A creative rebellion against practicality.

Well, enter a new phase in my life. Post-masters, pre-job, and it's apparently all about feeding my senses. A year focused solely on the practicalities of an extremely practical masters has left me creatively malnourished and hungry for my next he'arty' meal. Now all of a sudden I'm overqualified for the crap jobs and under-experienced for the ones I have my eye on, and subsequently I find myself with a lot of time on my hands. And it's great. Definitely feels good to have it ahead of me rather than snapping at my ass.

And I know, I should be job hunting a little more seriously than I am. Kate Conformable - my sensible side - has had a lot to say on that score, but right now Wild Kate has her in a headlock and doesn't look like she plans to let go. To hell with reality for just another day or two. I shall continue to indulge myself with the buttery, sweet and good things in life. Here are a few of my favourite recipes for contentment at the moment:

Penhaligon's - truly the most beautiful perfume and luxury goods store I know. I've adopted their Lily and Spice fragrance as my signature smell. Their attention to detail and loyalty to simple, classic good taste never fails to satisfy me in a way that no other store can.


Dunkin' Donuts - I was thinking about my amazing year spent in Barcelona recently and remembered just what a joy the Donut stand in the Placa Cataluna Metro station was after a long day in the city. There are plans to open a Krispy Kreme here in Manchester in December. Are they as good as our mates at Dunkin'? I'm excited to find out.

Chouchoute chocolates - picking a favourite is, I imagine, like trying to decide which of your kids you like best. It's not been easy but I think a couple of clear winners are emerging; passionfruit infusion ganache, and peach/hops dark ganache. But then again the rose and violet creams are to die for, and the pepper ganache is pretty good....



Montezuma's chocolate - a new discovery for me on a recent day trip to Brighton with my family. These guys do an awesome range of old school choccie bars, all nicely boxed. Be sure not to miss their coconut and macadamia nut bar. One of the yummiest things I've eaten in ages.

Lindt chilli chocolate - I know, chocolate features pretty heavily on this list huh? But seriously now, if you've not ventured to try chilli chocolate - outlandish though it may sound - I suggest you do so. Now.

John Mayer - "waiting on the world"
Feist - "1234"
These two songs are currently rocking my world.

Interior Decor - Ok, so if I was the maternal type I'd definitely be craving babies right now. Talk about the 'nesting instinct' - all I can think about is an attic flat in Barcelona, vaulted ceilings, wooden beams, and those floor to ceiling windows with shutters that lead out onto little balconies overlooking the rooftops. Or perhaps a small clapperboard cottage, near a beach, with white plank walls, a mezzanine and a garden full of honeysuckle and jasmine. A lifetime of house hopping is, apparently, finally taking its toll. I have entire folders full of inspiration for a house I can't afford to own for at least the next 15 years.





Beading - or attempting to. I'm halfway through a small lizard, which I may use as a keyring. It's a bit pointless, but therapeutic nevertheless.

I could go on about avocado, pine nuts, honey roast pistachios or apple pie with cold custard or double cream, but you guys already know they're great. Right? Also loving chunky knit scarves, though it's still too warm to wear them (never thought I'd say that living in England), wooden boxes, paperweights, marbles, and a certain pair of boots with a knitted upper - a pic of which cannot be found.

I could happily shut myself off from the world right now, just pottering round in a little place of my own, minding my own business and doing the things that make me happy. I can tell, because at the moment I'm content doing just that at my parents' house, which usually makes me restless. Batshit crazy, even.

I even went on a date the other day with a nice guy, and as I sat across from him eating my duck and listening to his awesome stories of film-making in Palestine, I couldn't wait to put a door between us. I willed him to pop out of existance in a little puff of cologne-scented smoke so that I could savour my food in peace. Is that wrong?

I'm dreading the enforced interaction, polite chit-chat and 9 to 5 drudgery that will be my life 5 days a week as of Monday, but I suppose it is high time that I rejoin the rest of the world and earn my crust. Maybe then I'll be able to afford to buy some of the fun stuff I've seen on Etsy, or get my flabby behind in the gym before it hatches a master plan to take over the world. Perhaps pick up Mandarin again, attempt to recreate some of the really nice flower arrangements I've been checking out on http://www.tryflowers.org/, or maybe - just maybe - treat myself to some Polaroid instant film and go out in search of pics. I could of course also get myself a life, or my sister a Christmas present, but that would be practical, wouldn't it now?

P.S. If you recongise the bedroom photo as yours, please feel free to step in and claim the credit you're due - I've lost the reference.

Somehow I just don't feel like writing.

Well, my sister keeps saying I should update this thing, but quite frankly I can't think of a thing to say.

I quit my temp job on Wednesday, went out on a date with a bloke I hardly knew, searched for new jobs - both temp and permanent, and tonight I'm off to the Peak District for long walks and wine addled chats with friends in country boozers.

That reminds me, must go upstairs and charge the camera.

Stuck.

The room is still save for the slight rattle of window panes in their frames as another truck thunders past outside. Endless traffic, the distant boom of planes overhead, and somewhere a solitary bird trills, out of tune with the urban symphony.

The smug carriage clock ticks away the tiresome minutes and the laptop hushes quietly like the sound of heavy rain or a distant ocean. I think my head would sound like that if you held it to your ear.

Staring at a blank screen. Blank screen stares back.

Little Gifts.

All three clocks say 11:11, a lucky time according to Skippy - but then what does he know. A lot apparently.

Had our last proper evening together tonight, if together is the right word. He bugs the ass off me. He's pedantic, logical, sensible, predictable. Hasn't a spontaneous bone in his body, runs a mile at questions any more personal than 'can I borrow a pen?'. But he's logical, sensible, driven and all those other things I lack. Being around him 'completes' me in some roundabout way because he's everything I'm not but wish I was. Once again I've left him without asking all the questions that occupy the space in my mind where my thesis should be right now. Maybe I'll send him an email, and then I'll never have to deal with the inevitable pregnant silences and awkward body language that I just can't bear the thought of.

I almost trod on a snail tonight. It was the oddest thing, I just felt the slight crunch beneath my heel and managed to adjust my balance just in time to save him. Good thing too, I hate killing snails. I turn to a barefoot Skippy to warn him about our little mollusk friend. "That's no snail, it's a lizard" he says. He's a pedantic git to the end. Looking closer though I see right next to my little snail there is indeed a little lizard. It's striking for so many reasons, not least for the fact that for once we were both right. Wild lizards are almost unheard of here in England - in fact I've never ever seen one here before - and to see one next to a snail for me just seemed poignant given my strange affection for, nay, fixation with, the two species. Sometimes it's like the world sends me little gifts just when I need them most.

Sounds silly but I think I'm the snail - it's one of the creatures I identify with most, an armour plated mobile home. The lizard is only too apt for Skippy; not meant for this country, and sensible enough to make painful sacrifices when he knows it's for the best. (At least thought to be painful - the tail thing has never been proven, neither has the cutting me loose thing).

I look at it as nature's way of telling me that we're incompatible. Completely different creatures who find themselves at close quarters, despite the fact that the two should never have met. I'm glad we did.

I am Miserable.

Lots of grumbling and sulking.

God is in the Detail.

I know. It's just a door. But look closer.

I always like to keep this photo close by, because every time I look at it I'm reminded that there is beauty in even the simplest, most mundane places - places you would never think to look, and would never expect to find it.

The colours, contrasts, contradictions and composition of this picture were a gift.

Give us eyes like children so we live each day as our first.

~Lamb.

The Joys of House-sharing.

'Nuff said.

I'm not painting a very rosy picture of my personal habits...to clarify, the bedroom is usually tidy, but when it's untidy then I go the whole hog. If a job's worth doing then it's worth doing properly.

As for the bathroom, this is an area in which I excel given my long-standing phobia of other people's bottom germs and the like. It is scrubbed, painstakingly, on a weekly basis. Pubes are purged, skid marks scrubbed, the shower scoured, but despite my best efforts there are two habits I just can't seem to break my housemates of:

1) Peeing on the toilet seat, the floor, the mat...anywhere other than the toilet. There's nothing worse than sitting down to business to discover that you're sat in someone else's.

2) Not changing the toilet roll when it's finished. This is the only thing almost as bad as number one. I do not appreciate having to do the twist and shout, knickers round ankles, before shimmying gingerly over to the cupboard to find a replacement. The photo is my idea of a subtle hint...you think they'll get it?

My personal idea of heaven? A bathroom in which no traces of any DNA other than my own can be found. A place where no man has boldly gone before.

The Shit Gremlin

He sneaks into my room at night,

To sprinkle shit is his delight.

When I wake up each new day

My whole damn room just looks this way.

Ballet.

I'm taking up ballet again. Don't laugh. I know I have all the grace and co-ordination of a marauding rhino, but it's good to do something that scares you every once in a while.

Besides, I like the shoes.

Especially with legwarmers and a tutu.

An end in sight.

Another late night essay marathon brought to you by Jaffa Cakes and cordial.

The last of way too many.

Hurrah for the future - leaving work at the office and having a life outside of working hours...or is that just another rumour like the streets of America being paved with gold?

How to catch a fleeting moment without freezing its flight?

Alexandra and Pasha

Easter Sunday with the family at Chatsworth House. Blue skies, good company and a picnic. I'll miss these days when they're gone.

Alektorophobia...Chicken Phobia??

Chicken for dinner again tonight. Why is it the only affordable meat/poultry not to have been put through a grinder and cut with sawdust? Oh how I burn for a good steak, or lamb chops, pork fillet perhaps...anything but bloody chicken!! Why does it have to be so slimy and whiff faintly of rotten eggs when raw? It's really off-putting trying to eat the damn thing when you're still haunted by the image of bits of it clinging stubbornly to the cutting board. Then bits of it get stuck in the brillo pad and you wind up trying to pick them off with your fingers until there's practically no scourer left...argh! What is this, the chicken's revenge?

Here's a great business venture for anyone interested; a take-away restaurant. I'm not talking McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC...if I wanted to eat giblets I'd buy a can of dog food. I'm talking take-away steak, cooked to your liking with a medley of vegetables and sauteed potatoes; salmon with asparagus and new potatoes; duck a l'orange on a bed of parnsip mash... On nights like tonight when the last thing I can be bothered to do is wrestle a dead chicken in the kitchen I'd pay good money to have someone cook decent, nutritious food for me. I suppose if I were less of a shrew I might have a boyfriend to do that kind of thing like just all the regular frilly girls do, but until I find my Petruccio it's a life of picking chicken off the brillo pad for me it seems. Guess it beats picking some bloke's dirty undercrackers off the bedroom floor everyday.

On the distinctly up-side I shall be going home for Easter on Thursday, where the man in my life - aka Dad - will be cooking up a storm. I'm told we'll be eating out a bit too, and of course there's always that little matter of Easter eggs...Hurrah!! Do I detect Chouchoute chocolates on the horizon? I can picture it now: Hi Mum, Hi Dad. Where's the chocolate?

Cookies or cake?

Skippy popped round unannounced today with the ex he went to Paris with. To add insult to injury the curtain pole fell down and hit me on the head as I tried to open the door, and the front door blew the kitchen door shut, locking us out because the handle is broken. Meanwhile a batch of cinamon and maple oatmeal cookies was threatening to catch fire in the oven. To top it off, I was looking fabulous in my jogging bottoms and t-shirt, with no make up and greasy hair. Also reeked of stinky cream of yesterday's post fame. Awesome.

I apologised to the ex for my appearance and mentioned that had I known she was coming I'd have made more of an effort, to which Skippy retorts "oh but don't bother for me then...". He was kidding, but I couldn't resist pointing out that he forfeit that particular priviledge when he decided he 'just needed to be single and selfish at the moment'. God love him but he's getting on my last tattered nerve at the moment.

Cookies are good, though undergoing some kind of identity crisis as to whether they are indeed cookies or cake. I've tried to come up with some witty hi-bred name for them but to no avail...seriously, give it a go, all you get is 'cookies' or 'cake'.

Really must go for a run tomorrow. Have been pretty slack of late.

April Fool's...

I don't need a day to remind me I'm a fool.

The pharmacist got her little joke in a day early it seems. Went to Boots earlier looking to buy some E45 cream to clear up a few patches of eczema appearing on my arms. Pharmacist says "you should try this aqueous cream, it's cheaper, you get more of it and it's actually better. It's really good - unperfumed, and can even be used as a soap in the shower".

Unperfumed?? Now to me this means odourless. To her it obviously means they just haven't added any scents to sweeten the deal. This stuff is the antithesis to perfume. I unscrewed the lid only to be confronted by a smell so bad it made the muscles in my throat contract. Now I'm faced with an important choice between vanity and practicality:

To be covered in eczema, or to smell like burning rubber?

P.S. Blogger is odd...I posted just after midnight, but it reckons it was a good deal beforehand, and for some reason it doesn't want me to have spaces between lines tonight. April Fool's indeed.