I've just spent a lovely couple of days driving up the M5M4M42A46, seeing my best friend and her baby, and then driving back again. (I include the driving since much of the visit is spent doing that; 5 hours there and 4.5 back.)

Sigh.

Why is Lincoln so far away from me? And more importantly why does she live there when it is?

Anyway, today we all went to Rand Farm Park for a jolly Easter holiday jaunt which would a/entertain Harry, b/entertain us and c/allow us to push a 6 week old baby around in a buggy for a bit without waking her up. (We were going to see The Cat In The Hat, but it hasn't hit Lincoln yet, Lincoln being the epitome of uber provinciality.)

It didn't matter though because the farm was ace.

There was a stroppy donkey who kicked the bars of his pen everytime you fed any animal other than him.

And there were lambs!

We fed them!



Bless.

But best of all was a red deer doe called Heidi who had been hand-reared, and who, (it said on the information sign) 'liked coats and hats.'

Well, 'good on her' is what I say. So do I.

I've had a bit of a 'subversive art' weekend spotting Banksy all over London.

It started with this:


'To advertise here call 0800 Banksy'

We saw it opposite a spray painted advertisement in the same font and the same style with the 'real' advertiser's name on it, selling space on a wall in Bethnal Green.

So I'm looking for it everywhere we go and we see the Banksy monkeys and we have a big conversation about Banksy and stencil grafitti, and we see lots. But then bizarrely, the next day I see this:


'Heh heh Nesstle how many kids did you ya kill today?'

Which is so far up the other end of the spectrum that you can't even see it without a heat lamp.

The sentiment? Well yes of course. I can see the point of it.

But, hold on. Call me picky if you like but I would have said that in order to get your message across with any sincerity, you really, surely need to be able to spell the name of your adversary correctly first...

Oooooooh.

I am now an official Barbelith moderator!

For Creation, and Books. Which sums me up rather nicely don't you think? Creation and Books.

I am strangely over-excited about it, is that sad? It probably is. But it makes me happy and that can only be a good thing I guess.

Random Incidental Domestic Fact:

For years my steam iron has been broken and wouldn't produce any steam, so I ironed using a spray bottle and just a hot iron. It was annoying, but I put up with it.

But when we moved I bought a new iron.

So I'm ironing Harry's trousers this morning with my new iron which works properly and which produces lots of steam, and he comes into the room and he says, "Mummy, why is the iron breathing?"

The church in the village I live in is absolutely beautiful. It was built in 1712 by Viscount Weymouth, the then owner of the Longleat estate and legend has it that he built it for the employee's of the estate to worship in.

Anyway, it's at the top of the hill (I can see it from my window), you have to either walk up a little dead end lane bordered all the way by multitudes of daffodils, or across a beautiful grassy field in order to get to it and once you're there you can walk all the way around it on a little windy path inside the graveyard.

It's the kind of church in which you should sit amongst the leaning gravestones and the creaking Cedar trees, watch the sun go down (or come up) and just be.

Curiously, it is also filled with gravestones made out of a stone which seems to weather exceedingly badly, and as a result the grass is filled with what look like interesting stumps of very badly rotted, lichen-covered teeth.

On why Psycholgists rock harder than The Darkness on PCP.

Her: How are you?

Me: I feel awful. I feel miserable and sad and useless and rubbish and pathetic and needy and angry with myself for feeling those things and just really, really bad. *Dissolves into tears.*

Her: *Hands me a tissue.* And you expected to feel? How?

Me: I dunno. Happy I guess. Better.

Her: So you thought you could move house and it would make the pain of the marriage break-up and the sadness of losing your Dad and the fear of what to do with your life and the feelings of worthlessness and the fragility of being depressed all suddenly go away?

Me: Um...I dunno. *Sniffs*. I guess not.

Her: Because you don't have a red cape on do you?

Me: Pardon?

Her: Well you're not Superwoman are you?

Me: *Laughs*. I don't look good in just my tights.

Her: And if it was your best friend feeling like this what would you tell her? That she was stupid and pathetic to still be feeling miserable?

Me: No! Of course not, that would be horrible! And wrong.

Her: Well, er...

Me: *Thinks.* Oh. Right. Oh I see.

I give you:

Bugsy Malone.

Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out
Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out

Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out
Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out

You don't have to sit around
Complaining 'bout the way your life has wound up
Think of all the time you waste
And time's a precious thing to let go by

Sure you've hit the bottom
But remember you'll be building from the ground up
Every day's another step
That takes you even closer to the sky, so give a try

Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out
Down, down, down, down, down, down, down and out

You don't have to sit around
Depressed about the way that luck deceived you
Fortune sailed away, you missed that boat
And found that you'd been left behind

Fight and fight some more
Until you know the world is ready to receive you
Lady luck is fickle
But a lady is allowed to change her mind

You don't have to sit around
Complaining 'bout the way your life has wound up
So be a man, you know you can't be certain
That you'll lose until you try

You don't have to sit around
Complaining 'bout the way your life has wound up
So be a man, you know you can't be certain
That you'll lose until you try, so give it a try

We as one shout
Up, up, up and out

I've fixed my picture messaging on my phone. Apparently, GPRS had 'temporarily lost' me. I quite like the fact that, if only temporarily, I was untrackable by satellite. It made me feel a little bit like 007.

So now I want a phoneblog. If I had one I could post pictures like these:



I took it whilst walking my dog in Longleat today. I saw the tree back lit by the sun and it was so beautiful I wanted to record it. But what I especially like about this picture is not the tree. What I like is that because of my phone's inability to deal with the light, the sun looks eerily black.

Is This Distraction Tactics?

Still to do this evening:

1/Put the shoes and things in the 'storage solutions' boxes under the bed.
2/Paint the bathroom.
3/Put the magnetic board up so Harry and I can play FridgeRacer without contorting ourselves into tiny shapes in order to get right down to the level of the fridge.
4/Put the curtains up.
5/ Shorten the curtains before they go up.
6/Put up the curtain rails before the curtains that need to be shortened go up.
7/Fix the new towel rail up. (New, because the old one has snapped off.)


Yes. I think it is.

***

I've noticed that I have become a stranger in my own house. You know that feeling that you get, when you're at someone else's house and you do the washing up but you don't know where anything goes to put it away?

Well I've got that here.

I also don't know how the washing-machine, iron, cooker, fridge, or heating works and it's all a bit trial and error at the moment. But not being able to find things is the worst. I mean, I put them away.

And the worst thing is, I've got so much else to do that would be heaps more interesting than housey things, but the housey things really need doing so the interesting stuff will just have to wait.

A bit longer.

If I muddled up all the screws and Allen keys and bolts and sections and pieces and fixings from all of my Ikea funiture, do you think I could build a huge Ikea mutation? A piece of freaky horrific Uber-furniture? Like Jeff Goldblum at the end of The Fly, only made of wood and steel and plastic. With a chair back or two sticking out where it shouldn't.

Wouldn't it be a fabulous sculpture?

I could call it Flat Pack Assembly Mutation No. 1

Chapter One, Day One.

(Yesterday doesn't count really because it was so sad, and it was raining all day, and we were moving boxes and lights and chests, and the carpet man was still here, and I nearly broke my wrists carrying the sofa in, and everything was in boxes and I had no bed, and there was no food, and I couldn't find a spoon to stir my tea with, and you just couldn't see the floor for stuff.)

But this morning I woke up and the sun was shining, and the sky was giddy blue and I could hear Harry singing in bed and I knew everything should be, could be, would be alright.

So now most things are out of boxes, and I do have a bed which isn't flat packed in a box, and we have lovely shelves with ten (storage solutions) boxes in them, and we have a kitchen which functions and a fridge which now fits the gap it was supposed to, and a sofa with cushions on and a table and chairs and a proper drawer full of cutlery. And alright it started to rain this afternoon, and of course there are still boxes of books everywhere (which appear to be breeding), and OK I haven't even begun to think about unpacking my clothes, which means clean knickers may be an issue tomorrow, and yes, the toy boxes fill me with fear everytime I walk past them, but still...I think we can now call this home.

This Is Now Home.

So I sit here and contemplate the mountain of things I still have to do, but for tonight at least I have ceased to do anything of use because just being here is so very interesting.

I mean, currently the dog and I are listening to an extremely noisy hedgehog gadding about outside. I know it is a hedgehog, because I am tall enough to shine the torch outside the window and I can see it. The dog, however, isn't and therefore can't. Instead he is doing that deep-throat continuous growling thing which translates from dog language as: 'I mean business you fucker, I am going to KILL you when I find out who you are, get out of my garden RIGHT NOW.'

Which is sweet, and terribly brave, but actually a completely false persona to present since he has spent the entire day being a bit scared of going into the garden, and instead has been following me everywhere I go, getting under my feet and looking generally panicked.

He's so unsure of what's going on, that when we returned from picking up my car and buying some basic food items like butter and Marmite, he was standing in the garden peering through the gate and was completely soaked. So either he had been standing there feeling completely abandoned since we left, or he had the ruse and cunning to hear us return, run into the garden, roll around in the grass and then put on the mournful expression at the gate deliberately to make us feel bad.

So.

If my phone wasn't so rubbish and was allowing me to send pictures I would post a picture of my front door key up here. It is, quite literally the length of my hand which is not ideal for back pocket carryage, but is sure to win in any 'my key is bigger than yours' pub competition.

And anyway. The point is, we are here.

And I just feel so...so calm now.

Which can only be a good thing.

Right?

Paranoia.

I've got it.

Haven't I?

Have I?

Can you be paranoid, yet know you are not? Is it possible to be paranoid about something that is actually happening? I am so paranoid I've just looked it up in the dictionary, for clarification.

par-a-noi-a P Pronunciation Key (pr-noi)
n.
A psychotic disorder characterized by delusions of persecution with or without grandeur, often strenuously defended with apparent logic and reason.

Extreme, irrational distrust of others.

OK. So I'm not paranoid. I haven't got delusions of persecution. I don't defend anything with apparent logic, in fact my explanations for things are generally totally illogical. And I have no irrational, extreme distrust of others. I am being persecuted, and I do have an extreme distrust of others, but it is not irrational.

In essence, what I think is happening, is happening.

My only delusion appears to be that the only credible explanation for this is that someone, somehow has access to e-v-e-r-y-s-i-n-g-l-e-k-e-y-s-t-r-o-k-e-I-t-y-p-e.

Which is impossible, isn't it?

Isn't it?

Maybe I am paranoid?

But it is really happening.

Jesus.

Do you see my problem? Do you see how a person could send herself mad going round and round like this?

The facts are these:

They definitely do know. They've quoted me.
But I haven't told them.

Repeat: I haven't told them.

So if I am not being paranoid, then:

H-O-W-d-o-t-h-e-y-K-N-O-W?

Warning. Rant ahead.

3-2-1 GO.

And yes, thanks for asking, I am really stressed and worried and panicky and yes, I do feel spectacularly like I am failing in every way, and no, I don't have very much courage left, and no, I don't have very much resolve left, and yes, what I am doing sends me into a head-spin if I even stop to think about it for a minute because I don't even have a fucking job to support myself with, and yes, I am scared and yes, I did cry all the way to Bristol and back today because of the fear, and yes, you're right, even I, even Pollyfuckinganna occasionally needs to be on the other side of the conversation.

Like this:

"Are you OK?"
"No not really. Because randomdiatribeofallthingsbadthattakesafewminutesandisverycathartic. But thanks for asking, I feel better now."

But no-one ever does. Because that's not my role. Is it. That's not who I am. Is. It.

I am just here to make everybody else feel good.


Here endeth the rant.

Six hour drives that cover the length and breadth of the country (and which involve many motorways and roadworks and hold-ups and congestion) are not my ideal way to spend time at the weekend's.

Especially when there is so much to do before Thursday.

But when a person wants to see her best friend's new baby, and the best friend happens to live on the other side of the country, there really is no alternative.

So yesterday I drove all the way to Lincoln and it was annoying and frustrating and not a little dull, but when I got there, I got to meet the most zen and contented baby I have ever met in my life. She is utterly lovely. She smells of babies and is sleepy and beautiful and not at all crumpled and she has huge almond eyes and she talks in her sleep already, little mewing noises, commenting on the world.

And her Mum looks so well and has clearly taken to Motherhood like I knew she would, straight in there with the perfect care and looks of total absorbtion and adoration.

So I spent a day with them, gazing at the baby and discussing her and cuddling her and rocking her and generally loving her just for being teeny. (And isn't it funny how someone so tiny can garner so much attention and interest, just by sleeping?)

And then I had to drive back. A horrible drive, which centred around listing in my head all the things I have to do and which there isn't enough time for, and which I haven't got enough money for, or enough boxes, or enough strength for, or enough patience. (And by the way, look, stupid girl. What the hell are you doing writing this ANYWAY when you should be doing other things? Stoppit, stoppit now...)

And anyway, the journey is long and horrible and tedious, but this evening it was made delightful by the beautiful Turner Skies everywhere I looked.

Beautiful clouds so full of rain that they were bursting great, gushing torrents of it onto the earth.

Spectacular clouds creating beams of God light which shined vived pink and virulent orange onto everything in their true and straight path.

Sullen and scowling, sulky clouds, coloured dark, dark grey which cast angry shadows over everything below them.

If I had painted this evening's skies I would have been laughed out of the room.

If I had painted them exactly as they looked; all messy watercolour and jagged cloud edges and as if someone had taken a huge brush and blobbed colour everywhere and made obsessive circular movements over and over, and given the clouds corners and generally messed up the sky like a three year old God might...well if I had done that people would have said I couldn't paint.

That my skies were not realistic.

But this sky was real.

It was real and beautiful and weird and messy and dreadfully created and so utterly wonderful to look at that I nearly crashed my car several times on the way home because I was so busy gulping down the colours and the shapes that I failed to notice the (regular) build up of traffic in front of me.

And to top it all I was playing The Red Hot Chilli Peppers 'By the Way' album really, really loudly, and at the most beautiful sky moment, the most inspirational, 'I-really-wish-I-could-stop-my-car-to-stare-but-I-can't-because-I'm-in-the-fast-lane-of-the-M5-doing-100mph,' moment the song on my stereo just happened to be, 'Can't Stop'.

...Can't stop the spirits when they need you
This life is more than just a read through.

And you couldn't get anything clearer, any more of a 'PAY ATTENTION, THIS IS IMPORTANT, YOU DEFINITELY NEED TO KNOW THIS' message than that?

Now could you?

On why you shouldn't make assumptions about people just because of the job they do.

What people generally think when they look at the women who work in Safeway, is that they're not very interesting people, that the ones who are over 50 are all working there for a bit of 'pin money' and to get themselves out of the house, and the ones who are under 20 are there to make pub and club and cheap-clothes money before they either a/get a proper job or b/ go to University.

(N.B. There are only these 2 categories since these are the only age groups who either apply to get jobs in Safeway, or whom Safeway has decided to employ. I am not sure which of these is correct, but the fact remains, there are no women who work at there who are over 20 and under 50.)

Anyway, that's what people tend to think.

But if you go to Safeway in the morning before the rush starts when the check-out women have just clocked on, you are routinely engaged in conversation whilst your groceries are checked. And it's not just chitter-chatter, not just comments on why eating cake is bad for you ('A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips') although admittedly, this does sometimes happen.

No, often it's interesting, enlightening, fascinating conversation.

Today for example I was engaged in a discussion about the ecological impact of dishwasher tablets and how the government seems to be unaware of the potential catastrophe which could befall us and how America backing out of the Kyoto agreement was a devastating blow to environmentalists. Uninititiated by me, I might add. And since the woman who introduced the topic of conversation didn't know that I was at all interested in environmental issues, I can only assume that she has this sort of conversation with all her customers and that it's one way of relieving the boredom and monotony of scanning item after item after item and generally having to conduct yourself like a factory machine.

I used to think it would be the very worst kind of job I could do, working on a supermarket checkout, but actually the women who do it look like they secretly have a really good time. They look like they have a sort of conspiratorial camaraderie in the crapness of the job and are smiling inside with amusement at the fact that everyone assumes the are completely unintelligent just because they wear a badge saying 'How may I help you?'

And I quite like that kind of secret subversion.

I quite like the fact that the environmental viewpoint of the general public could quite possibly be changed for the better because of a lady called Marjorie who has pin curls in her hair and wears pearls and who checks your groceries at a supermarket.

It's like changing things from the inside out. A drip, drip feed of clever thinking which no-one ever notices and so no-one rails against until suddenly one day everyone has become ecologically aware and is campaigning and changing things.

And all because of Marjorie, the check-out lady on Aisle Number 9.

And sometimes, just sometimes...

All you want to say is:

FUCK THE FUCKING FUCK RIGHT FUCKING OFFFFFFFF.