Went to Paradise (by way of Kensal Green) for celebratory meal (excellent food AND decor), and as we were leaving the head waitress asked a black guy loitering in the bar in an acrylic jumper and jeans if he was a taxi driver. He said no. And she said "of course not."
Also, while we were there, mingling with the oh-so-cool dudes and dudesses of NW10, a curvy black-clad woman in I'm-in-telly glasses kept looking at me as if I was famous (or at least well accessorised) but I never found out why. Although I am - of course - remarkably well accessorised.
In the physio today, someone asked me if purple was my favourite colour. And I was tempted to say purple is my first favourite best colour and cerise my second favourite best colour, in the style of children from Cheadle.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Hilarious Road Signs (thus saith the internet)
Yesterday, I bought myself a Richard Tipping faux road sign that says NO UNDERSTANDING ANY TIME.
I just wish I had an office to put it in.
I just wish I had an office to put it in.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Pumpkin and carrot cobbler (in the slow cooker)
I've totally been getting into my slow cooker - this is what I'm making tonight. Perfect for that winter-cometh weather.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Job wanted / City of London
This is really true. Last week I was walking along Fleet Street, on the way to a meeting, and I saw David walking along with his sandwich boards... begging for a job.
Even with a promotional offer - prepared to work first month free.
The world is getting scary, right?
Even with a promotional offer - prepared to work first month free.
The world is getting scary, right?
Monday, October 05, 2009
Ten years since Paddington
I was very moved to read this story today - Paddington remembered 10 years on.
I remember the shock of it all at the time, being kinda local-ish. And it sent me back to thinking about where my life was, back then.
October 1999. Ten years ago. I'd just started dating a guy I'd known from back home, and we'd both been on our round-the-world journeys, and ended up back in London. Truth is, we were set up by people from the Old Country, and I was kinda like, hey, he was cool when he was fifteen (way cool). And he was (probably, I'm guessing here) thinking, I've just got back to London, and I'm feeling the pain of a big break-up, and I don't know as many people as I used to, and... why not.
Truth is, I don't know what he thought.
The night of the Paddington crash was our second date. He was cool, and took me to Momo in town and we had a fabulous, humous-laden evening (the best kind, as you know I always think).
We saw each other a few times (mostly at the bottom of the Edgware Road, we were very about the humous), and he was nice, if a little post-breakup. Probably, in retrospect, we never really connected, but I think we both might have wanted to, and were prepared to see where it went.
Maybe. I still don't know what he thought.
I took him to a party at my Pilates teacher's house. It was funky and alternative and I ended up talking to the only guy there who was a corporate lawyer.
The Guy, he spent a lot of time with my Pilates teacher's sister. And I mean a lot.
I remember, years before this, I'd had long debates with a just-friends male friend about how much time you should spend with someone you went to a party with (about which we never agreed), but we'd never covered what happens when the guy you brought very obviously takes the phone number of another woman. He may or may not have gone home with her: I don't remember. But I certainly felt like he did.
Anyway, long story short, he's married to her. I can't totally recall what happened, but I think he just didn't phone me anymore, and that way I knew that nothing was happening.
Years later, I saw him at a party. Or maybe it was a gallery opening, or a book launch. He was contrite. Embarassed, even. He may even, at some point, have called me to apologise. Mists of time.
So tonight, I told this story to my husband, and he said, "we shall never mention him again, the way he treated you. But I'm glad it didn't work out for him (the fool)."
This is what I waited for. I just didn't know.
I remember the shock of it all at the time, being kinda local-ish. And it sent me back to thinking about where my life was, back then.
October 1999. Ten years ago. I'd just started dating a guy I'd known from back home, and we'd both been on our round-the-world journeys, and ended up back in London. Truth is, we were set up by people from the Old Country, and I was kinda like, hey, he was cool when he was fifteen (way cool). And he was (probably, I'm guessing here) thinking, I've just got back to London, and I'm feeling the pain of a big break-up, and I don't know as many people as I used to, and... why not.
Truth is, I don't know what he thought.
The night of the Paddington crash was our second date. He was cool, and took me to Momo in town and we had a fabulous, humous-laden evening (the best kind, as you know I always think).
We saw each other a few times (mostly at the bottom of the Edgware Road, we were very about the humous), and he was nice, if a little post-breakup. Probably, in retrospect, we never really connected, but I think we both might have wanted to, and were prepared to see where it went.
Maybe. I still don't know what he thought.
I took him to a party at my Pilates teacher's house. It was funky and alternative and I ended up talking to the only guy there who was a corporate lawyer.
The Guy, he spent a lot of time with my Pilates teacher's sister. And I mean a lot.
I remember, years before this, I'd had long debates with a just-friends male friend about how much time you should spend with someone you went to a party with (about which we never agreed), but we'd never covered what happens when the guy you brought very obviously takes the phone number of another woman. He may or may not have gone home with her: I don't remember. But I certainly felt like he did.
Anyway, long story short, he's married to her. I can't totally recall what happened, but I think he just didn't phone me anymore, and that way I knew that nothing was happening.
Years later, I saw him at a party. Or maybe it was a gallery opening, or a book launch. He was contrite. Embarassed, even. He may even, at some point, have called me to apologise. Mists of time.
So tonight, I told this story to my husband, and he said, "we shall never mention him again, the way he treated you. But I'm glad it didn't work out for him (the fool)."
This is what I waited for. I just didn't know.
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