Vintage Vintasia

So, I'm sitting here in a vintage Joseph denim skirt and Abbots pink pinstripe shirt (try saying that after a couple bottles of wine) that I found in a charity shop on Kilburn High Road, feeling utterly fulfilled.  It came to 11 British pounds.  Eleven.  JOSEPH!!!.  Mint condition.  It's a pencil skirt and I'm wondering whether the person who bought it over-estimated (or perhaps more accurately) under-estimated how much room a real woman needs for her thighs, because it hasn't been worn.  And I'll tell you why - walking is somewhat of a bonus in it but I feel this garment needs to be released from its peg purgatory.  It's so narrow, it really only ought to be used  for display purposes, however I intend to wear it out to see SATC 2 with 30 girlfriends at the Electric cinema in Portobello; man and child free zone - it doesn't get any better than this. (Who cares if I need a stair lift to get to the auditorium .)

Picture Stockard Channing in Grease with her itty bitty, narrow (as the extreme right) tapering skirt and you get an idea of the squeeze.  Put it this way, I will need to leave 15 minutes earlier today to go pick up The Lish from daycare if I want to be on time.  But it's oh so worth it.  Look!! (took piccie with webcam to save time - so this is all you get.)  The denim diet!!  I've shaved 5lbs off in 30 seconds.

Anyway, you get the picture.  Look at the shirt!  It's linen you know.  I love finding bargains like this.  I also found a mini Boden skirt and Gap dress for the nipper in mint condition...for 4 quid!  FOUR.  My husband will be relieved and grateful - especially since I shop with 'our' money, though I have yet to make a significant deposit into the joint account.  Good things come to those who wait I tell him.

Some people play golf - I trawl charity shops for gems.  Same difference.

I'm going through a bit of a general overhaul having finally found my feet (left one to be precise) and have begun hitting the yoga mat with the rage of a cuckcold.  I also discovered a community (a.k.a priced for the poor) Asthanga class at London's arguably most prestigious yoga studios: Triyoga.  I learnt more in one class with a teacher trained by India's foremost Ashtanga master, Pattabi Jois than in 15 years of gymnasium yoga.  Wow.  What a difference a great teacher makes (no reflection on the amazing people at the Canadian studio where I studied). 

Now I just have to hope my friend who is kindly designing some pamphlets and a logo for me, pulls his beer soaked finger out cos I feel a Yoga Open House coming on!! 

(Vintage Joseph skirt will be surplus to requirements at this time).

Married and bored or Single and lonely

Apparently you belong in one group or the other. If only it were that clear cut. See I’m married, bored and lonely (from time to time) - no reflection on the hubby – it’s a personal thing because before that I definitely reached a point when I was single, bored and lonely. It was that in fact which eventually led me to marry to some extent. The truth is neither position is mutually exclusive. I’ve also come to realise that ‘happiness’ or ‘fulfilment’, call it what you like – the antidote to boredom or loneliness – is all in the psyche. It has little or nothing to do with action or location; possession or status. Though in the case of loneliness, there is no substitute for human interaction. Boredom however is a state of mind. I know this for a fact although I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a week in Goa with the girls. Know what I mean?

Yet, I still often feel jaded and alone but then I suffer from depression. Either that or I’ve been premenopausal since I was 12. I soldier on. Don’t we all. I also have GRRRREAT days when everything aligns for me internally and externally. I live for those days. Don’t we all.

I’m in danger of making it sound a little like my marriage is in a bad way. It’s not , no more than anyone else’s and then again neither is it about to feature in the “Good Marriage Guide”. I think it’s a typical marriage going through the rigour of those early stages when you have a young kid and both parties are coming to terms with new ‘roles’ in life. Having to re-jig the order of priority is not an easy task. Especially when you are an unhinged, selfish bint; so suddenly having to do something as selfless as be a parent or partner well it often feels thankless (there’s that pesky undertow of expectation tut tut!). It’s all about point of view. I’m working on attaining an “attitude of gratitude’- I mean I live in paradise compared to more than half the world’s population ; next to my day-to-day in Oakville, Ontario – Iife for me here is a freaking cabaret!

You know what I’ve decided? I am being too short sighted in terms of my outlook. I’m getting bogged down with the here and now to the detriment of the big picture and at the same time I’m wasting energy on the so-called big picture when I should be relishing the here and how. Bloody hell, life’s long ennit? Shall we have a little sit down?

All of this because Sausage Boy has been away on business for a week.  I guess that makes me married and lonely but in this instance that's a good thing right?  I mean the day that I don't get lonely when he's away, it's time to ring the bell for last orders.

Rear Window

Continuing with the theme of Bizarro (the world I inhabit), I’m not sure what I’ve done...or should I say what the sausage fingered destroyer of all manmade things (JJ King, hubby, The Canuck, Sausage Boy, Silver backed gorilla - take your pick) has done, but his little window-wave relationship with the neighbours from the next block whose kitchen window faces ours, has now progressed to the writing of messages on bits of paper.

It has evolved from shirtless anonymous gesticulation to “Hi, I’m A – nice to meet you.”  By 'you' he means me for I was alone in the kitchen when he held aloft said greeting and I really don't know what to make of this new development.

To be fair, during the week, 'A', a full-bodied Englishman sees more of me than Jimjamalicious, being that I'm the so-called 'homemaker'  while Jim Jams goes off to hunt.  I'm a little worried ‘A’  may have mistaken the hubby for a flatmate given the almost romantic nature of his delivery.  Who he thinks the nipper belongs to is a mystery? Or perhaps he’s genuinely just being friendly.  Or perhaps he is a hot blooded swinger.

Now, I love a far -fetched pseudo romantic storyline as much as the next person, but I am left wondering whether he would have approached such an introduction quite in the same way had it been The Canuck and not me standing by the window at the time.  Don't get me wrong, the hubby is already quite taken by 'A' who when not cavorting around naked (I CAN ONLY HOPE) from the waist up, jiggling his rosey man boobs over the colander, is partial to the rugby shirt look; you know, the one where it is required by law to turn the collar up.

The Canuck is utterly bewildered by this very British custom and just simply cannot start the weekend without a glimpse of : The Collar.

Anyway it took me by surprise and I felt obliged to reciprocate with my own captioned message. “Hi, I’m N, nice to meet you too” and then immediately fled the kitchen. Now what? I’ll have to PDA - up my relationship with JJ King when he gets back (he's pissed off to Philly) in order that ‘A’ perhaps figures out the dynamic.

If I were single and looking (and perhaps just a little bit peculiar) you have got to admit, it’s kind of romantic in a Hugh Grant sort of way.  Not that I'm in the least bit concerned of an impending 'pistols at dawn' situation with t'other half.  No, on the contrary, Sausage Boy would most likely schedule a handover meeting to go over the instruction manual and throw in a pork belly dinner (by way of celebration).

No I'm more concerned over what I will do if I ever bump into 'A' in the street and I've still got to get through kitchen heavy, Sausage Boy-free, Saturday and Sunday morning.

In the words of Hugh Grant himself: fuck-a-doodle do.

Needles and Pins

I can feel another change phase coming. With The Lish having started her second daycare now; she does half a day at the gorgeous place (which, believe it or not is free!! You have got to love London) and half a day at a paid for place not nearly as gorgeous (not least because it’s not free) but needs must, I now have the opportunity and duty to get back into tip top shape if I’m going to get this Yoga business off the ground. It will begin with an intensive course of yoga sessions over the next couple of months, a hateful diet (I have run out of excuses and the baby fat line has now become a thing of ridicule) followed by a round of creative sell-ins at gyms and the like.


I do want to branch out on my own but I think it’s important I don’t do what I’m naturally wired to and have done all my professional life and that is...get ahead of myself. This time and because I really mean it, I realise that I’m a few years (yes, years) away from heading up my own studio...at least. In the meantime I will grow my own clientele but like I said, I am currently unable to touch my own toes (let alone see them...ok I exaggerate a bit) even so, I’d better get a wiggle on.

And as is usual with a change of gear, the bizarro sees its chance and it’s Carpe Diem!. First off : mouth ulcers. Ugly pain holes that have punctured the side of my right cheek from molar to incisor. I’ve never experienced the like before. I thought at first I had some sort of flesh eating disease and to be honest I’m not entirely sure it’s not that. 3 weeks into my penance and 5 tubes of Bonjela gel later (I was going through tubes of the stuff like I owned shares in it) I finally caved and went to see a doctor to get me some of the good stuff. The good stuff turns out is hydrocortisone. Steroids to the layman and best friend of the body builder. I honestly do not know how that is suppose to work. So in order to get rid of something, it appears you have to supersize it. Well, we’ll see what happens. If nothing else, I may grow a nice set of guns to go with the impressive moustache.

Then, the furniture arrives just as Jim Jam king takes off – he’s in Philly for the week which means muggings here gets left with the job of heaving and hoeing – still when you’re living room looks like this:

And has done since March – you kinda have to act on it don’t you?

And finally a landline and the internet people are coming too (I mean, I’m like a whirling dervish with all this newfound commodity) which means I no longer have to ponce internet off McDonalds or Starbucks any more (this should help the diet) and can I just say the service provider we eventually plumped for (PLUSNET) after waiting 9 weeks for SKY to do NOTHING (which incidentally is what it should be called – I mean how are they still in business?) managed to do in 3 days what SKY couldn’t do in almost 3 months. It’s an award winner you know but as Sausage Fingers pointed out when doing YOUR JOB, the one you are paid to do and nothing more wins you an award - well, it’s hardly an achievement. Still, I’m impressed, which is pathetic because it’s true – they are only doing what they said they would, no more. I guess I’m just grateful it’s no less. Again sad. What a sorry state of affairs.

Right I'm off to find a man with a van.

Instant gratification is over-rated...or is it?

I have finally been able to do something I’ve been jonesing to do for a LONG time and it feels really great, I mean REALLY great. I know the feeling because in my life I’ve been headstrong and daring (or just stupid) enough to do a lot of these types of things like the time I spent a night in one of the honeymoon suites at The Datai Resort on the island of Langkawi. Let me preface this by saying I was not a newlywed – not even close. No, I was island hopping for a month in Malaysia during what I now realise was an emotional breakdown á la Eat, Pray, Love. And yes, it was instant gratification; an impulse buy which ordinarily you might argue has no lasting value but I beg to differ my dear friends because when I’m on my deathbed, spending the night at The Datai will not rank among the things I will regret.


Anyway, I digress, I went from a beach hut the night before in Pangkor (the neighbouring island) that cost about a $1.40, where my only companion was a cockroach called Mahmood to well...let’s just say this place was so exclusive staff would come round with frozen face towels and discreetly place them at your feet as you sun bathed. This place was so exclusive Ewan Macgregor was lolling about in full Obi Wan Kenobi get up. Though I didn’t do this (I wanted to believe me and I was still young and dumb enough to contemplate it)I didn’t. I didn't follow him around in the hope I would get the chance to nonchalantly spark a conversation up with him but a tiny net (the teeny bit of bashful I still had) held me back and I dare say saved me from making a ground to air moron of myself. Suffice to say Ewan doesn’t have to nonchalantly do anything and suffice to say I’m still paying off the credit card bill.

I have since seen him again, a couple of times at the summer fair in a local West London park. Him with his wifey and kids and me with mine. I can tell you Jim Jam king was more excited than I was but then, I’ve seen Ewie wearing the tiniest pair of swimming trunks.  Nuff said.

Stop distracting me. The thing I’ve done at long last is this: I have reached the end of a week in which I’ve been able to practice Yoga. Every. Day.

Boo!! Boring? I hear you cry. NO, not at all. On the contrary, it’s the start of something that came to a screeching halt before I’d even really had a chance to get going; my yoga career and I’m overjoyed. Ok – so maybe these days it doesn’t take much...though...I don’t know, I’ve been contemplating getting breast implants and a tummy tuck...what can I tell you? It ain’t over til it’s over.

Routine...at last!

I've never been so excited by Routine.  Am I to assume that things are coming together, like finally?  I mean it would certainly seem that way what with The Lish at the most gorgeous of gorgeous daycares.  Look!

Gorgeous ennit?  Don't worry it's Church of England  - the priests here are allowed wives AND lovers.  The daycare is in an annex building and it's non-denominational.  Don't worry I haven't come over all religieuse - good god no.  The only thing I have ever found alluring about 'religion' was the ecstacy of St. Teresa.  I have  since found self medication and erotica (especially when practiced together) pretty much had the very same effect with the added bonus of neither of those things taking up (much of) Sunday mornings.

Then there is the fact the bone in my left foot appears to have finally fused together.  It took its merry old time and I do not know how to describe the pain of Prasarita Padottanasana (open angled, forward bend for those of you not fluent in sankrit) but at least I am able to attempt it.  In other words I've come along hops and hobbles.

So now to begin formulating a master plan to take London's yoga scene by drizzle.  Watch this void.

Oooooh, I'd rather be in Oxford than in John's!!

Spent the Bank Holiday in Cambridge.  Tantrum Boy, A.K.A him indoors decided he needed to get out of London (so soon?  the future looks bright then) and see some 'real' history.  Not being bad but if the streets of London do not offer you enough History, you're sort of a bit FCUKed either that or you are the kind of person who's caught the fabric of life on the door handle and ripped the fantasy - reality continuum. 

Anyhoo, off we chugged on a train for 50 minutes and were in our hotel room within an hour and a half not having even broken a sweat - now that's the kind of journey I'm talking ABOOOOT.  If only sunny European destinations were as easily attained.

The hotel looked like it had been decorated by an elderly woman with the start of dementia.  There were toilet roll covers made to look like a milk maiden's hat in the loo;  So much so the nipper decided that was exactly what they should be used for and promptly stuck one on her head.  Need I say more?  The bar was exactly like the set of an early Carry On film and I dare say the barman remembers when these films were on new release at the cinemas.  Still, the website for the place is outstanding... in it's ability to mislead. 

One thing it didn't lie about was it's proximity to the colleges.  We were 5 minutes on foot from Kings, Trinity and St. John's (the title of this blog was heard belted out by a punter on the River Cam) all of which we viewed like a schoolboy does a copy of Playboy...from all angles.  We saw them from the main square; we also saw them from a punt.  This word alone caused a gigglefest for the Canuck as did Trumpington Street for me.  Childish, yes.  And?

We did find out some fascinating nuggets of history as to the bridges, the colleges and the whole foppish British Class System.  Sausage Boy loved it - I could tell because his eyes were open.

Then of course it was off to the pub for breakfast, lunch and dinner because of course British people always and only eat in these places before retiring to the drawing room with cigar, brandy and a plate of almonds.

I have to admit I love the ceremony of the place, actually I could say that about the whole of the UK and I challenge you to find a place that holds such fascination among the droves and droves of international visitors, I mean even down to the doillies in the hotel. I asked the silver-backed gorilla as he lurched one leg at a time into his never out of arm's reach jim jams what he'd made of it all.  He replied: Pompous.  And flicked on the Snooker World Championship.

Good job then that we were only an hour and a half from home and a  bag of Doritos chips because anything else is utterly wasted on him.