As Ferris Bueller once so wisely said:
‘Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.’
Life is roaring, roaring, I tells ya. I simply can’t keep up with living it and writing about it all at the same time right now. I do miss you all though, so have a potted history of some of the stuff wot haz happened and some of the stuff wot I haz dun.
Tilly’s birthday was splendid. We did, in the time honoured tradition of our family, much feasting and talking over the top of each other and dropping cake crumbs. We are now gearing up for Tallulah’s birthday, which is next Sunday.
I went to my first branch meeting of the Women’s Equality Party, despite having been a member since forever. It was one of those days where I spent all day chasing my tail, and failing to do things. It culminated in me burning the dinner, setting off for the meeting late after extinguishing the dinner, losing the address and finally arriving 20 minutes before it ended, smelling of burned dinner and looking like an absolute basket weaver. I said I would help with the social media side of things and have failed to do anything of note since then. I do not feel I am an asset to the party.
I went to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition with my friend Claire, and resisted buying some art. I go every year (with the exception of last year when I was too ill) and always resist buying some art. It isn’t as easy as it sounds to be honest. Both Claire and I had deep yearnings for things. Luckily for me, the painting I coveted the most was too large for the weeny amount of space left for hanging pictures in my house, and £52,000.
I did not resist buying my wedding outfit however, and am now selling all my Emma Bridgewater pottery and all of my other clothes, to pay for it. So far I have paid for the shoes, the bag and about four inches of the actual outfit itself. I am making an appointment to see a milliner next week and am also looking at jackets, so do not expect to be out of debt until I am in The Shady Pines Home for Over-Dressed Old Women. I will look fucking fabulous when they cart me off there though.
In less exciting news, my health is fair to middling with moments of mild despair from time to time. The mild despair usually coincides with a futile hospital visit. Therein lies a tale dearest loves, Sadly, it is a tale of woe. I am now in the throes of a formal complaint to the hospital for causing me to go into shock during a procedure which was, in all the 30 odd years of troublous gynaecological misery that has beset me, the most painful thing I have experienced to date. So that was fun,
Recovering wiped out a few days in which I had planned to do all manner of things, including going to see the wonderful, Knickers Model’s Own do a talk about style and pre-loved fashion. Still, she will do more, and I will go to them, even if I have to renovate the Chaise Longue of Death (TM) and put wheels on it to do it.
The house is currently in the midst of renovations and tribulations. Our freezer blew up, which was not as exciting as it sounds, and rather damp. We are waiting on a new one. Our shower floor is too bendy and all the tiles need ripping up. We are waiting for it to dry out, and interviewing plumbers and tilers like they’re going out fashion. Our flat roof finally leaked one time too many, and we have had it fixed. Now we need to find a painter to repair the water damage. The garden looks like it has been over run by savages and is currently hosting some indifferent foxes and some noisy and trundling badgers. We are meant to be getting married in our garden in September. Right now that seems impossible to think about, what with one thing and another. My mum came and pulled up some weeds for me today. If you all come too, and we start a human chain, it might be fit for purpose, eventually.
On the wedding front, we are making slow advances with the organising. My God, it is boring. I mean, even though we are organising lovely things, it is such a massive pain in the arse to do. I am so grateful that I have decided to bin off almost everything most people have at their weddings. If I had to worry about things like what colour napkins I wanted on top of everything else, I would throw myself down a well. I have crossed being a wedding planner off of my list of things to do when I grow up.
My wonderful friends, Bonnie and MaryAnn came to see me for a few days, visiting from that there America. We ate all the food in Leicester, saw Richard III mouldering in the gravy and caught up by talking nineteen to the dozen until my jaw fell off and rolled under the kitchen table.
On Friday I won the coveted mother of the year award by driving Tallulah to Cardiff to see Ed Sheeran in concert. Timings were awkward due to life and shiz. It took four hours to get there. I drove, and Tallulah helped me by talking about everything under the sun in between eating an entire family sized packet of Mini Rolls. She’s not great at map reading, but if you need someone to eat Swiss roll, she’s all over that stuff.
Eventually, after glaciers melted, we got into the stadium. It was me, Tallulah, Ed Sheeran and 60,000 of his closest friends, all stuck together in a giant sweatbox with easy access to a great deal of over priced alcohol. Already, during the support act (Anne Marie) a girl ran by us and threw up all over another girl’s elbow and shoes.
I realise that I sound ungrateful. I know that many, many people would have killed for a ticket to see a tiny navy blue blob, with a tiny ginger blob on top, wielding a brown blob and singing hiddley diddley songs about girls of Celtic extraction. I wish I were one of them.
I did try dear ones. I stood in a heaving sea of people all of whom were doing impressive amounts of dancing in five inch heels, with plastic pint glasses in one hand and their smart phones in the other, singing away and having the time of their lives, and really, really tried to tap into that joy.
Unfortunately, due to the Mini Rolls having run out, my hips killing me, having a hot flush, ironically, right in the middle of a song about fire that went on for about a metric week (the song and the flush), and knowing that I would be driving home afterwards, I really wasn’t feeling it. I know he’s a nice guy, well he seems to be, and he is very melodic but I just find him dull. And I hate the song Galway Girl with a passion, and it’s the only one of his songs I actually recognise, which is unfortunate. It didn’t help that I couldn’t get a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich for a king’s ransom, and I couldn’t drink myself into unconsciousness, due to the whole driving home thing. But my girl had a wonderful time and I didn’t drive the car into a hedge on the way home, which considering we didn’t get home till three in the morning, was a blessing.
Yesterday I went to see the film McQueen, which was, rather unsurprisingly, about Alexander McQueen. It was amazing. I loved it, and it rather made up for Ed the night before. It made me very glad that I was lucky enough to see the Savage Beauty exhibition when it came to the V&A. It also made me want to go again. I got home and watched The Piano again. It’s 25 years since it was released, and having talked about it with people all last week and having been haunted by thoughts of it, it was no surprise that the score was used in McQueen. It was a sign that might be an omen. I’ll let you know if I find out what it means.