I'd live upstairs and that would be the limits of my little world.
But, probably, I'll just stick to my vocation, pushing paper from one side of the desk to the other for the rest of my working life. Occasionally, I'll answer the phone, and more often than not the caller will be subjected to the cough and the squeak rather than a husky phone voice.
For my birthday, daddy bought me Pascal, Proust, Lautremont and de Sade. Gems! All of them.
Don't snigger... each to their own, I say.
Each book came on a different day in a different package. That's how presents should be. My work-wife, Sandra, has this habit of saving the presents that she gets for Christmas and opening one every now and again over the course of the day. So, when everyone has already smashed through their wrapped goods, and finished their turkey, she'll say, in a satisfied tone, "oh, look! What's this? I have another present to open."
I broke my glasses again. How odd - looking back to this time last year, I did the same thing. And it was almost in the same manner. A night at the pub and glasses strewn across the floor and oops! What do you know. I've stood on them. Luckily, with a little DIY they were salvagable. After a brief but fraught argument with a less than helpful woman at Specsavers, Sandra, seeing my frustration, brought her glasses repair kit into work (she'd purchased it from Tesco for one pound to undertake one of those fiddly jobs for which only the tiniest of screw drivers will do) and I spent one lunch hour mending. Who needs the professionals? I certainly don't. I'm like a bush optometrist.
I have a lot more to say... but, I am half way through making a home made birthday card. It's a pièce de résistance. I've got a very flash private dining experience to attend tomorrow night, for which I will have to get my most glamourous, most flimsy frock out of the wardrobe, and the prospect has sent shivers down my wallet's spine. So, this week, I've made a pledge to only spend the sum total of ten pounds. That's right - a full seven days, feeding myself and what not... hence the eggs and noodles. Thank goodness for the points on my Boots card.
I must admit to you, I've spent fourteen pounds and it's only been five days, but in the spirit of the endeavour, the birthday card is home made. Lucky for the birthday boy, the present shall not be. On the contrary, in response to the flash dinner, I'll be heading down to Liberty for my purchase, and if you happen to find me in the champagne bar there, eating oysters, you'll know that the ten pound budget has been thrown out the window along with a raft of other good and frugal intentions...
The crafts corner calls... but, you'll hear from me again, and shortly this time, I'm sure...
