Sunday, February 10, 2008


I picked up a free magazine at Sainsbury's a few days ago, because it was about houses, and The Man and I are househunting at the moment. The first paragraph of one of the opening articles was so spot on, I could have written it myself:

I am the sort of person who likes to get on with things - no dilly-dallying or fannying about on the fence for me. Almost without realising it, I usually manage to end up in control of most situations - apart from those involving The Boyfriend, who is very much in possession of a mind of his own and will therefore not be controlled by me, or anyone else for that matter.

So, you can imagine that househunting becomes rather more difficult than it may otherwise be, and it's never all that at the best of times.

It's a new experience for me, coming up against someone just as stubborn as me. We don't argue, but sometimes we just don't agree about stuff. Like whether to hire a DJ from Moss Bros for a 'black tie optional' affair. (I say yes, definitely, with a proper tie-up bow tie. He'd rather just wear a suit.) But rather more importantly, about which house to buy. I want in town, near the station. Period features, perhaps a little garden. He wants to be out of town to avoid the traffic, maybe some modern purpose build with laminate flooring. A few weeks back he said that he thought that I was more stubborn than he is, and therefore you would assume that would mean that I'd finally manage to win every argument. I think that his estimation may have to be revised...

Although, trembling on the brink of just giving up on the DJ argument, I am feeling a curious sense of lightness at just letting someone else get on and take the decisions. I can understand why some wives just go along with whatever their husbands like. Hopefully this affliction won't spill over onto the house discussions though or we'll end up living in a modern beige and glass flat in East Grinstead....

Friday, February 08, 2008


Thoughts for the day:

I can't bear commuting any more. I *just* *can't* *bear* it.

When I'm old I want to be part of one of those couples that still love each other enough to walk down the street hand in hand.

On other news, I got to see my cervix on the big screen the other day. Which was rather surreal and mildly unsettling. I was called back with a borderline smear (apparently one in ten are) for a further check, and the nurse asked if I wanted to see what they were looking at. I said I did, and she casually flipped on the remote and there it was on the telly, all pink and squidgy looking. When she poked it with a cotton bud I realised how small it is (only about three times the width of the bud), and makes you realise how much it has to stretch for a baby to come through. Ouchee, with knobs on. Trouble is this image is now branded on my brain. I mean, in some ways it's kinda nice to finally see the bits that for years various nurses have had a look at while taking smear tests. In other ways, it would have been nice to finally say hi in slightly less tense circumstances.

On a more fun note, pole dancing classes have started again. It's about a year since the last course, and I'd forgotten how much it hurts! Pole burn in very delicate places, let me tell you, is not glamourous. But it's still a good laugh and a challenge in strength and coordination. And lovely to catch up with some pole pals again. All I need to do now is find the arnica cream....