IT'S been quite awhile since I’ve blogged. The marathon in June was the last time as I recall and now that feels like a million years ago. So much so that when a colleague mentioned he was thinking of doing the Cardiff Marathon next year, a little bit of me was interested. Clearly, the literally painful memories of that day have faded enough for me to hilariously think for a moment I could do another one next year. It was lucky that during that very conversation I was aching from the Bristol City Half Marathon I had winged the day before. If I was sore after a half marathon, I was a long way from taking on my second marathon, that’s for sure. The half marathon had been an afterthought, like having seconds of dinner and then regretting it later when you realise you didn’t really think that decision through properly which is why your stomach is making weird noises right now and you can’t move off the sofa. I decided to do the half marathon with no training since June as I still had my ‘I AM MARATHON WOMAN, BOW BEFORE ME’ hat on and thought I’d ace it after that. WRONG. Two hours, 15 minutes and two aching legs later, I was fit for nothing and had hung up my hat for good.
It's been quite a strange summer. It was the first one without my friends Andy and Fiona since I moved to Bristol. They moved to Fiona’s home of Australia to see what life has in store for them there and at first it was strange getting used to not arranging our usual weekend sessions and dinner dates. Then of course, Himself and myself have not been planning any getaways seeing as the house is still being worked on. But progress has been made and we are on the home stretch now. A December finish is the hope, what I like to think of as my very own Christmas Miracle! Father-in-law builder extraordinare has not gone on strike yet or demanded fair pay, or any pay, for that matter, so we are still on track. I mostly live upstairs since July, kind of like Lady Mary in Downton Abbey, but more mouthy and less grace, while Himself and Father-in-law tackle downstairs, which still resembles a bombed out servants’ hall right now.
Work has been… interesting. In August, the impossible happened. A dear man, who I was lucky enough to have met, worked for and befriended, died out of the blue. And with that, suddenly nothing made sense anymore. Work turned upside down without its heart there to keep it ticking over. We worked on autopilot, and kept our tears and fears for home. Such is the nature of journalism, there’s no stopping time when a paper needs to get out. In my blessed life so far, it was the first time in my grown-up years I was hit with the realisation of my own mortality through seeing someone I saw and took for granted every day, suddenly disappear forever. Darren was a larger-than-life character, bursting with fun, mischief, talent, kindness and an impressive array of politically incorrect jokes. You either loved him, or you loved him. And such is human nature, you don’t realise how much you miss someone, until they are no longer within your grasp. Work took on an even bigger role in our lives as we struggled to keep things on track, and as we still look to regain that balance lost after Darren’s passing, the strength of our team to do so amazes me every day.
So now it’s winter, the boiler is making encouraging sounds (see, house has made progress, this time last year our boiler was in the form of our ski coats) and my favourite time of year, Christmas, is around the corner. I’ve just emerged from a three-day wisdom tooth lockdown, where my only friends were Nurofen and Codeine, and I’m feeling almost sprightly, seeing as I was considering removing said tooth with one of the drills Himself is so fond of, a mere 24 hours ago.
Things are looking up.
Monday, 23 September 2013
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Just call me Marathon Woman
SO, we’re officially halfway through 2013 already. It’s been a fairly crazy and long six months my end but I’m starting to see some green shoots and rays of light battling their way through the darkness of the building site where I currently reside. And no, these lights and greenery are not the overgrown wilderness of the garden attempting to take root inside the house. They are, in fact, signs of progress in the form of painted walls, new doors and the star of the show ladies and gentlemen, a brand new bathroom which is on the cusp of greatness, needing just a few finishing touches to warrant cutting the ribbon and opening that £6 bottle of cava in the cupboard. Not to say that’s the same bottle of cava that I bought in January in anticipation of this day. It may have been taken and then replaced a number of times since then. Like I said, it’s been a long six months.
As for the marathon: I went, I ran, I conquered… and raised almost 1,200 euro for a charity which is important to so many people for so many reasons. If I was to try and find words to describe the experience, I would obviously say ‘incredible’ but I would also probably add ‘horrific’.
It all starts out so well, channelling Sonia O Sullivan and kicking the whole thing off with ACDC's Highway to Hell, but once the 15th mile hits, the walls start coming up and the pain sets in. You try thinking positive thoughts - why you’re doing it and how wonderful it’s going to feel when you finish it - but these thoughts don’t have the desired affect and you start to fall apart a little in your head. Then an elderly man, must have been pushing 75 at least, practically skips past me, followed shortly after by a guy dressed in a kilt and playing the bagpipes as he jogged. I stared after them and the shame made me pick up my pace again. Don’t get me wrong, the support on the day was incredible. Complete strangers thrusting orange slices, jelly babies and bottles of water into my hands and telling me how great I am was definitely one of the better days of my life. Seeing Himself at the 16th mile was a welcome sight – until he started trying to follow and film me, at which point I tried to desperately shake him off, a feat which is difficult in itself when you can barely run anymore and so end up looking like an angry penguin waddling away from the wildlife photographer while turning back to give him the evil eye. Seeing my parents at the finish line - my mam centre court as it were - nearly blinding me with her delighted beam of a smile and clapping hysterically as I limped by. Great memories and the sense of achievement is something else and leaves you on a high for days after. Of course, that ‘high’ could also be attributed to the amount of painkillers you consume to stop your legs screaming at you for forcing them to run 26.2 miles.
And there’s also now the bonus that whenever I’m feeling a bit low, I remind myself that I ran a marathon. My legs may wince but my mind applauds.
As for the marathon: I went, I ran, I conquered… and raised almost 1,200 euro for a charity which is important to so many people for so many reasons. If I was to try and find words to describe the experience, I would obviously say ‘incredible’ but I would also probably add ‘horrific’.
It all starts out so well, channelling Sonia O Sullivan and kicking the whole thing off with ACDC's Highway to Hell, but once the 15th mile hits, the walls start coming up and the pain sets in. You try thinking positive thoughts - why you’re doing it and how wonderful it’s going to feel when you finish it - but these thoughts don’t have the desired affect and you start to fall apart a little in your head. Then an elderly man, must have been pushing 75 at least, practically skips past me, followed shortly after by a guy dressed in a kilt and playing the bagpipes as he jogged. I stared after them and the shame made me pick up my pace again. Don’t get me wrong, the support on the day was incredible. Complete strangers thrusting orange slices, jelly babies and bottles of water into my hands and telling me how great I am was definitely one of the better days of my life. Seeing Himself at the 16th mile was a welcome sight – until he started trying to follow and film me, at which point I tried to desperately shake him off, a feat which is difficult in itself when you can barely run anymore and so end up looking like an angry penguin waddling away from the wildlife photographer while turning back to give him the evil eye. Seeing my parents at the finish line - my mam centre court as it were - nearly blinding me with her delighted beam of a smile and clapping hysterically as I limped by. Great memories and the sense of achievement is something else and leaves you on a high for days after. Of course, that ‘high’ could also be attributed to the amount of painkillers you consume to stop your legs screaming at you for forcing them to run 26.2 miles.
And there’s also now the bonus that whenever I’m feeling a bit low, I remind myself that I ran a marathon. My legs may wince but my mind applauds.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Driving Miss Mernagh
IT'S Sunday and for the first Sunday in what seems like ages, I am not working. I celebrated with a lie-in, a run and a drive-by past Toolstation, Wickes and Asda. The house is chugging along, at a pace similar to that of an 80-year-old woman with a 40-a-day cigarette habit on a pushbike with two flat tyres. But chugging, nevertheless. The bathroom has been painted and tiled which is progress but still lots to do to it before we can give it a new door and I can move in there until the end of the year when the rest of the house is finished. I can hear Himself sawing something angrily downstairs now as I type this. We just had a dispute over how I was holding the hoover up the wrong way to detract the dust from the hole he was drilling. I hadn't realised there was a right or wrong way to suck up dust, but my eyes have been opened this afternoon I can tell you.
Last week we both knew it was time to have 'the talk'. It had been building up for awhile now and we had both been avoiding being the one to approach the subject, but time was ticking along and needs must, as they say. I had a driving test at the end of the week and was in desperate need of help with parallel parking and reverse around a corner. It just never seemed to click with my driving instructor and if you fail the maneuver, you fail the lot, so I was getting stressed. We both knew that Himself teaching me would be a recipe for full-scale, Die Hard-like disaster, which is the reason I had not asked up to now and he had not offered. I agreed that I would listen and not talk back or throw a strop (people agree to strange things when they're desperate) and so we put some brown boxes into the boot and headed around the corner to the industrial park. Ten minutes in and Himself was in full lecture mode after I reverse parked into one of the boxes. While I calmly tried to explain that it didn't count as there would be no car behind me on the test (they get you to park behind a car but none behind you), Himself refused to acknowledge this and instead chose to highlight the fact that you'll probably always have a car in front and behind you in real life, and what would I do then? A point well-made, but by that stage I decided it would feel better to rev up his engine and see his face go red to annoy him further than to agree with him. He then attempted to draw a diagram of the correct way to do it, at which point I was getting ready to drive into the other box. That's when the police pulled up alongside us (no joke) and had obviously just come over to amuse themselves with the sparring couple in a car surrounded by brown boxes.
'Excuse me miss, was that box upright before you got here? Cause that would be a fail now you know," police guy sniggered, as the policewoman next to him cackled hysterically before they took off again down the road. Funnily enough, after that we settled in to a good hour of me reversing in and out of the boxes perfectly once Himself had passed on his technique for quick and easy parking. I did get the reverse park on my test and managed to ace it - mainly due to the practice we had put in that week - so I was extremely grateful. Something tells me we won't be sharing his car though.
The driving test was a big deal for me and had been one of my main resolutions this year so every time I remember I've passed I feel a real tingle of delight. It's such a weight off knowing I never have to do it again! Next up is the marathon in 3 weeks' time. That will be a very challenging day for me but I'm ready for it, mentally anyway, and I'll wing the rest on the day. But for now, I'm going to make the most of the rest of my Sunday off. The sawing noise has ceased downstairs and it's suspiciously quiet. Maybe I'll head down and offer to hoover up the dust from it...
Last week we both knew it was time to have 'the talk'. It had been building up for awhile now and we had both been avoiding being the one to approach the subject, but time was ticking along and needs must, as they say. I had a driving test at the end of the week and was in desperate need of help with parallel parking and reverse around a corner. It just never seemed to click with my driving instructor and if you fail the maneuver, you fail the lot, so I was getting stressed. We both knew that Himself teaching me would be a recipe for full-scale, Die Hard-like disaster, which is the reason I had not asked up to now and he had not offered. I agreed that I would listen and not talk back or throw a strop (people agree to strange things when they're desperate) and so we put some brown boxes into the boot and headed around the corner to the industrial park. Ten minutes in and Himself was in full lecture mode after I reverse parked into one of the boxes. While I calmly tried to explain that it didn't count as there would be no car behind me on the test (they get you to park behind a car but none behind you), Himself refused to acknowledge this and instead chose to highlight the fact that you'll probably always have a car in front and behind you in real life, and what would I do then? A point well-made, but by that stage I decided it would feel better to rev up his engine and see his face go red to annoy him further than to agree with him. He then attempted to draw a diagram of the correct way to do it, at which point I was getting ready to drive into the other box. That's when the police pulled up alongside us (no joke) and had obviously just come over to amuse themselves with the sparring couple in a car surrounded by brown boxes.
'Excuse me miss, was that box upright before you got here? Cause that would be a fail now you know," police guy sniggered, as the policewoman next to him cackled hysterically before they took off again down the road. Funnily enough, after that we settled in to a good hour of me reversing in and out of the boxes perfectly once Himself had passed on his technique for quick and easy parking. I did get the reverse park on my test and managed to ace it - mainly due to the practice we had put in that week - so I was extremely grateful. Something tells me we won't be sharing his car though.
The driving test was a big deal for me and had been one of my main resolutions this year so every time I remember I've passed I feel a real tingle of delight. It's such a weight off knowing I never have to do it again! Next up is the marathon in 3 weeks' time. That will be a very challenging day for me but I'm ready for it, mentally anyway, and I'll wing the rest on the day. But for now, I'm going to make the most of the rest of my Sunday off. The sawing noise has ceased downstairs and it's suspiciously quiet. Maybe I'll head down and offer to hoover up the dust from it...
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Energy, where art thou?
RIGHT, well it's April and that monthly blog resolution clearly didn't work out. There was no solve the clues type game that you weren't aware of in order to get to a link which will lead the loyal reader to a rewarding March blog post. No, nothing so creative and energetic as that. There was just white space, emptiness, an absence of effort. Lack of drive, Himself would say, to which I would say f... actually, best not write down what I would say to that, my gran may very well read this at some point.
Indeed, I've been thinking a lot about drive lately and taking note of the people around me who go about their day jobs but spend their free time following their other passions. It's inspiring to see others put in that time and effort to achieve something separate to their daily routine at work and I'm in awe of how they manage it. I think energy is the key to juggling it all. I'm still trying to find that energy this year to work on all of the various things I want to achieve while doing my job/commute the best I can.
The weather hasn't exactly helped much. It was so cold on my run last week that when I finally stopped at 12 miles, my body refused to leave the running pose and I had to lie on my bed as if mid-jog for about an hour until it thawed out. This morning when I got to the station, I had to wipe the tears from my eyes after cycling in as the wind was that bitter. I got a few strange looks but I know they were most likely sympathetic, thinking 'if I looked like that in the morning, I'd cry too!' Picture a 5"2 Gollum-like creature in a helmet and high-vis jacket who's just been told his 'precious' ring is definitely gone this time, hence the red, teary face. Uncanny eh?
But bad weather is just another excuse. My daily motivational mottos on FB inform me 'quitting is for losers' and 'no pain, no gain'. One asked me the other day: 'Are you going to be a wimp, or a champion?' I think I'll be a champion wimp thank you. Saves having to choose between the two. At the end of the day, the only person who can make you go the extra mile in your life is you. That's my motto, and I don't stick to it but I know it's true. I have two months left to up my game before the marathon. I have about 9 months to go until my house resembles a house again and we return to what life was like BHD (Before House Demolition), which should hopefully include such luxuries as a bathroom door, ceilings and a dust-free kitchen.
I have this weekend off finally so I am herewith appointing it as 'The Weekend To Regroup'. I will knock back some Berocca, make some lists and 'find myself' again, like Julia Roberts did in Eat, Pray, Love, but from the discomfort of my own home, rather than an ashram in India. I will emerge Monday morning victorious and well-rested, with boundless energy and a new appetite for my passions. Or I'll just be a champion wimp on a bike. It's up to me, right?
Indeed, I've been thinking a lot about drive lately and taking note of the people around me who go about their day jobs but spend their free time following their other passions. It's inspiring to see others put in that time and effort to achieve something separate to their daily routine at work and I'm in awe of how they manage it. I think energy is the key to juggling it all. I'm still trying to find that energy this year to work on all of the various things I want to achieve while doing my job/commute the best I can.
The weather hasn't exactly helped much. It was so cold on my run last week that when I finally stopped at 12 miles, my body refused to leave the running pose and I had to lie on my bed as if mid-jog for about an hour until it thawed out. This morning when I got to the station, I had to wipe the tears from my eyes after cycling in as the wind was that bitter. I got a few strange looks but I know they were most likely sympathetic, thinking 'if I looked like that in the morning, I'd cry too!' Picture a 5"2 Gollum-like creature in a helmet and high-vis jacket who's just been told his 'precious' ring is definitely gone this time, hence the red, teary face. Uncanny eh?
But bad weather is just another excuse. My daily motivational mottos on FB inform me 'quitting is for losers' and 'no pain, no gain'. One asked me the other day: 'Are you going to be a wimp, or a champion?' I think I'll be a champion wimp thank you. Saves having to choose between the two. At the end of the day, the only person who can make you go the extra mile in your life is you. That's my motto, and I don't stick to it but I know it's true. I have two months left to up my game before the marathon. I have about 9 months to go until my house resembles a house again and we return to what life was like BHD (Before House Demolition), which should hopefully include such luxuries as a bathroom door, ceilings and a dust-free kitchen.
I have this weekend off finally so I am herewith appointing it as 'The Weekend To Regroup'. I will knock back some Berocca, make some lists and 'find myself' again, like Julia Roberts did in Eat, Pray, Love, but from the discomfort of my own home, rather than an ashram in India. I will emerge Monday morning victorious and well-rested, with boundless energy and a new appetite for my passions. Or I'll just be a champion wimp on a bike. It's up to me, right?
Sunday, 3 February 2013
Back with a bang
WELL, here we are again, a new year and it's February already. Don't get me wrong, I'm estatic to be rid of January with its post-Christmas blues and apocalyptic weather. Unfortunately, my new year's resolutions seem to be just as eager to disappear. Only having blossomed a mere month ago, like the determined snowdrops making their appearance right on cue despite the bad conditions, my resolutions are now wilting miserably and need to be revived if they stand any chance of succeeding in 2013.
Firstly, there's the small problem of my deciding on NYE to save the world by entering a marathon this coming June. Sure, there's five months to go, I said. Plenty of time, I said. Now February, and after a lot of comfort eating, a couple of trial runs and a distinctly dodgy knee, I'm beginning to feel a little bit pressurised by my save-the-world pledge. But that is irrelevant, more running and less talking is what is required to tackle this. A snazzy new running bag and a watertight knee support will surely get me back on track. Four months to go. Failure is NOT an option.
In my last post from August (and yes, another resolution is a blog a month, I'm clearly already a month behind so that is already working out splendidly) I spoke about our delightful new home and the joys and near-death experiences of living with Himself. Fast forward to now, and that laundry mix-up seems like it was from another lifetime. Simpler times. Yes, we were cold due to a lack of a boiler and had to watch Homeland while wearing our ski coats, but we were happy. Now, the tables have turned. Our house is undergoing a slow, painful transformaton - new heating, new plumbing, floors up, ceilings down, the works - and resembles what can only be described as a demolition site for over a month now, and we're living in it throughout. There's no luxury hideaway caravan at the end of our garden (which itself is suffering from the renovations and resembles a knackers' yard) to escape to each night. There's no Kevin McCloud turning up with his Grand Designs crew and helping us on our way, while I pose for the camera in my hard hat and then we all crack open the Moet and toast to a job well done as the last £1m solar panel is placed on our roof. Can you tell that I have dreamt of this already? No, far from it. Just Himself and master of all trades dad-in-law tackling it all, one day at a time. Small budget, even smaller crew. No Moet, just a lot of tea and dinner sat on the stairs as there's no furniture right now.
There has been the usual supportive phrases from friends and family -'It'll be worth it though, won't it'? or 'that new working socket is light at the end of the tunnel now though, isn't it?' and my favourite by Himself - 'all we really need is electricity and running water anyway'. As a woman, I can tell you right now that electricity and running water are not very high up on the list of what I really need in my everyday life. One would hope those things were a given living in a modern city. This is where Himself and I differ, well, one of the ways anyway. Himself is in DIY heaven - drills, sockets, lighting options, chisels, cables, spirit levels, measuring tape - a blank canvas ready to be filled by a product designer such as Himself. I, however, am in DIY hell - no bathroom door, showering in a dungeon, walking on nails, nearly breaking my neck tripping over dust sheets, no TV, no internet, no phoneline, no bubble baths, no privacy and some extremely irate neighbours. Nothing but the promise of better days ahead and for someone as impatient as I am, that's not the promise I'm looking for.
But it's better than nothing. And though I complain, I know that some day this year (I hope!), thanks to Himself, we will open our front door and say 'Kevin McCloud, eat your heart out', and it will all have been worth it and it will be the light at the end of the tunnel, just like everyone said. But until then, while my home life is being torn down and rebuilt around me, I figure it's probably not the worst time to be focusing on reviving my month-old resolutions. Work, marathon, friends and writing may just be my ticket to surviving the next few months of renovations, and you can be sure as hell that ticket is one-way, not return!
Firstly, there's the small problem of my deciding on NYE to save the world by entering a marathon this coming June. Sure, there's five months to go, I said. Plenty of time, I said. Now February, and after a lot of comfort eating, a couple of trial runs and a distinctly dodgy knee, I'm beginning to feel a little bit pressurised by my save-the-world pledge. But that is irrelevant, more running and less talking is what is required to tackle this. A snazzy new running bag and a watertight knee support will surely get me back on track. Four months to go. Failure is NOT an option.
In my last post from August (and yes, another resolution is a blog a month, I'm clearly already a month behind so that is already working out splendidly) I spoke about our delightful new home and the joys and near-death experiences of living with Himself. Fast forward to now, and that laundry mix-up seems like it was from another lifetime. Simpler times. Yes, we were cold due to a lack of a boiler and had to watch Homeland while wearing our ski coats, but we were happy. Now, the tables have turned. Our house is undergoing a slow, painful transformaton - new heating, new plumbing, floors up, ceilings down, the works - and resembles what can only be described as a demolition site for over a month now, and we're living in it throughout. There's no luxury hideaway caravan at the end of our garden (which itself is suffering from the renovations and resembles a knackers' yard) to escape to each night. There's no Kevin McCloud turning up with his Grand Designs crew and helping us on our way, while I pose for the camera in my hard hat and then we all crack open the Moet and toast to a job well done as the last £1m solar panel is placed on our roof. Can you tell that I have dreamt of this already? No, far from it. Just Himself and master of all trades dad-in-law tackling it all, one day at a time. Small budget, even smaller crew. No Moet, just a lot of tea and dinner sat on the stairs as there's no furniture right now.
There has been the usual supportive phrases from friends and family -'It'll be worth it though, won't it'? or 'that new working socket is light at the end of the tunnel now though, isn't it?' and my favourite by Himself - 'all we really need is electricity and running water anyway'. As a woman, I can tell you right now that electricity and running water are not very high up on the list of what I really need in my everyday life. One would hope those things were a given living in a modern city. This is where Himself and I differ, well, one of the ways anyway. Himself is in DIY heaven - drills, sockets, lighting options, chisels, cables, spirit levels, measuring tape - a blank canvas ready to be filled by a product designer such as Himself. I, however, am in DIY hell - no bathroom door, showering in a dungeon, walking on nails, nearly breaking my neck tripping over dust sheets, no TV, no internet, no phoneline, no bubble baths, no privacy and some extremely irate neighbours. Nothing but the promise of better days ahead and for someone as impatient as I am, that's not the promise I'm looking for.
But it's better than nothing. And though I complain, I know that some day this year (I hope!), thanks to Himself, we will open our front door and say 'Kevin McCloud, eat your heart out', and it will all have been worth it and it will be the light at the end of the tunnel, just like everyone said. But until then, while my home life is being torn down and rebuilt around me, I figure it's probably not the worst time to be focusing on reviving my month-old resolutions. Work, marathon, friends and writing may just be my ticket to surviving the next few months of renovations, and you can be sure as hell that ticket is one-way, not return!
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Home Sweet Home
BLESS me father, for I have sinned. It's been five long months since my last confession - and by confession, I of course, mean blog. A lot has happened since my last post in March, most of which I spent crying into my overpriced and unused ski boots after that disasterous 'last hurrah' holiday where himself lost his voice and I lost my patience. Fast forward five months and I am writing this blog from the comfort of my secondhand sofa in our new house, which is part of the reason why I went off the radar for a few months but also partly because I am just that lazy.
But back to the new house and yes, I am now a homeowner, in England no less. Who'd have thought it? Absolutely no one I can assure you, if my financial track record was anything to go by, but meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his sensible savings plan can do strange things to a girl. One day you're making a beeline for Debenhams on payday in a taxi, the next you're debating the merits of various savings accounts at Barclays before heading home on the bus.
And so the house hunt began but no one ever tells you about the highs and lows of this particular journey. I assumed we would take our deposit and walk, hand in hand, into our local estate agents. Staff would immediately pop open a bottle of the good stuff to celebrate our decision to become first-time buyers as we pored over a large property portfolio, which had all our dream houses exactly in our price range. The bank would rush through our mortgage and a week later, the Swarovski-encrusted keys would be ours.
How wrong could one person be? We fell for the first house we saw, came close to getting it only to be gazumphed at the last minute by someone else. We were distraught and our estate agents did not appear to be in possession of that perfect property portfolio I had assumed would be our next point of call if we lost this house. A few months went by and we were seriously starting to lose faith, veering between extreme paranoia that our estate agents were secretly sabotaging our search to deleriously discussing the pros and cons of life on a barge. Then, in one of those rare moments in life when you know someone must be looking out for you, Himself got the call that the first house we underbid for was on market again and was ours if we wanted it. It was magic and I will never forget the pure joy I felt at that moment, like it was definitely meant to be after all.
After what felt like an eternity filled with mortgage talks, estate agent screw-ups and NatWest online meltdowns, we were sitting in our garden popping our own bottle of the good stuff and toasting to a healthy English-Irish alliance. Since then, we have settled right in. Aside from the need for a new boiler, new pipework and a complete rewiring of the house, we're good to go. Living together for the first time has proven ... interesting, and compromises have had to be made from both parties in order for said parties to reach their next birthday alive.
For example, Himself likes to drill things. It's like having a small child in my care sometimes. One minute he's in front of me watching tv, I take my eyes off him for a second and he's drilling a hole in the sitting room wall. I am not altogether innocent either though. Last week I did a quick laundry wash and dumped the contents of the basket into the machine. One hour later, I was upstairs in the bathroom putting a face mask on when I heard a howl of rage. Rushing downstairs thinking Himself had dropped his beloved drill on his foot, I discovered something much worse had occurred. Suffice to say, white work shirts do not stay white in a coloured wash.
But those little hiccups are just part and parcel of life at no 50. Last weekend it was my birthday. Our little house was filled with friends and laughter and as I looked over at Himself, admittedly through a blissfully tipsy haze, I felt the two of us had really made a home here. Himself, on the other hand, was eyeing up his drill again. Note to self, destroy drill.
But back to the new house and yes, I am now a homeowner, in England no less. Who'd have thought it? Absolutely no one I can assure you, if my financial track record was anything to go by, but meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his sensible savings plan can do strange things to a girl. One day you're making a beeline for Debenhams on payday in a taxi, the next you're debating the merits of various savings accounts at Barclays before heading home on the bus.
And so the house hunt began but no one ever tells you about the highs and lows of this particular journey. I assumed we would take our deposit and walk, hand in hand, into our local estate agents. Staff would immediately pop open a bottle of the good stuff to celebrate our decision to become first-time buyers as we pored over a large property portfolio, which had all our dream houses exactly in our price range. The bank would rush through our mortgage and a week later, the Swarovski-encrusted keys would be ours.
How wrong could one person be? We fell for the first house we saw, came close to getting it only to be gazumphed at the last minute by someone else. We were distraught and our estate agents did not appear to be in possession of that perfect property portfolio I had assumed would be our next point of call if we lost this house. A few months went by and we were seriously starting to lose faith, veering between extreme paranoia that our estate agents were secretly sabotaging our search to deleriously discussing the pros and cons of life on a barge. Then, in one of those rare moments in life when you know someone must be looking out for you, Himself got the call that the first house we underbid for was on market again and was ours if we wanted it. It was magic and I will never forget the pure joy I felt at that moment, like it was definitely meant to be after all.
After what felt like an eternity filled with mortgage talks, estate agent screw-ups and NatWest online meltdowns, we were sitting in our garden popping our own bottle of the good stuff and toasting to a healthy English-Irish alliance. Since then, we have settled right in. Aside from the need for a new boiler, new pipework and a complete rewiring of the house, we're good to go. Living together for the first time has proven ... interesting, and compromises have had to be made from both parties in order for said parties to reach their next birthday alive.
For example, Himself likes to drill things. It's like having a small child in my care sometimes. One minute he's in front of me watching tv, I take my eyes off him for a second and he's drilling a hole in the sitting room wall. I am not altogether innocent either though. Last week I did a quick laundry wash and dumped the contents of the basket into the machine. One hour later, I was upstairs in the bathroom putting a face mask on when I heard a howl of rage. Rushing downstairs thinking Himself had dropped his beloved drill on his foot, I discovered something much worse had occurred. Suffice to say, white work shirts do not stay white in a coloured wash.
But those little hiccups are just part and parcel of life at no 50. Last weekend it was my birthday. Our little house was filled with friends and laughter and as I looked over at Himself, admittedly through a blissfully tipsy haze, I felt the two of us had really made a home here. Himself, on the other hand, was eyeing up his drill again. Note to self, destroy drill.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
It's my holiday and I'll cry if I want to
IT's nearly been a fortnight since I arrived home from my week's ski holiday in France. I use the term 'ski holiday' quite loosely, considering I ended up feeling like I'd just completed an expensive week-long course on Nursing One's Sick Partner While Abroad, Level One. This was meant to be our 'last hurrah holiday' for awhile as the need to start saving was becoming more apparant every Saturday night as the National Lottery consistently refuses to match my numbers. And so we headed off to Les Arcs in France, looking forward to the break, hitting the slopes and the free red wine.
That didn't work out unfortunately. Himself woke up on our very first day with tonsilitis and a bacterial infection which basically robbed him of his voice for the next 6 days, left him bedridden with fever, sweats, no appetite and wallowing in justified self pity and martyrdom. Not bothered to go ski alone, I spent most of the week dispensing medecines, mopping brow (no joke), making sympathetic noises, reading a Marie Claire inside and out that I had bought for 10 euro after having finished the only two books I had brought with me after a day and a half, and then watching a horrific French reality show based on The Hills called Hollywood Girls while Himself snored, shivered and sweated his way through the week next to me. Romantic it was not but then true love is tested by the hard times, not the good ones I guess. If it was tough for me to see the first week I'd got off since I transferred jobs disintegrate before my very eyes, I know it was worse for ski-mad Himself to be looking out at that wonderful snow-covered mountain and not being able to move out of bed. Late in the week, he gradually started feeling better and we watched Hollywood Girls together, not understanding a word they were saying and so instead, making it up as we went along. Do not judge us. It had been a long week.
Himself is absolutely fine now, his voice is back, the fever's gone, but the holiday's over. It could've been worse I know, but it also could've been better. I did learn a few things though. No use in having free wine if there's no one to share it with. I give into temptation too easily - when the going got tough, I did stick by Himself, but I did NOT stick by my Lenten vow of no chocolate or cake, if the generous helpings of chocolate torte and baked Alaska I wolfed down were anything to go by. I do think God will probably let that one go though thanks to my stint as Florence Nightengale. I also learnt that one should always bring more than two books on holiday, knowing more words in French than 'bonjour' can never fail to come in handy, life without internet and TV shows I can understand is very boring and last but not least, a career in nursing is definately not for me.
That didn't work out unfortunately. Himself woke up on our very first day with tonsilitis and a bacterial infection which basically robbed him of his voice for the next 6 days, left him bedridden with fever, sweats, no appetite and wallowing in justified self pity and martyrdom. Not bothered to go ski alone, I spent most of the week dispensing medecines, mopping brow (no joke), making sympathetic noises, reading a Marie Claire inside and out that I had bought for 10 euro after having finished the only two books I had brought with me after a day and a half, and then watching a horrific French reality show based on The Hills called Hollywood Girls while Himself snored, shivered and sweated his way through the week next to me. Romantic it was not but then true love is tested by the hard times, not the good ones I guess. If it was tough for me to see the first week I'd got off since I transferred jobs disintegrate before my very eyes, I know it was worse for ski-mad Himself to be looking out at that wonderful snow-covered mountain and not being able to move out of bed. Late in the week, he gradually started feeling better and we watched Hollywood Girls together, not understanding a word they were saying and so instead, making it up as we went along. Do not judge us. It had been a long week.
Himself is absolutely fine now, his voice is back, the fever's gone, but the holiday's over. It could've been worse I know, but it also could've been better. I did learn a few things though. No use in having free wine if there's no one to share it with. I give into temptation too easily - when the going got tough, I did stick by Himself, but I did NOT stick by my Lenten vow of no chocolate or cake, if the generous helpings of chocolate torte and baked Alaska I wolfed down were anything to go by. I do think God will probably let that one go though thanks to my stint as Florence Nightengale. I also learnt that one should always bring more than two books on holiday, knowing more words in French than 'bonjour' can never fail to come in handy, life without internet and TV shows I can understand is very boring and last but not least, a career in nursing is definately not for me.
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