Look after the pounds...

Yesterday’s dog post has been met with mixed reviews, some fellow softies and some hard (and not particularly wet) nosed bitches (in the female dog sense) so today I’ll opt for something of a less touchy feely nature.

In my life, here’s what’s happening today…me and Lindsey are off to view a couple more properties in Islington at lunchtime and I am suffering with a throaty chesty type lurgy, which I put down to working in a new office environment and the air conditioning etc etc. Very dull indeed. Even duller are my lack of weekend plans, so we’ll brush over real life and start pondering some issues of importance.

Recently, my thoughts have turned to money, or more specifically my recent lack of it.

I’m not someone who could ever be accused of allowing money to fester unnecessarily in my account, preferring to set it free as often as possible and to spend it frivolously on as many people as I can. So finding myself not being paid for 2 months, having impending deposit plus 6 weeks rent on new place, AND having my boyfriend’s 30th, mum’s 60th, brothers, dad’s and grandma’s birthdays all in April…quite frankly it’s terrifying. Not to mention ridiculously selfish of everyone to gang up on me and have April birthdays.

I’m also not someone who’s used to worrying about money. That’s not to say that I’m some minted uber princess, but more that the normal amount that comes in regularly keeps me sweet, so it’s all these ‘unplanned’ things (ok, so I knew about the birthdays) which have got me. I usually have an idea of how much I do or don’t have to the nearest couple of hundred quid (usually within an overdraft I hasten to add).

But why are British people so cagey about money? It seems most people spent lots of time worrying about not having it, or worrying about people finding out when they do have it for fear of being labelled as spoilt, or silver spooned, or even worse, being repeatedly numbered for rounds at the pub.

We all have friends who we classify as ‘skint’ cos they harp on about it the time, but perhaps there are others who loyally dip their hands into their threadbare pockets to dutifully buy their rounds without a murmur who are worse off. My suspicion is that those who wax lyrical about their hard-up-dom aren’t actually as hard up as they’d like to make out. The very fact that they worry, means they are probably careful with their money, whilst the rest of us think we’re fine, so continue splashing.

And what’s with the whole privacy about your salary thing? I understand it within work, as there are undeniable discrepancies between similarly qualified people, but within friends….should it matter? I don’t give a toss who earns what, but I find it interesting that some people guard it so tightly. Again, I suspect those people who earn more don’t disclose as they don’t want to be milked like the proverbial cash cow, rather than those who want to keep schtum as they are embarrassed of their meagre salary.

Right, flats to view…money to spend that I don’t have, and cookies to bake and poems to write for all April bdays. Purse strings an all.

Dog chat

I always knew that dogs were somehow superior to us, but this morning’s kitsch trivia has just firmed up my belief, the Metro (which I know doesn’t compensate for some real news, but you have Jonathan’s blog for cutting edge hi-brow current affairs) was chocca this morning with heart warming tales of super dogs.

One of them told the tale of a Labrador who had apparently performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on his owner when she got a piece of apple wedged in her throat. This raises the important question, did her mother not tell her not to gobble her food and to chew properly? Or perhaps more importantly, did the dog know what it was doing? Now, even as a obsessive dog lover, I’m not sure I could put my hand on my heart and state, doing a scouts honour signal that ‘The dog must have mentally run through all of the possible diagnosis of the problem and selected the Heimlich as the most suitable form of immediate medical treatment, and then endeavoured to place pressure on the chest in order to dislodge the offending chunk of gala’.

More likely I imagine is the fact that the dog saw the women falling to the floor gasping, hacking and clutching her chest as a brilliant new game and one which he delighted in engaging by jumping up and down on her.

When Lotte was around, if I ever found myself on the floor (tripping, drunk, in the middle of a hissy fit) she was always quick to make the most of this unusual turn of events by standing on me. I don’t know why, I guess it probably boils down to the novelty of the situation.

So there’s no doubt, this dog may well have saved his owner’s life, but purely by accident.

On the other hand, the other dog featured was an extremely talented canine who could sense when his severely epileptic owner was about to have a seizure AND tell her about it. How? God knows. Presumably the same way cats and dogs seem to be able to sense when there’s going to be a storm.

Or it’s maybe some kind of subtle physiological shift detectable only in the canine world. And how did he tell her….he counted out the minutes til her next seizures with a series of barks? He ate a corresponding number of bones? No, he stared intently at her. Great.

Apart from the fact that dogs stare at you quite a lot, about 4 hours out of every day on average. So every time walkies is due, meat or anything tasty is being eaten or balls/toys are around, she would be in high alarm, lying down, reaching for her medication and pressing the panic button, and the dog will be thinking, ‘here we go again, every time I want something she freaks out, it’s just her her her, all the sodding time’.

So there we have it, despite my love of dogs, and the fact that I do cry almost every time I read a story like the ones I read this morning, if we examine the facts, these doggy tales of superdom are often flawed. On the other hand, you do find there are true dog heroes, called ‘Canine Partners’ a ‘helping paw’ if you will. These are the true champions. The dogs who open doors, empty washing machines, get cash out of machines, collect post, press panic alarms and who make it possible for thousands of people with a disability to live an independent life…these amazing, gentle, patient dogs are the very eyes, ears, hands and more. And that’s the key to making me REALLY cry.

The other day I was sitting on the tube and someone was whining about the ‘incessant announcements about which stop you were at, and which connecting lines left from that stop etc etc’ and I had to try very hard not to glare at the person in question. Why? Because only weeks before I had stood with tears trickling down my cheeks watching a brave old retriever who was a ‘guide dog’ during rush hour on the Northern line, having his poor tail trodden on and being shunted around by angry commuters whilst he sat loyally by his completely blind owner….who I imagine, found the announcements of which stop he was at invaluable.

Try if you like, but I absolutely defy anyone not to be moved by a dog at some point in their lives, even if it’s just that they get run into at full speed an shunted a couple of foot. I love them and I am holding out (very impatiently) for my first. In the meanwhile there’s ‘The Underdog’ on BBC2, ‘Dog Borstal’, ‘It’s me or the Dog’, ‘DoggySnaps’ and plenty more dog media to keep us sad-dog-owner-wannabes smiling.

Relationships with my ex-tended family

As those of you who know me will know, I had a childhood sweetheart by the name of Andy, who I was with for the entire duration of university and two years afterwards...he was, well, he was lovely and generous and gentle and I have nothing but the fondest of memories of our time together.

In total we had a 5 1/2 year relationship which was spent on the whole living and breathing each other to the point of practical inseperability. We were in essence bestest mates and not a great deal more as time went by, but we were bloody good mates. We adored each other in a way I felt could never be surpassed...I hadn't taken into account our mums. The love my mum felt for Andy and Andy's mum felt for me in hindsight was more intense and has lived on well after the demise of our relationship.

Andy and I split amicably around 4 years ago, and to this day, even as recently as 2 days ago, our mums still communicate by email, telling each other how very sad they are that things couldn't have worked out and how great we were for each other. They had, it turned out, pinned their very 'grandparental' hopes on us. And these are hopes that don't fade over night, or even over 1200 nights, and counting. My mum cried as much as me, if not more when it happened and those kind of emotional scars run deep you know!

I am convinced his mum (and quite possibly mine at some level) still harbours real desires for us to get back together, and I sometimes wonder whether she she realises what a 'no-go' it is to even mention my name, or whether she waxes lyrical about what 'could have been' not realising that I have been intentionally wiped from Andy's memory of ever having existing.

So, our mums continue to exchange texts, Christmas cards and e-mails, swapping family news and having fond, sentimental thoughts of the past. And no-one can stop them, and do you know what? I wouldn't want to.

But this isn't the most extreme case of maternal-post-seperation-boyfriend-family-trauma experienced by a member of my family. My aunt befriended my cousins boyfriend's mum to the extent that they became actual best friends. They went on 'girly' holidays together, the two sets of parents, they went shopping, had coffee afternoons and were all as happy as larry. Until my cousin broke up with Richard and then disaster struck. My cousin was understandably distressed at the prospect of her ex-boyfriend's mum being on the scene to witness any future relationships and be able to 'report back'. So the friendship came to a natural end.

Like f**k it did. Infact, the ex's parents attended my cousin's wedding as guests of my aunt and uncle. Oh yes they did.

Is mine the only family that suffers from this kind of affliction? I think perhaps it's merely a symptom of having a very big heart, so perhaps for me, it's inevitable.

A whole new world....

A wondrous place tra la la la. I'll wander near and far, tra la la la, let me share my whole new world with you.

Yes, today I have experienced the merest of glimpes at my new London lifestyle and I LOVE it.

And it's not necessarily to do with an inspirational day at work, but more to do with the fact that I am working in the coolest area. In terms of its location that is, as well as the office itself. In my lunch break I discovered I am a hop skip and a jump away from Brick Lane, it's legendary curry and awesome bars, and also 5 minutes walk to uber trendy Shoreditch, 10 minutes from Liverpool Street and Steve and best of all, 2 mins from Finsbury Square where I sat today, blissed out and eating my Pret Tuna sarnies watching two kitsch terriers dressed in pink coats and shoes, yes shoes. Ah, the glamour of it.

Don't get me wrong, I hate being the new girl, and spent the majority of today feeling painfully self conscious that no-one knows me from Adam, and probably have no interest in finding out. The new workplace is small, and as such, like a family, which makes it that little bit tougher as the bonds there are tight, and not necessarily easy to penetrate. In my limited experience at work however, I always find the workplaces that are overwhelmingly friendly straightoff, tend to be those who are hiding something and who turn out to be very unfriendly after you chip away lgihtly at the surface.

My most treasured friends who I've made at work haven't come easily. On the contrary, it's taken lots of time to foster and develop and put love and smiles and effort into these friendships. I have kept these friends from my ex-jobs and I hold them very dear, (and believe me, I take little else in terms of usefulness).

My point is that you need to have confidence in the fact that given time, you'll be a useful, integral and well liked member of any team, you just have to allow people to get to know that you're worth getting to know. So I'm pinning my hopes on that, and trying to learn the techy terms as fast as I possibly can...

Eeek.

Observer Food Awards 2007

Oh deary deary me. It turns out that the Observer Food Awards were somewhat of a misnomer given that there was infact no food of any real substance, but only those rubbish canapes that you'd have to ingest 1,354 of to actually feel anywhere near full up and ready to begin a serious drinking session.

The net result of this catastrophic turn of events is that poor old Lindsey was forced to drink copious amounts of martinis and cosmos on an empty stomach because as everyone knows, you can't actually be seen to be eating too much at this kind of affair as they only tend to cater for 4 canapes per person. Infact, this is why I hate them so much as I always end up stalking the tray service people like a crazy person, dribbling ever so slightly.

Anyway an A grade hangover has somewhat thwarted this morning's attempt at flat hunting. In fact given the severity of the hangover in question, I'm very surprised that Linds managed to get herself into the top bunk and not tread on my head in the process. I woke up this morning to find her fully clothed, tights, jewellery all in tact, the mark of a true battering.

I only hope that the nausea passes quickly enough for us it make our afternoon appointments with the evil letting-lords Foxtons.

Heading back to Brighton this evening for some wistful drinking and a spot of sentimentality....shout me if you're out and about people.

Guardian Lindsey

I'm sitting here ploughing through Sam's back catalogue of funny pictures of us all in the past and thought I'd let you see some of them. First and foremost, my new flatmate, Linds. Isn't she lovely, and the fact that she works for the Guardian is almost just too much to bear. Jonathan? Are you still alive?

Paddington bear

I feel like slinging my possessions into a little gingham red and white blanket, tying them onto a stick and heading over to Paddington with a sign saying,

"Please find me somewhere to live. Preferably a split level, period conversion with a two equally sized bedrooms and a garden or roof terrace, oh and I don't mind marmalade from time to time either"

Today myself and Lindsey have spent the day traipsing around North London trying to find somewhere to live. As is turns out we were right in thinking our budget does not stretch to any of the nice areas we were hoping to live and so we're going to live in the Victoria Park area, which although very nice, is tubeless and also perilously close to the sister-in-law, AKA, the alchofrolic.

We did come across some amusing instances of sensationalist tales from rival estate agents. After leaving Foxtons, the Nike of the Lettings world, we stumbled into a small family owned letting agent who told us cautionary stories about Foxtons 'liking to place their clients in crack dens', being unscrupulous and immoral. I imagine there's a lot of truth in this, well the immoral bit at least, but that said, we're also being driven around for a whole day tomorrow by a Foxtons bird who's showing us everything on her books for our price range. If we don't like them she gets nothing, so we don't lose out. If she finds us something we have to hand over the £360 fee plus VAT....extortionate.

Anyway, all this flat hunting is exhausting business, and whilst I'm on Maldivian time, I'm seriously struggling to even consider any kind of socialising at all. Last night Dan came over for dinner and I was snoozing in the bath at 9pm whilst everyone else was eating their puddings. It's rubbish. And to rub it in, my glam friend Linds is off to the Observer Food Awards with Gordon Ramsey this evening and is as I type, getting glammed up and ready for the free bar.

So by tomorrow evening maybe things will be different, we might have found a flat, I might be feeling less jetlegged and spaced/weird. I hope so. I can barely string two words together. Soon I'll be back to my sparkling self. Promise. For now I'm going to eat dinner, drag my heavy arse back to Clapham and into the arms of my man, because its times like these, only a big warm squeezy cuddle is going to work.