quelle erqsome...

in which i explain my whereabouts

So, I've been working in-house at my old publishers again, two days a week, for nearly a month and I cannot believe how it's affected my ability to do things. For one thing, actually having spare cash to go out -- awesome! For another, total exhaustion and a subsequent flake out on the sofa when I get home -- awful.

I've been cycling the 25 minutes from my house to Vauxhall, an exhilarating way to start the day if there ever was one, then taking the train out to the office where I induce forced brain collapse for 7 hours. Then I take the train back to Vauxhall and cycle sweatily home again. I actually rather enjoy the way this new routine makes me treasure the time I have for my research, but it's knackering.

I fully appreciate that anyone who actually works in an office FIVE DAYS a week will now either be flipping me the bird or laughing at me for being such a wuss. But as well as working in-house, I've also started teaching at uni again (little first years for critical theory, two seminar groups, loving it) and have started working with a new supervisor while my old one is on sabbatical, which means I REALLY have to work now. I'm glad for the change, really though, as I was getting too complacent with my old supervisor.

I've not had any time to sew at all for three weeks, which SUCKS. However, my knitting time has been completely amped up. The train journey affords me at least 40 minutes every day just for knitting, which is lovely. When I get home in the evening, I usually try to get some reading done but for the most part I flop in front of the TV and knit some more. I've watched more utter drivel in the last month than I have in the last five years.

My radio silence over the last few months has been driven by two key factors, both of which I've wanted to keep largely to myself but for very different reasons.

The first is I'm betrothed! I turned 30 and was whisked away by my dearheart to Paris, where, while breakfasting on the south bank of the Seine, Matthew clutched my hand nervously as he got down on one knee, produced a diamond-bedecked nose stud and asked me to marry him. I laughed and cried and said yes and it was wonderful. I LOVE being engaged, having an Engagement Freckle is giddingly lovely, but I cannot wait to get married. Marriage is going to be fucking awesome. Matthew is the most wonderful person I have ever known and it is my privilege to be part of his life. While marriage has never been something we've particularly discussed, knowing we're going to do it seems to have made everything brighter, more vivid and more pertinent.

The second thing also brought us closer, but for less awesome reasons. In August I miscarried. It was very early-stage, I couldn't have been more than about three weeks along, and quite unplanned; other than the faintest of faint pink lines on the home pregnancy test, the miscarriage was the one clear confirmation I was pregnant in the first place. Although I can rationally commend my body for rejecting a collection of unhealthy cells, I really wish it had done so less dramatically. Most early-stage miscarriages go practically unnoticed, with none of the symptoms attached. I, on the other hand, had the ginormous boobs, the strange pulling and stretching of my body as it got its womb together, the sudden waves of faintness, the hypersensitivity to smells and taste, the inability to concentrate on anything for more than three minutes... And all of that lingered with sick cruelty for the next six weeks (damn you, nature!). Regardless, it sucks but good things have come out of it: for the ten days between my beginning to think I might be pregnant and the actual miscarriage we both got super excited, which bodes well for when it does happen.

In any case, I've been mostly blogging over at Loumms, but as I've started teaching again and working in-house again, and want to start delving into my personal life again, I'll be here more often. For real this time.

brain purge

I delivered a paper last night; it went way better than I thought it would. Although it's based on one of my chapters, it comprised of a huge reshuffling of ideas and because of a slew of migraines I've been having lately I only really began working on it on Tuesday. It should have been a bit of a stinker. Instead, it was met with tolerable success and prompted a really interesting discussion afterwards.

That slew of migraines makes me wonder if I should get my eyes tested. I've spent the last couple of weeks in a haze of daily pounding light-sensitive headaches. It's not as much fun as it sounds.

The British Library is ace! Why had I stopped going there? What possessed me to think the cost of transport was justification? How is that possibly justification in the face of such fantastic productivity? I've put Matthew in charge of forcing me out the door the next time I try to flake out.

The last of my (self-imposed) mandatory reading list, Think Inc. by Adam Diment, came in the post last week. It is a. awesome and b. a really unexpected diversion from the rest of the series. Unfortunately Diment sort of disappeared after this one was published, which is such a shame. I wish he'd kept on writing.

We bought a rug! It's a great rug! It's chocolate and turquoise and is interestingly patterned! But it's not the size it claimed to be. Fighting with the merchant over who gets to pay for shipping it back.

We Lovefilmed Hot Fuzz last week and it is indeed as funny as I remember. I have to admit I wasn't sure it would be: we watched it at the Peckham Cineplex with a crowd that was awesomely in the mood for laughing, and that's infectious. I was a bit worried my memory of an awesome flick was in fact a memory of the feeling of being around so many people having a good time. But it's hilarious. I want to watch it again.

I've started knitting the Julia socks, which is the pattern I received in the Socktoswap, in the yarn I receifed in the Socktoswap. If you have never tried Sundara, DO IT! It's a beautiful thing.

One of my cats has been nibbling on my aloe. Yeti, I'm looking at you. I hope it was tasty.

My friend from long ago who I met up with last week (who is lovely, by the way, we had a really fun time and I'm planning on introducing her to my favourite veggie hot spots across the city) has a fantastic new blog, Chairity Case. She's very modest, but I think it's awesome.

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

So the heating has not been fixed. It turns out that British Gas is comprised of bureaucratic faffsticks who will choose to replace at least one part that does not really need replacing, return TWO DAYS LATER to replace a second part and then decide someone else will have to stop round some other time altogether to rewire the entire system.

However, due to some obscure British Gas policy, we won't be able to get a rewiring engineer to look at it and sign us off onto the WAITING LIST to have our boiler rewired until January at the earliest. And the last faffstick boiler engineer to show up at our door informed us that we will likely be looking at the end of January before there is any rewiring done at all. Further to all that, we were told this morning that British Gas might in fact deny all responsibility of the boiler and direct us to the manufacturer and the person who installed the system in the first place. Nonetheless, they would be charging our landlord for all three visits and the two unnecessarily replaced parts.

As a parting gesture, Boiler Man gave us a fan heater he had in the back of the van. Matthew was rather touched by this until I pointed out that we get our electricity from British Gas as well, and as the fan heater is about as economically viable an option as flushing a toilet with liquid gold, British Gas wins again!

So, to recap: British Gas 4 - 0 House of Erqsome.

defrosting cockles and gingerbread

Yesterday, after a near meltdown on my part, Matthew called up the landlord and charmed them into action, hurrah! The British Gas engineer is scheduled to come today, hurrah! (I keep wanting to call the British Gas engineer the BT engineer -- they have nothing to do with each other, so far as I can until, unless British Gas sorts out the BT offices' boilers and BT maintains the British Gas telephones.)

Regardless, functioning central heating will soon be mine! 

We made gingerbread cookies last weekend, and because of the moisture hanging in the air (due to the lack of central heating, rather than the fact we live in a 130-year-old house), all the ones we hung from the tree lost their heads. Or rather, they lost their bodies. They were all lovely and crisp when they went up, but the sog set in and, well, it wasn't pretty.

I will make some more after the British Gas people have been and there will be much rejoicing and crunching of crisp gingerbread heads and hanging of gingerbread dancers. I cannot wait!!

30/30 the canadian grilled cheese

What makes a grilled cheese sandwich 'Canadian', for me, is two things:

1. The sandwich must be closed during the grilling process. Over here a grilled cheese is often open, with the cheese melted onto the bread from a heat coming from above. In the Canadian grilled cheese, the cheese melts between the bread as it toasts. Usually the bread is compressed during the toasting process, to accelerate the melting process.

2. The outsides of the bread is buttered, which makes it a little crispy and a lot tasty.

The only way to do this without a grilling machine is in a frying pan or skillet, pressing down with a spatula. It's pretty calorie intensive, so this is really a very occasional treat, but man is it delicious!

ingredients:

2 pieces bread, about 1/2 thick or more
strong cheddar, enough to cover one of those pieces, sliced

method:

Make sure your ingredients are prepped before you begin, as this is pretty quick once you get rolling.

In a wide-ish skillet, melt the butter at medium heat. Tip to spread it around, the way you would when making pancakes. Lay both pieces of bread down. You don't want them burning or sticking, so keep them moving by gently shaking the pan.

Once they have absorbed a bit of the butter (1 minute), turn down the heat and on one of the pieces arrange the cheese. Make sure it does not hang over the side! Overlapping is fine. Place the second piece, toasted-side up, over the cheese. Take care not to jar any of the cheese.

Let sit for about 1 minute, to begin the melting process. Then, take your spatula and press firmly. If the corners of the crust are resistant, concentrate on them before flipping. After about 15 seconds, flip and press again. Continue pressing and flipping until the cheese is melted (under 2 minutes total) then remove from the pan. There might be some overspill, so take care not to leave a stringy cheesy melted trail, which is a pain to clean up.

Best served with home-made tomato soup or chocolate milk.

20/30 an evening of mathematics and absurdity

Last night Matthew and I attended a self-proclaimed 'magnificent evening of silent film, music and French chanson', hosted by the talented partner of a good friend of mine, and oh how it delivered. If I had enough money, I would spend it on throwing regular afternoon parties in a private cinema watching Buster Keaton as the band played. Everyone would be welcome and we'd have small sandwiches and champagne and wear fantastic hats. Wouldn't it be marvellous?

Watching silent films accompanied by a live band is the only way to do it. For all their explosions and surround sound and enormous production budgets, these days talkies kind of fail in comparison.

11/30 good things

Today, though not wildly productive, has been a very good day. I've done lots of little things, though I still have several that need doing. But overall, it's been a very good day.

I awoke early and walked over to the hospital in East Dulwich to have some blood taken (nothing serious, all part of my yearly check-up).

I reread another chapter of Dark Wanton -- I am loving it second time around. The way Cheyney layers his characters, and sets them on their paths, is genius. He has a knack for doubling meaning, so now everything every character says is fraught with possibility.

I went to Wandsworth and bought some frankly delicious fabrics, including some gorgeous nursery fabric to make a set of towels and bum wipes for my downstairs neighbour. I must take pictures of them when the sun is still up and I'm not relying on poor-quality lamplight. While in Wandsworth I discovered an amazing second-hand shop and may (just may) have found an integral part of Matthew's stocking.

I've printed out my next chapter and have begun the long slog. I have HEAPS of work to do, but I'm really rather excited about where it's heading. I've started formulating abstracts for the next 4 chapters as well, so I'm feeling pretty well like I'm nearly on top of things. I still haven't heard back from my supervisor, but fingers crossed it's because he's been struck dumb by my brilliance and NOT (as I fear) rendered incredulous by my vacuity.

I currently have two cats vying for attention and cuddles, eager to tell me about their exciting adventures outside, where there is RAIN, well SORT OF, it's really just DRIZZLE, but it still made them WET and actually, now they're kind of HUNGRY, so they're going to go EAT, but not before they tramp UP AND DOWN THE SOFA with DAMP, MUDDIED PAWS. I'm sure they never used to be this vocal.

Matthew has made his famous chilli tonight and it smells so good! I'm very excited about this one, as I convinced Matthew to add a pinch of cocoa powder, an intriguing suggestion from La. It smells fantastic.

Also, you know those two bags I posted about yesterday? They were both snapped up overnight! How awesome is that? Lou and I nearly fell over when we saw!!

3/30 like a sluggish slug

Matthew sometimes accuses Mozzie of falling into her slug pose. She will lay herself down the length of your legs, stretch her head flat and tuck her paws invisibly under herself and luxuriate luxuriously. Both girls do this, but Mozzie, says Matthew looks like a slug. A grey, furry slug. I protest vehemently on her behalf every time, of course, because 'a grey furry slug' sounds like it should be mouldering on a compost heap, and Mozzie does not moulder. She smolders. And she luxuriates as she does it.

It's been a whole week since I was last able to go for a run -- every time I have thought, Ah yes, now might be the hour, I have been headed off by poor weather, snuggly cats or an unusual streak of prioritising my deadlines over things I actually enjoy.

Even though I announced to Matthew that this week I would be 'taking it easy', I have thus far finished up and sent off three freelance projects, sewn up three Sock-Perfect WIP bags and read most of Dark Wanton for a third time. I have also been eating my weight in popcorn, cabbage and half-price Green&Blacks chocolatey chocolate ice cream, so it is no wonder I'm left feeling slightly shakey, dehydrated and in need of exercise!

Like a sluggish slug.

fo: a hap blanket

Pattern: Hap Blanket, by Ysolda Teague

Yarn: many: Artist's Palette Big Softy in ice blue, Devon Fine Fibres Bowmont in wombat and natural, alpaca from Emmms the Alpaca in natural caramel

Needles: 7 mm 

Comments: Matthew calls this my greatest achievement as far as my knitting goes. I'm not sure I agree with him per se, but other than Mr Bear or base of the kittens' bed, this is by far my most used finished product. It covers our bed when we go to sleep at night. I wear it in the mornings before I get dressed (and sometimes after). Matthew swaddles himself in it before he goes up into his studio in our loft. In the week and a half since the radiator broke we have spent almost every night huddled under it. I love it.

It will for ever be the blanket that stopped me losing my mind, for that alone I love it. I began knitting it after my granddad died back in July and finished it before the end of September, just in time for snuggling weather. Knitting it was a rather perfect way of keeping myself occupied when the grief was overwhelming; it allowed me to meditate on him and nothing all at the same time.

Choosing the yarns for the feather-and-fan edging was far more difficult than I ever anticipated. I had already chosen a yarn that was much thinner (a heavy worsted, 'light' chunky) than Ysolda recommended, so as I already had to increase the stitch count to 120 to make it satisfactorily wide enough, I decided to lengthen it as well and make it a proper-size blankety blanket by doubling every colour block. However, in doing so it meant the 6 skeins I had originally bought of the Big Softy were never going to be enough. So I bought another skein of the Big Softy and a skein of the Bowmont in natural, but I still felt there was something missing. That something was a gorgeous skein of pure alpaca sent to me by the lovely 'Lista.

'Lista and I met over at CPaAG on Ravelry. There are some people who you meet, whether in person or not, and feel an immediate connection. 'Lista is one of them. She is an amazing story-teller and can make me laugh, with stories of her sea of cats, her crazy neighbours and batty kidlets, like no one else. She has that uncommon gift of being poignant, hilarious, delicate and pithy, all at the same time. I cannot count the number of times I have wished I could step through my computer screen into her Tulsa world, though whenever I see I've got an email from her I can practically feel the sun on my face and one of her bunnies in my arms. Over the last year and a half, as well as emails, we've sent each other care packages and in one of them was a skein of alpaca. It just so happens she met the alpaca from whom the fleece that turned into this skein is from, and it further so happens that alpaca shares my name. If that isn't fate I don't know what is.

Sadly, 'Lista also had a difficult summer and so this blanket is in memory of those she has lost as well. One day, when all this recession nonsense is over and Matthew has signed with a major record company and I have started my lecture circuit around the States on Lacanian blots, phallocentrism and anxious little spies, I shall take the blanket with me to meet her in person. We will sit on her veranda wearing our tiaras and drinking cocktails, sharing stories about grandparents and the things they teach us, and as each of her neighbours passes I will be able to halloo them by name. It will be lovely.

baked apples to soothe the soul

We can shower, all is not lost. We can shower and wash the dishes AND do laundry, because apparently none of these things necessarily need the boiler, but have their own magical furnace that allows them to operate at temperatures above freezing.

However, it is starting (just) to get cold enough that I wish we at least the option of turning on the heat. Matthew had to run out for a bit this morning and he came back to find me in my Modrobes (aka the Fuzzy-Bunny Pink Pants -- not underpants, for any Brits in confusion, but as close to sweatpants as I have ever owned), wearing two t-shirts, one sweater, one hoodie, one hat under the hood of the hoodie, fingerless mitts and a pair of fingerless mitts, swaddled to my eyeballs in my deliciously snug Hap Blanket.

'You should go outside,' says he. 'It's actually pretty warm out.'

It is officially colder inside than out.

He was up in Birmingham yesterday, re-recording some vocals for the next Woebie single (out November, I think), leaving me in a chilly flat with only the cats. The cats tend to squirm too much these days to be stuffed down my shirt for warmth, so I consoled myself with baked apples. Baked apples dressed in plump sultanas, chopped pecans and a dusting of cocoa powder. I ended up leaving them in the oven too long (about 45 minutes to an hour instead of the recommended 30) and at some point the skins parted and all that was left was a puddle of goopy sultanaed, pecaned, cocoaed apply mess. It was steamingly delicious.