Category: maizy

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Finances

My word, but it’s so exciting. Not only am I now a meditation zealot I’m also a spreadsheet convert. Single-handedly, fuelled only by beer, Mr Hg has performed a miracle. I merely watched in awe (also fuelled by beer which explains why there are two bottles of each brew).

This is the “before” picture. They are carefully arranged, by Mr Hg, in order of strength. Apparently this allows one better to appreciate each flavour since the less alcohol there is the more delicate the savour.

finances - before

For the first time in my entire life I have an overall grasp of my finances. This is of course a shameful state of affairs, never having had even the most palsied plucking at the matter previously, but as with so many things it is better late than never. Spreadsheets are really really useful things, I’ve discovered, with their clever “add up all the numbers” functions.

They also demonstrate all the essential bits of gorgeousness that make life worth living readily dispensable expenditures where savings can be made. (“Do I really have to cancel the Tate membership?” “Yes” says Mr Hg sternly. I didn’t tell him about, and he didn’t discover, my shameful coffee secret which, I have just this moment worked out, actually cost the same as ten Tate memberships over one year. Does that have to go too? It does? Sigh.) What also became clear was that therapy, at a staggering equivalent of six Tate memberships each month is my biggest single outgoing. Get well before going bankrupt seems to be the moral of this spreadsheet.

Some things are easier than others to let go. Why, for instance, did I feel weepy when cancelling the two papers and one comic a week we’ve been having delivered for the last several years? I can only speculate as to how I shall feel when the last capsule of coffee is in the machine. Maybe it will be fine and I shall embrace the neglected stove-top pot without a backward glance.

It is extraordinary, and I find it shocking, that even at the cheapest outlet Maizy’s favourite dog treats cost £13.00 per kg compared to, say, parmesan cheese which weighs in at a mere £10 per kg. However rather than giving her cheese I could always try the snacks-for-humans produced by the same company which are a mere £3.50 per kg.

And the beer? Mr Hg, who is very tall and has hollow legs, got through all five of the different brews. I, who am neither tall nor hollow, managed three out of five which was pretty good going.

finances - after

The Abbot ale was rather disappointing after the Bateman’s XXXB which was delicious. The Brakspear Triple was truly nectariferous as well as being loony juice at 7.2% ABV. I drank mine the next day and had to go for an extended rest afterwards.

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An unordered week’s worth of list

  • Purple and red. Both very bright. Both very together. Why have I never seen this before?
  • Snowing downdrift of chestnut-coloured plane-fluff on titian curls.
  • The view of Canary Wharf from C’s window last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
  • There are many paths but only one mountain.
  • Using whiskey then, when that doesn’t work, a glowing match to remove a tick results only in the strong reek of flambéed fur. And has no effect on the tick. In fact it might make the tick cough crap into the dog. Tweezers are recommended. And don’t crush the arachnid using any unprotected part of your anatomy – the crap might get into you too. But how come, I wonder, my brother and I were de-ticked every evening in the bath when we were in the Isle of Man using neat whiskey?
  • “I am feeling more stable and happier than I have done for years.” Me, out of nowhere, to my father.
  • Penny Serenade has to be one of the most excruciatingly bad films ever. His Girl Friday is much better, one of my all-time favourites, but I fell asleep.
  • Dead Man, on the other hand, is one of the most brilliant films ever. And, serendipitously, is on offer in the Virgin megastore.
  • The smell of incense and the sound of sirens while meditating in a central London church.
  • “Why is it that we regard positive sentiments and phrases describing happiness as trite while misery and suffering is seen as more ‘real’?” Thought-provoking question indeed. Maybe another manifestation of Milton’s Paradise Lost v Regained syndrome.
  • Champagne. First Moët then Nicolas Feuillatte (I still have the corks). Later in the week a palette of champagne cocktails chosen and given by a friend: the pale pink of champagne, cointreau and cranberry juice with a delicate spirogyra of orange peel in a poinsettia; glowing orange-yellow of a Bellini (champagne and peach juice, the cocktail of Venice); the golden russet of a vanilla champagne cocktail.
  • Leap and the net will appear: Julia Cameron in The Artist’s Way, lent by a friend.
  • Second-born: “I thought I was going to have a nightmare last night, but I thought of something lovely, a happy time, and it went away”. Astonished mother, knocked sideways by this step-change in the aforementioned spawn’s unremitting negativity: “How fantastic! And what was the happy time that you thought of?” “Our camping holiday in Cornwall.”
  • Cooking for friends from Delia’s vegetarian book.
  • Hospice at Home charities and the fund-raising party a friend had to honour her mother who died, at home, a year ago.
  • Comforting a friend’s child after he fell over when she wasn’t there. Loving the trust and depth of our relationship that allowed me to hold him and calm him and wipe away his tears.
  • The crashing to the floor onto a metal object of my camera and splintering of glass… the fall destroyed the filter and left the lens unmarked.
  • Pale dry sherry and cheese-and-chive pretzels. Powering this post.
  • Loop. Again. With a loyalty card. A fabulous pattern for looooong fingerless gloves (buttercup armwarmers) in pure silk Alchemy Pagoda yarn which I’m making in Pablo’s Solace (aka purple) which was 50% off in the sale. But I’m going to modify the pattern a bit and make a thumb and thread a red ribbon (see list item number one) round the wrist.
  • I *am* a dirty old mystic. A term of abuse coined by the ex. Ok, I’m not dirty, but I’m an old mystic. And I love it. I absolutely love it.
  • Great minds. Great Minds.
Posted on

An unordered week's worth of list

  • Purple and red. Both very bright. Both very together. Why have I never seen this before?
  • Snowing downdrift of chestnut-coloured plane-fluff on titian curls.
  • The view of Canary Wharf from C’s window last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
  • There are many paths but only one mountain.
  • Using whiskey then, when that doesn’t work, a glowing match to remove a tick results only in the strong reek of flambéed fur. And has no effect on the tick. In fact it might make the tick cough crap into the dog. Tweezers are recommended. And don’t crush the arachnid using any unprotected part of your anatomy – the crap might get into you too. But how come, I wonder, my brother and I were de-ticked every evening in the bath when we were in the Isle of Man using neat whiskey?
  • “I am feeling more stable and happier than I have done for years.” Me, out of nowhere, to my father.
  • Penny Serenade has to be one of the most excruciatingly bad films ever. His Girl Friday is much better, one of my all-time favourites, but I fell asleep.
  • Dead Man, on the other hand, is one of the most brilliant films ever. And, serendipitously, is on offer in the Virgin megastore.
  • The smell of incense and the sound of sirens while meditating in a central London church.
  • “Why is it that we regard positive sentiments and phrases describing happiness as trite while misery and suffering is seen as more ‘real’?” Thought-provoking question indeed. Maybe another manifestation of Milton’s Paradise Lost v Regained syndrome.
  • Champagne. First Moët then Nicolas Feuillatte (I still have the corks). Later in the week a palette of champagne cocktails chosen and given by a friend: the pale pink of champagne, cointreau and cranberry juice with a delicate spirogyra of orange peel in a poinsettia; glowing orange-yellow of a Bellini (champagne and peach juice, the cocktail of Venice); the golden russet of a vanilla champagne cocktail.
  • Leap and the net will appear: Julia Cameron in The Artist’s Way, lent by a friend.
  • Second-born: “I thought I was going to have a nightmare last night, but I thought of something lovely, a happy time, and it went away”. Astonished mother, knocked sideways by this step-change in the aforementioned spawn’s unremitting negativity: “How fantastic! And what was the happy time that you thought of?” “Our camping holiday in Cornwall.”
  • Cooking for friends from Delia’s vegetarian book.
  • Hospice at Home charities and the fund-raising party a friend had to honour her mother who died, at home, a year ago.
  • Comforting a friend’s child after he fell over when she wasn’t there. Loving the trust and depth of our relationship that allowed me to hold him and calm him and wipe away his tears.
  • The crashing to the floor onto a metal object of my camera and splintering of glass… the fall destroyed the filter and left the lens unmarked.
  • Pale dry sherry and cheese-and-chive pretzels. Powering this post.
  • Loop. Again. With a loyalty card. A fabulous pattern for looooong fingerless gloves (buttercup armwarmers) in pure silk Alchemy Pagoda yarn which I’m making in Pablo’s Solace (aka purple) which was 50% off in the sale. But I’m going to modify the pattern a bit and make a thumb and thread a red ribbon (see list item number one) round the wrist.
  • I *am* a dirty old mystic. A term of abuse coined by the ex. Ok, I’m not dirty, but I’m an old mystic. And I love it. I absolutely love it.
  • Great minds. Great Minds.
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Winter holiday

The trick, I find, with hot lemon, honey and whiskey, is to add the whiskey last after the mixture has cooled a little in order not to drive off too much of the alcohol. It being lunchtime I have, after long and deep reflection, decided to defer the whiskey until the bedtime brew. I can tell that it’s a vital ingredient by the way the whiskeyless blend slips down with only minimal stinging. The alcohol is essential for efficient scrubbing of bacteria from the throat.

The sweet-sour medicine is in my new mug, a present from Small-Loch A, which is decorated with a reproduction of the original cover of Winter Holiday by Arthur Ransome. It’s profoundly comforting. As a child, and well into my teens, I was regularly woken by nightmares of great terror which would recur as soon as I went back to sleep. The antidote, a result of some historical accident no doubt, was Winter Holiday which took up permanent residence beside my bed. I read and re-read and read again, probably hundreds of times over the years, as much as was required to result in eventually falling into a dreamless sleep.

Maizy too has been unwell. On Tuesday morning she suddenly started shivering violently and slunk under the kitchen table with her tail as far between her legs as such a docked appendage can reach. Nothing would coax her out. When I crawled under the table towards her she slunk out, her paws leaving little wet prints on the wooden floor. She screamed when I tried to pick her up.

The vet explained that the wet paw-prints were the result of sweating caused by stress. She also said, after a thorough examination, that she thought Maizy had pulled or sprained a muscle around her right back leg. I have little doubt this occurred during one of Maizy’s regular attempts to scale the 5-foot high wall into the neighbour’s garden in pursuit of next-door’s cat. The vet’s kind words and a pain-killing injection left Maizy (temporarily) slightly sprightlier and my wallet £52 lighter. Only today (Friday) did Maizy managed to climb up the two stairs on the ground floor of the house without standing in front of them and howling for help first so either it was quite a serious pull/sprain or she’s a total big girl’s blouse.

It’s the first time Maizy’s been seriously out of commission and the peace and quiet has been deeply disturbing. Although also having the benefits of, well, peacefulness and quietude. Even the cat has shown signs of distress, bouncing and pouncing, batting her with his claws and biting her neck in an effort to get her to play. But all to no avail: Maizy remained supine, curled motionless on her bed. Lying doggo.

She’s not the only one who’s had her head under a blanket recently. I’ve been in deep denial about how ill-equipped I have been to do my duties at Global Voices. But the sad truth is that I don’t have what it takes to do the job properly. Too big, too amorphous, too stressful, too unstructured, too isolated for my currently compromised capabilities. It’s extremely sad for me. I think what GV does is brilliant and much needed work. I have made really important and enduring friendships and met a huge range of wonderful and notable people, and I am and will remain extremely grateful for the entire experience.

I now have a few weeks transition into a world where a vet’s bill of £52 takes on an altogether deeper significance than heretofore. I enquired about work at the local bookshop the other day. The manager remembered me from the occasion when I interviewed her for a piece I was doing when arts correspondent. The pay, assuming they have a vacancy, which they don’t, is £5.50 per hour.

Now many things can be measured in pre-tax bookshop hours (ptbhs). Maizy to the vet? ten ptbhs. Fill the van with petrol? Seven ptbhs. One cup of coffee, one hot-cross bun and two loaves of (admittedly rather exotic) bread – 2 ptbhs. A frugal week’s food shopping – 15 ptbhs. One hour of babysitting? 1.75 ptbhs. And so it goes, untenably, on.

It’s an interesting problem, that of generating enough money to keep body and sons together (and house and pets and van). But also to be able to do their homework with them, cook them interesting food, tuck them into bed. Small goals. A tiny horizon. More time, less stress. A little life.

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Pass the sick bag, Alice

(And for those who don’t know, as I didn’t, the origin of the above endearing expression, it was apparently a catch-phrase of former newspaper editor Sir John Junor. From the same source we discover that “here’s one I made earlier” is from Blue Peter, where blogging is hot, not Fanny Craddock as might have been the case. Another mystery solved.)

Anyway, enough of this quick tour of the murkier quirks of British culture of the second half of the last century and back to current cuteness.

Today the sleep deficit caught up, we all overslept and there was more-than-usual chaos in the house. And there was a deadline very very close.

This is all by way of explaining why so much of the morning was spent on the bed in a dressing gown with the creatures. I was working, frantically, on the laptop. I failed to shut the bedroom door. They infiltrated and, it being cold and the laptop hotter than any radiator, moved in. Together.

Obviously the camera was to hand. And every now and then, when the files took entire minutes to save or the internet was broken, there was enough time to take a quick picture of the cutesome twosome.

And the pictures are by way of attempting to convince various visitors to the house who have witnessed Maizy clamping the cat’s head in her jaws and dragging him across the floor whilst emitting sounds which resemble death-curdling growling (but are obviously meant in a very kind and caring way) that the two do really get on very well together. Displaying cuteness so cute you might need a bucket.

Unfortunately every time I shifted position Maizy would wake instantly and spring to attention thereby significantly reducing the cuteness quotient. Stealth was required, and no flash.

It’s also an excuse to use this fantastic little widgety thing called PictoBrowser which comes live and direct via the Via, the Via Negativa, where Dave has used it to make a breathtaking display of his favourite pictures. He’s also explained all its exciting mouseover features which is another really good reason to visit.

For those with a stomach strong enough for blurry soft focus pet pics the cuteness slideshow is below the fold.

Continue reading “Pass the sick bag, Alice”

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Please play with me

please play

It’s difficult to work when being gazed at with such a combination of pleading and accusation. Not to mention having a de-squeaked squeaky hedgehog repeatedly dropped on your foot.

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The sick bed

the sickbed

They’ve been doing the nursing. I merely provide the fruit juice, aspirin, iPod and light meals. Oh, and the bed.

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Home again

And delighted to be so. Just me and the boys and the critters. Maizy and the cat were happy to see each other again after their separation. I’m sure Maizy boasted about her long country walks and her agility over stiles.

stile

Other pictures from Tuesday’s circular walk can be found here.

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Maizy to the rescue!

An unceasing volley of hysterical barking which not even bellowed curses from the study could stop. Rising from my screen in seething anger I stomped to the front door to mete out retribution… and saw, through the front window, my van hanging suspended between earth and hell (aka the Park Royal Vehicle Pound).

Ok. So the tax disc has expired. And that’s because the MOT has expired. And that’s because it’s got a flat tyre. And it has a flat tyre because I have no jack and no wheel-nut thingy and am feeble. And, strangely, nobody’s pulled up on a shining white charger with the requisite tools and muscles about their person and done it for me. So I’m a criminal.

It was clamped yesterday and I peeled the penalty notice from the windscreen with the familiar feeling of nausea-trauma, death and destruction, mental and physical immobility and general existential despair which suffuses my being on such occasions.

Only half an hour before the barking started I finally nerved myself sufficiently to open the plastic wrapper and extract the bad news. Which wasn’t soooo bad. There was a number to phone and if done so within 24 hours of the clamping the fine was half as much as that levied after 24 hours.

Now I knew that the clamping had happened while I’d been on the school run the previous day so I knew I had a few hours leeway. Or thought I knew. Because not only was the 24 hours yet not up, but here was the dreaded grabber with its crushing grip of steel around my pride and joy, already in the air, swinging round over the flatbed.

Now it’s obvious that the kind of job which requires you to remove another person’s possession, especially one as invested with pride, machismo and sense of identity as the personal motor vehicle, will warp your character if it wasn’t already warped before you started. And also expose you to high levels of hostility, abuse and violence.

I approached with extreme caution.

Body language submissive, unthreatening.

Slight tearing of the eyes, judicious nervous twiddling of long blonde lock of hair.

Expecting a fight to the death, storms of sobs to be deployed, possibly screaming, kicking, biting, the raising of a mob of indignant residents against the iniquity of the car thieves, and so on. Instead of which the delightfully unwarped person at the back of the truck told me I had 10 minutes to phone the number on the card, pay the fine and if I did so they’d put the van back down.

Which is exactly what happened.

“You were lucky” the truck driver remarked. “If we’d got it to the pound it could have been £400 to get it out. You were lucky you came out when you did.” When I told him it was the dog’s barking he advised me to give her a good dinner this evening.

So instead of meting out retribution I shall be meating out reward.

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It's sunning cats and dogs

dog and cat Sometimes I think I owe such sanity as I have left to the animals.

Other times I wonder whether they actually make things worse.

Such lack of complication. Such love of the sun.

Of course they fight a lot of the time too. Like, yes. Them.