Kitchens and bathrooms and bedrooms (oh my!)

I find myself in the market for a new kitchen. The purchase of New House is getting ever closer to completion, allowing me to fantasise about island units and ginormous fridges with ice makers. My first port of call is the magazine rack at Sainsbugs. I always have to conduct plenty of research at home before venturing out into the big world and face to face with 'experts'. This is why my bookshelf carries such tomes as 'Running a Bed and Breakfast in France', 'Starting a shop', 'Grow Your Own Fruit' and 'Goat Breeding for Beginners'.
I scanned the many home stylee magazines and picked up one promising to delight me with 'kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms'. I have all three of those, thinks I, and duly trot to the checkout. Of course the mag is sealed inside its own little plastic cover, so flicking through wasn't an option. I feel the need to say this as I would never purchased the item, had I but known the truth.
So, once home, the wrapper is torn off and all the little inserts shaken out. I gaze lovingly at the glossy pages and decide to reward myself with a Lush bath and the new untouched magazine. Perfumed bubbles gently steaming, I get myself comfortable in the bath and reverently open the magazine. First few pages are ads and contents. Fine. Move on. Then a 5 page spread on how Jocasta and Tarquin couldn't stand their brand new kitchen, so ripped it out and started again. Their new (yes alright stunning) kitchen dining extravaganza has doors out onto the terrace and a huge central island perfect for their cookery delights. My kitchen is 3m square. I don't think this will fit....
A few more pages in and I come to the (again) huge entertaining kitchen of Jocasta and Tarquin, who party hard in their delightful 62 bedroom mansion. Now this kitchen includes not one but two ambient wine storers and a champagne ice bucket in the (obviously standard) gigninormous central island. Coloured LEDs light the kitchen to create "dazzling" effects. Bear and I don't entertain much to be honest. And we don't drink much either. I think perhaps this kitchen is not suitable inspiration.
I flick through, feeling a little let down now. I find a rather lovely photograph of a pink kitchen. The blurb tells me that it comes "primed and ready to paint" and kitchens "start at £17,000". Seventeen grand? And it's NOT FINISHED! I think either my concept of what a kitchen should cost is vastly underestimated, or this magazine is definitely not for PLU.
I have to add that the bedrooms were no better: beds costing £20,000 and more and as for the bathrooms, well!
I have left the magazine, sad and lonely, in the smallest room, where it shall remain until it learns how to behave like a proper magazine. I, meanwhile, have returned to the relative safety of the web. To kuchen huus and beyond!

Crushing the crush embargo

I always seem to have a crush on someone. Sometime it will be a friend, a work colleague or someone I've just seen on the street. Suddenly they are aglow. My heart pounds a little faster in their presence, my brain turns to jelly and I become a giggling schoolgirl incapable of intelligent discourse. This can be rather embarrassing, especially if its someone with whom I have previously had a good relationship.
My ever loving bear is supportive of my little crushes. He knows he's the only one for me. And crushes go as suddenly as they arrive, leaving me wondering what on earth I was thinking! Because a really good crush isn't the famous and handsome actor from the blockbuster. Oh no. My crushes are strange and unusual people, often with a searing intellect and corresponding lack of social skills!
My first ever crush was my father's business partner. To this day the smell of pipe smoke makes me weak of the knee and giddy of the soul. Then in my early teens, the boy downstairs captured my heart. Albeit briefly for I was a fickle young thing. My papa used to announce "It's Lillekat and her men"!
Aged 18 and living in a hall of residence, our flat all were crushing on the upstairs flat, although I was the only one besotted with a third year student, A, who was a brilliant mathematician. This culminated in me getting very very drunk and calling up to A, shouting "I do love you!" I will always remember his patient "Yes, yes, I love you too." So kind, so dismissive! He broke my heart and he never even knew!
Later crushes were variations on the theme of brilliant intellectual. I was crushing on one lecturer so much, I couldn't concentrate when he was behind me and being the only girl in my class did not help! My classmates tormented me terribly about this and I spent much of my undergrad life pink with girlish embarrassment!
These days it's work colleagues who worm their way into my affections. And then get kicked out by their successor, never to return to my crushing bosom.
I read a fantastic word on Facebook, sapiosexual; defined as being sexually attracted to intellect. That's me. It really is brains not brawn that turn me on. And looking at the popularity of Prof Brian Cox, I'm not alone! PhDs are very sexy ;-) I refer you to Dr Sheldon Cooper
So don't be afraid of having a crush. There's nothing wrong with you, and you don't love your partner any the less. But it can make the day a little more fun and just a little exciting. After all you never know who you might meet...

Not quite PLU darling

I've been reading a book called "Whiter Shades of Pale" by Christian Lander. It's the sequel to "Stuff White People Like" and lists items beloved by middle class white Americans. Prime examples are World Music, Starbucks and the film Juno. A lot of the listings can apply to the English middle classes too, whole food co-operatives, tea and pretending to know about wine to name three.
It got me thinking about the equivalent of "White People" in this green and pleasant land. I would call them PLU - People Like Us.
PLU isn't affected by money, although education whether formalised or not definitely plays a part. It's not even truly about the class structure as it exists in the UK. And don't ever try and believe it doesn't exist. Class is affected by your job level, your family salary and your parentage. As a child of immigrants I am immediately excluded from certain classes, no matter what my parents did for a living! But the chances are the people who live near you are educated to a similar level to you, earn roughly the same as you and go on similar holidays. That's class.

I guess PLU is about taste, it's about appreciating the finer things in life, looking for quality. For the benefit of you, dear reader, here is my list of what is and isn't PLU.

PLU
White lights on your Christmas tree
Loving the theatre, especially the Royal Exchange and the Lowry as opposed to The Palace
Game (I'm talking venison here, pigeon, quail)
White metal jewellery: silver and platinum.
Wholefood co-operatives
Delicatessens
Whisky
France
The Landmark Trust
Radio 4
Radio Times
BBC4
Cufflinks
Prosecco
Leather Chesterfields (in brown, ox blood and green only!)

Not PLU, darling
Leggings as an alternative to trousers as opposed to an alternative to tights
Lots of gold jewellery
Frozen meat. It's plumped with so much water you're not really getting the bargain you think you are
Drinking jagerbombs once you are over the age of 21 (I'm being generous here. Lets be honest, once you're out of your teens, it's time to move on to something else)
Pontins
Caravans
Shiny suits
Toilet paper dollies
Toilet seat covers
Antimacassars
Stiletto heels

Now, hopefully you've been nodding your head along with this, because otherwise you're just not PLU, darling! Feel free to add your own PLU and non-PLU in the comments...

Lost in the matrix

Nothing irritates me more than posts on Facebook which start "I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/useless". Passive-aggressive attempts to get flattery and comfort from others leave me cold. Feeling low? Have the balls to say so and the mental snuggling will roll in. Similarly the phrase "I have low self esteem" drives me up the wall. You don't. If you did, you wouldn't think you had low self esteem, you'd just think that's how the world was.
My line manager hates me saying that I am clever, or smart or a genius. She thinks it's highly inappropriate for people to say such things about themselves. But if it's true,why should we be ashamed to say that we are good at something?
We seem to live in a culture where success is vilified and failure trumpeted. We prefer people who are modest about their skills and keep quiet about talent. Well I can't. Because here's the thing. Whilst I am highly intelligent and extremely talented in my field, I have lost my edge.
Prior to my formal diagnosis, my mind was, as it were, running free. When programming, I could get lost in the program and come out having achieved my goal but without a clue how it worked. Bear called it "becoming one with the matrix". It was wonderful and frightening. I produced some amazing pieces of work, but if I looked at the code, I could tell you it was mine (like many programmers, I have a distinctive style) but I could not remember writing it.
Now that's gone. The medications that have stabilised me have also dulled that part of the brain that would take over. Don't get me wrong, it was worth it. My life is a million times better now. In fact I have a life! But I refuse to stop acknowledging the part I lost by ignoring my talent as a programmer and all round smartipants. My pants are extraordinary. And smart.

Psst! Wanna buy a house

So we're for sale. The house that is. After 4 very happy years here, we have finally come to terms with the fact that 4 bedrooms plus cellars really is a tad large for our needs.
And we have stuff. We have managed to accumulate stuff in every room. Where does it all come from? I know our bins are overflowing, we eBay and go to the Tip quite regularly and we're always trying to get chums to "take things home". And yet.... Each and every room is packed to the drawstrings with nick nacks, boxes of interesting paraphernalia, useful swathes of ribbon, assorted magical kit, a steam engine, a wizard's staff (with a knob on the end) and several cuddly toys.
We are attempting to sort, clarify and declutter. But what to do with these things? Too good to chuck, too bulky for eBay and too weird for Oxfam, we move our clutter from room to room, making tiny changes on the way.
Meanwhile the lovely chaps from Trading Places have been, photographed and measured us to within an inch and created the profile to wow the world across the media. In fact when I look at their work, I fall in love with our house all over again! Worth a glance on Rightmove doncherknow.
When I told chums we were in the market for being on the market, a couple of very supportive types responded with "Really? Us too. Been up for over a year now..." And like all sellers before me I smiled and silently said "Yeah but that's you. Not me."
We've had a couple of viewings but no bites yet. I know I shouldn't worry, it's only been a few weeks. And yet....
It's all those lovely chaps at Trading Places' fault. With their Twitter. And their sales and their agreeds and their viewings. Last week was the last straw. "@tradingplacesea: Just agreed an asking price offer on a property that's been on the Market under 24 hours!! #veryhappyclients"
S'not my house. Posts like these make me most petulant and miffy-moo. Why not my house? What's wrong with my house? We happen to have been very happy here!
Selling a house is very strange. On the one hand you really really want to sell. You want to leave. On the other you are fiercely protective of your choice of colour in the living room, the tiles in your kitchen. Surely everyone can see the potential and opportunity in your home. Surely they see the bargain they would be getting? Surely they are battering down the estate agents door as we speak... Surely?

Sorry? You want the link? Well of course you do...
http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-35990230.html?premiumA=true

All change!

The household has undergone some rather dramatic changes recently. After being my carer for 5 long years, the Bear is finally free to pursue a career. He has been my support, my comforter, my cook, my memory and my all. Because of him I am now able to function pretty much normally. Well most of the time!
Of course he sacrificed a great deal to do this, primarily his own professional life, so I am so pleased and proud that he is finally able to have a life of his own again.
His new beginning meant another change. This time for our babies. They are used to having someone there 24/7 and frankly they could be quite destructive when left to their own devices (see exhibit A).
After much googling, calling, emailing and heart searching, we stumbled across Wags, a dog day care facility. We went for a visit and saw a pack of happy hounds playing, along with several "teachers". A long chat with the owners revealed that they were as bonkers as us. Sold!
The deal was struck. A pet taxi would pick up the girls at 7:30, transport them to Wags. There, they would spend the day in 'structured play' with some training, playing with toys and ganes and running about with the other dogs. They would definitely learn to share, something Dana has never really come to terms with!
We're not sure what goes on at doggy day care as mummies and daddies are not allowed. We get pictures tweeted throughout the day and the occasional video. What I can say with certainty is that the munchkins are knackered! Come the weekend it's all they can do to get off the bed and they love a lazy Friday with their mummy.
I felt that I needed to make a change to keep up. So I have embarked on a healthy eating jaunt. So far so good and I've even given thought to doing sone exercise..... I've bought a sports bra... Best have a sit down!

Revelling in the trivial

There's an alarming trend spreading across social media sites: that of the political or very serious and private statement. I'm forever seeing tweets or updates positing a fairly controversial statement combined with a horrific picture, presumable to shock or to gain support for this movement or that one. Now I have no problem with people having political views. But is social media the best place to platform your beliefs? Join a political party, campaign for a charity but leave my Facebook alone. I don't want to view mutilated pets whilst commuting across Manchester on the Metrolink. I want to see humorous updates about new shoes, pictures of puppies being cute and videos of Lego men re-enacting movies. It's 8 o'clock in the morning for chrissake.
Don't use Facebook or twitter to live out the dissolution of your relationship. I appreciate s/he done you wrong and that's fine but remember, posts on the
Internet are forever. Is this how you want to be remembered? If you have kids what will they think? Do you really think they won't see it? And what happens when you make up? Or when you realise that perhaps s/he did not do you as wrong as you thought and then what? If you're having a row, have a row. Your neighbours probably already know. Leave your online buddies out of it.
Although there is this awesome row going on on my FB at the moment and EVERYONE's getting involved. My nosiness is loving it. And at least the protagonist has made his standpoint quite clear. Which brings me to...
Please leave your enigmatic emotional pleas at home. Don't tell me a certain someone did a certain something that caused another someone to feel aggrieved. If you want someone to pet you, have the balls to say so.
I love social media. It is a wonderful way to entertain and keep in touch. S'like blogging. Only you don't have to write as much. I find writing difficult so I love having a character limit! I try and make my posts witty and poignant.
Oh and I would quite like someone to pet me now.