Clutterfuck

They say moving house is one of the most stressful things in life. Along with marriage, divorce and having a baby.I would rather push something watermelon-sized through my pelvis right now, because moving house is turning out to be a right bloody palava.

In addition to the usual stress of sorting, boxes, packing, admin, transport, blah blah, we've had to deal with an uncertain house situation and now need to vacate the entire flat in less than a week if we're to get the most favourable contract solution.

Yesterday I started going through my stuff. This is what I learnt.

- Mice really like hanging out in my boxes of CDs which have sat under the lounge cabinet since we moved in over two years ago. I'm going to have to hand-clean every single CD and put them in a non-mouse-shitty box.

- I inexplicably have three pairs of wellies, AND riding boots. One pair of wellies had been in a carrier bag since Glastonbury 2008, and was still encrusted with the site's mud. I suspect that these contain some deadly strains of bugs last seen in the Edwardian slums, and should probably be burned by men in white protective suits, then buried off the coast somewhere.

- I have twenty handbags. I use about two.

- I own boxes of art stuff and stationery I've not opened or used in roughly four years, but I can't bring myself to part with it. What if I am suddenly gripped by the urge to do some collaging or something, and I don't have any Pritt Stick? It doesn't bear thinking about! At least I am safe in the knowledge that I have emergency  crayons.

- I wear roughly 8% of my wardrobe on a regular basis.

- Letting agents are parasite scumbags whose sole purpose in life is to make everything as difficult as humanly possible, and to rape your bank account at every opportunity. FIFTY QUID to click 'print' on a ten-page Word document?  Really? I'm in the wrong game. For the record, dear letting agents, don't lecture me like some sort of authority on contract clauses, when you are a spelling moron and you cannot differentiate between 'your' and 'you're'. One more unprofessional and shitty email, and I will send you back your correspondence with red markings all over it and 'see me' at the bottom.

- I have an excellent collection of early-noughties photos of my dear university friends where we all look young, stupid and badly-dressed. These will be collated and archived to be easily sourced for future birthdays/weddings/anytime I feel like busting out a photo of flared jeans and Acupuncture trainers.

- I own a box of tangled cables which I have no idea about - but I do know that if I chuck it, I'll suddenly realise what they were for, and that they were in fact essential to my existence.

I'm seriously weighing up just tossing a match in my room and walking away to start again. Best go crayon and cable shopping.

Puppetmaster

I’m being played with by Fate. Or whatever it is controlling my destiny. Some sadistic puppet master, yanking my strings and conspiring to plot my clumsy little path through the chaos of existence and make it a little bit surprising, and more often than not, a teeny bit weird. 

This week has involved finding a great housemate to replace me for my forthcoming move (yay!), said housemate not being allowed to move in because of stupid fucking contract beaurocracy (fuck’s SAKE), having one of the most wonderful, spontaneous London days out I’ve ever had (hurrah!), watching a heron silently fish in Little Venice at midnight (ace!), getting some pretty awful family news (grim) and weirdly, running into someone who’s been on my mind. Twice. Via the medium of almost being randomly hit by their car on two consecutive days.

Obviously I styled it out, not looking at all like I’d just walked three miles home from work, hurriedly, with the world’s heaviest bag on a muggy east London evening. Or that my makeup had fallen off. Or that my hair was a massive frizzy mess. Or that I was seconds away from being actually hit by their car because I was in my own little world flouncing home from work, and crossing side streets perilously after some twat rollerblader almost took me out on a pavement. (Note to east London adults: if you MUST rollerblade around like some childhood-regressive Californian tit, do it on the roads and not on the narrow Hackney pavements, or next time I’m not moving out of your way. PS. Your Lycra shorts are disturbingly revealing.) 

Maybe there’s some alternate version of me out there who inhabits all the could-have-beens from my life. She got a housemate to replace herself, and moved into a new flat with minimum fuss. She didn’t almost fall over someone’s car bonnet, TWICE, because she’s cool and not a total specialton like me. She would have breezed through the serendipitous situations effortlessly. She probably has really good hair too.

What a cow.

Hoxton's Hottest Dog

It was The German's idea. She knows how much me, The Foodie and The Pin Up love animals. Specifically dogs. So when she suggested that we head down to Shoreditch Bark Dog Show (see what they did there?), we didn't hesitate. Hipsters and hounds, what's not to love?

However, when telling people that my plans for Saturday were going to a dog show, I mainly got the reaction of  "....what? A DOG show? .....why?" On the way to the park, we discussed whether it was actually strange that all of us, dogless, were going to a park. To look at the dogs of other people.

"I mean, is it weird though? Is it like adults hanging around a kids' playground? Are we - doggyphiles?"

As expected, this being Shoreditch, there was a high density of people wearing boat shoes and big glasses. But it felt weirdly communal for London, we chatted a bit to a lady who owned a magnificent Labradoodle called Archie. Well, communal and friendly until the witless teenage boys starting antisocially kicking off. The German handily gave us a running commentary.

"Look! Fatty has Ginger's shoes, look!"

We discussed various dog breeds between squealing "Awwwwww! Look at him! AHHHH!". The German has some strong ideas about Labradors which the Pin Up independently backed-up some time later.

"Labradors are fucking thick. They are stupid. They eat poo - seriously, they eat poo and the darker coloured the dog, the more they love eating shit. Not even just their own. It's true!"

We watched the classes with interest (and slight perturbedness when the vet who was compering the event kept talking about how good looking the dogs were in a slightly breathless and eager way), cheering the winners and telling our favourite dog owners that they "were robbed" when they didn't get placed. One of the highlights of the day was during the 'Me and My Best Friend' class where children entered with their pooches for the judging panel to assess who had the best bond. The class had to be stopped part way through as an overexcited entrant pulled it's teeny child guardian across the ring. On it's face. There were tears. (Admittedly ours as we giggled.)

After we all fell in love with an adorable Lhasa-Poo puppy called Huxley, and we tried to figure out if we could fit it in anyone's bag, we wandered down to Shoreditch for some afternoon refreshments. The German played a classic in the 'language barrier' game she likes to throw down on the odd occasion.

The German: "So when are you moving house?"

The Pin Up: "A week on Monday."

The German: "On Monday?"

The Pin Up: "No, a week on Monday."

The German: "On Monday?"

The Pin Up: "No.... a week from Monday."

The German: "No, but I mean, you're moving house on a Monday?"

The Pin Up: "....yes."

Me: "You could have saved yourself a good five minutes of conversational cul-de-sac had you just used the 'a' before Monday."

Sometimes it's our duty to educate her. We then, her English boyfriend included, convinced her that the correct English pronunciation of 'maths' was actually 'marrrrrrths', as we worked out the bill. We are good friends to her.

Someone, somewhere hates me

Do you ever wonder to yourself if you did something really, really awful in a previous life? In this life I would like to think I've been alright. I mean, on a Biblical basis, I'd without a doubt be going straight to the firey depths of Lucifer's lair, but I've been nice to people. Generally. Sure, I've had my moments of unspeakable selfishness and frankly batshit mental episodes, but I don't think I've ever done anything really bad to anyone.

Fate and I are having a tricky relationship at the moment. What's totally ace about life is that things change. All the time. And it's amazing to reminisce over the past and think of all the little tiny actions and people that collided and created the present. But sometimes, Fate decides to tease you. Gives you a little glimpse of something that makes your tummy do a backflip and dizzies you with possibility. Then it cruelly snatches it back again. The thrill of anticipation morphs into the dull ache of disappointment. Like a Blur gig followed by a shitty little set from Bruno Mars or something.

So I kind of believe in some nice Universal system* where, if you're not a total fucking prick and generally treat people with a bit of respect and humanity, that things work out for you in the end. But judging by Fate's current dangle-and-snatch routine, my previous life wrongs must've been fairly bad. Maybe I interfered with animals, or was a James Blunt fan or something. (In which case, to be honest, I probably deserve everything I get.)

So essentially, I've been fluffed by Fate. 

What a cunt. 


*I'm not some kind of hippy though.