Month: August 2011

Scenes of Minor Peril

Sarge had a Boys’ Night on Friday. I may have shut myself up in the office to write, with loud country music on. I may have even forgotten to eat my cheese-centric dinner, reserved for nights Sarge isn’t home. I flipped between the very sparse notepad on Sarge’s Linux-run computer, last.fm, Facebook and Irene updates. At about midnight, I decided it might be a good idea to call my Mom, and left a long-winded message on her machine. So long, the machine cut me off. (Hey Ma, did you get my message?) I then went on Facebook and told the rest of my East Coast contingent to please be safe, wishing them only a little rain. And then I heard sirens. And saw lights. Four sets of them. Outside my window.   But no fire alarms on the inside.  And I sniffed. I may have sniffed smoke. But possibly only because that’s what a person does when they realise there are fire engines outside their building. It was about one in the morning. Would I become one of those women who phone their boyfriends during a night out and ask them to come home?   Even though I had a pretty good excuse, what would I do if the fire engines left before he came home? False alarm babe, I was just checking to see how much you loved me?...

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Zen Like Trees

I had a day-job meeting up North yesterday, which meant I was up at 5.20am.  I gave my PA the front door key, so the buzzer didn’t blast me out of bed and make for an even ruder awakening.  I got dressed in twenty minutes and left Sarge with a pillow over his face, blocking out the untimely light, forgetting to switch it off before I left. Outside, it was gray and purplepink, tones I usually associate with the sunrise after all-night conversations or early flights to holiday destinations.  Yesterday was more like a field-trip. I waited for a taxi.  Or should I say two.  The driver of the first one didn’t even open the door before he decided he ‘couldn’t take the chair in.’  He called another one, and I waited some more, hoping I’d make my train. Of course there wasn’t any traffic.  Everyone else was asleep.  The second taxi was quick, but whiffed of vomit.  I imagined the previous fares got their hang-overs too early. I made it to the station, bumping into a colleague and a cup of coffee, and ramped onto the train just in time. Fast-forward a few hours, and the field-trip part of the day was a forest trail where I got the chance to take some photos and forget about trains and taxis and...

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Waiting on Hemingway

As I admitted in a previous post, I fried my laptop.  Again. I was all ready to cash in my coffee insurance, and was even a little proud of myself that I managed to do THE EXACT SAME THING a second time.  I was racking up crazy writer points.  To go with my Post-It notes and pens and frizzy hair.  Or something. I had come to terms with the fact that my machine would stay fried, again.  I might have started lusting after Hemingway’s replacement.  Other people name their cars.  I name my computers.  That’ll be another crazy writer point.  See, I don’t even have to try. I was more than a little surprised when Sarge said he might be able to fix it.  What?  No new toy?  Yes, my boyfriend is a computer geek.  Actually, a Senior Computer Geek.  Or something. So he did this, and that, and the other thing made an intergalactic noise. And so, on Saturday he took it to the Gadget Hospital, better known as his parents house.  His Dad took it to pieces, and apparently those pieces  were dried out in different parts of the house. I may have stayed in my own house, having guilt-free cheesecake while Hemingway dried out.  Just maybe. The latest report from the Gadget Hospital is that the 6 key is the only key that still sticks.  And...

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No Love in an Elevator

Someone got stuck in our lift yesterday.  No, it wasn’t me. Unlike other buildings I’ve lived in, the engineers  came out quite quickly, and it was working again almost before I knew it was gone. People have actually asked me if I’m afraid of lifts.  Well, no.  If I were, I’d be screwed.  Or at least much thinner than I am. As I’ve said before, I have no issue with stairs if friends and beer greet me at the top. But the place where I choose to burn my popcorn, take my shoes off and live must have a lift. And sometimes those lifts don’t work.  I’ve missed concerts, appointments, really good chocolate and hours off my paychecks due to faulty lifts that mean I can’t leave my flat.  On those days, the party comes to me. And yes, I have been stuck in a lift.  I’d just come back from shopping and so my friend and I ate sushi while waiting to be rescued. I’ve also been stuck in boxy “open-air” stair-lifts.  Up in the air.  From my vantage point near the front door, I greeted people I knew as if sitting in a box suspended off the ground was something I did for fun.  I was on a first-name basis with the engineers who took the call-outs for that building. All of this has provided me with...

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