It's Thursday today, and I'm meeting a friend for lunch. It's a lovely spring day and I'm in the mood for glamour, so I'm donning my new maxi dress (again), some huge sunnies, fab earrings and my MAC shimmer. Why the hell not, eh? I mean, yesterday was Budget Day and the Chancellor has fucked us in the arse, while stroking our shoulders, and people have totally fallen for it. I mean, people celebrating because he knocked 1p off a litre of petrol? Steups. All the retailers have done is put up their prices by 1p on Tuesday, so they can put them back down today. Some douchebags fail to realise that Unleaded is still £1.36 a litre and Diesel is £1.40. But whatevs. These nice days don't come along very often here, and my need to enjoy them comes along even less often. But just to be on the safe side, I'm stuffing my blazer into my Picadilly, for when the clouds inevitably roll in. But until then, I'll put on my happy face.
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Oh, woe is me!
I posted this on another blog I used to have in another life. It's something I wrote all the way back in 2005 or even in 2004, before I became all embittered and hateful. I only posted it on my blog in 2006 though. I missed Carnival at home this year, for the first time since 2007, and I was surprised at how hard it was. I really thought I was ready to stop playing mas and be a grown up. But it turns out that I know fuck all. I was ok at first, happy at how mature I was being and what not. But that was the calm before the storm. Things came to a head when I put on my Carnival DVDs, while I was down in the kitchen sorting out our lunch (kitchen telly ROCKS!). I'm clearly a masochist, but I thought I could handle it, like some sort of aversion therapy or something. Bad move. I ended up standing in my kitchen, knife in my hand, weeping at the fact that I wasn't going to be a part of the best thing in the world. Mr Bunny came in, and was like "What the fuck's happened? What's wrong with you?" Ah, his caring ways are why I married him. Anyway, down below is a decent explanation of why I feel the way I feel about Carnival. But instead of 2007, I'm aiming for 2012...finances and health permitting. There was a sort of happy ending to that though; I did play mas in 2007 and it was BRILLIANT! I came home feeling like I'd been through the wars, wearing one shoe and greasy as hell. But it was then that I knew playing mas was for me.
It's in my blood, it's in my veins. Cyah wash it off, I'm forever stained.
I wrote this ages ago, while I was still at home. Laziness has prevented me from posting it until now, but seeing as today is Carnival Monday in my country, and I’ve been listening to soca all day while feeling mighty homesick, I decided that today was an appropriate day to put it up. I’m back from home (ages ago!), but I’ve been otherwise engaged. Ah well… Here’s hoping I get back into my flow!
While on my flight home, I listened to about six hours worth of music. This was very lucky, as I thought my battery would only last for about thirty minutes. Anyway, it got me thinking about the part music plays in my life. I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. I don’t know a single Trinidadian who doesn’t like music. It’s such an integral part of our culture and our being. We’re raised with music practically from the time we’re born. I was doing my hair yesterday, and my hair girl just had a baby. By the way, he is absolutely beautiful! Anyway, her mom was looking after him while she did my hair, and she kept dancing around with him, or bouncing him on her knee in time to the music. And I realised that this goes on in practically every home. I’ve seen pregnant women in parties, jumping up and carrying on, passing on the music to their babies. From Carnival to Christmas, people write a song about everything. All the proper calypsonians write social commentary about the state of the country. We took part in music festival every two years, and had school concerts. Music is as innate in us as breathing, or walking down the street. We even walk down the street to a rhythm!
But I digress. I was listening to all the songs I had on my mp3 player, and I realised that nearly every single song on there, brought back some memory or the other. When Girlfriend by Alicia Keys came on, my mind instantly went back to the time I spent living in France. I’d borrowed that CD off one of the guys living in my halls, and listened to it quite a lot. I liked it so much, I went out and bought a copy. Then there’s Africa, by D’Angelo. Once again, another song from my time in France. I played that a lot on a Saturday morning, before I went into town. It’s such an amazing and beautiful song. I listen to it, and I’m instantly transported back to Saturday mornings in Evires. Evires was the halls I lived in. I’m coming out of those horrible communal showers, back to my room, fearing I’ve picked up some horrible infection from one of the societal rejects that lived there. I’ve just washed my hair, and I’m drying it, while dancing to D’Angelo. We Need a Resolution by Aaliyah came on, and right away, I was back in my room in Spain, getting ready for work on a morning, or killing time in between classes. I bought that CD on one of my weekends back to England, and listened to that song over and over again. Whenever I hear Butterflies by Michael Jackson, I think of early morning or late at night, since I usually kept that song on loop overnight, to help me sleep. And when any soca song comes on, my pores begin to raise and I get all homesick and nostalgic.
I’m back in town on Carnival Monday or Tuesday. My band is crossing the savannah stage. My section is waiting to go on, and we’re all pumped up and rearing to go. The security men are holding us back, waiting until they get the all clear from the stage managers. The music band on the truck next to us is getting us really worked up, and we’re practically going mad. I’m with my friends, Delise, Nikki (even though they were playing in another section, they crashed ours), Solo, and Christianne. Then, suddenly the security men break links, and let us on stage. They were singing Stampede, and it really was like a stampede. Those ten minutes we were on stage were like nothing I’d ever experienced in my life, before or since. The feeling is totally indescribable. Saying it was amazing is not nearly enough. You feel euphoric. You’re running and dancing and jumping and wining across that stage. You’re laughing and shouting at your friends and singing along to the song. You know you look good in your costume, and you feel like some sort of goddess. Some man has come behind you, and is wining and grinding on you like there is no tomorrow. You don’t know who he is, but you wine back on him. Another man might come from the front, and suddenly you’re in a “you” sandwich. But you don’t care. You might even raise up your leg and throw your head back, and get totally lost in the moment, because you never know how long it will last. They could stay there wining with you for a few minutes, or get bored after ten seconds and move on to someone else. Either way, you love it. You might lose a piece of your costume in all the melee, but that’s inconsequential. The entire year has led up to this point. You’re on the savannah stage for fuck’s sake!! I swear to God, I am playing mas in 2007, if I have to sell my body on street corners to pay for it. That may take some doing, as I don’t think anyone will really pay for my body, but if needs must… All I have to do is hear that bull horn and the opening bars of “Toro Toro” and I know I have to be there, come what may.
Like I said, I also find it very hard to sleep in silence, so I always have a radio on, keeping me company. While I was growing up, it was Music Radio 97, which plays adult contemporary and older music. Of course, growing up black in the Caribbean, this wasn’t appreciated by my sisters or brother or most of my friends. They were all heavily into dub (dancehall) and hip-hop. It was all you hear out in the clubs and stuff, and people might mock you or look at you strangely if you mentioned that you liked Al Green or knew the words to Midnight at the Oasis. I rather liked hip-hop myself, but didn’t feel the need to be bound into listening to only one kind of music. So I listened to all sorts, and I still do now. It makes me feel free, which I guess is a bit cheesy. But it’s true. Music is probably the only thing I really and truly enjoy. One of my most favourite things to do in the world is drive around in my shitty little car, listening to music. It’s great. Sigh!
So now I download my music from the internet, legally of course. I love it because I’ve been able to find all the songs that no one here has ever heard of, and freak them out by playing it really loud in my car. My latest additions have been Les Fleur by Minnie Ripperton and This Woman’s Work by Kate Bush. Two absolutely beautiful songs, that bring back amazing memories. Let the good times roll!!
It's in my blood, it's in my veins. Cyah wash it off, I'm forever stained.
I wrote this ages ago, while I was still at home. Laziness has prevented me from posting it until now, but seeing as today is Carnival Monday in my country, and I’ve been listening to soca all day while feeling mighty homesick, I decided that today was an appropriate day to put it up. I’m back from home (ages ago!), but I’ve been otherwise engaged. Ah well… Here’s hoping I get back into my flow!
While on my flight home, I listened to about six hours worth of music. This was very lucky, as I thought my battery would only last for about thirty minutes. Anyway, it got me thinking about the part music plays in my life. I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. I don’t know a single Trinidadian who doesn’t like music. It’s such an integral part of our culture and our being. We’re raised with music practically from the time we’re born. I was doing my hair yesterday, and my hair girl just had a baby. By the way, he is absolutely beautiful! Anyway, her mom was looking after him while she did my hair, and she kept dancing around with him, or bouncing him on her knee in time to the music. And I realised that this goes on in practically every home. I’ve seen pregnant women in parties, jumping up and carrying on, passing on the music to their babies. From Carnival to Christmas, people write a song about everything. All the proper calypsonians write social commentary about the state of the country. We took part in music festival every two years, and had school concerts. Music is as innate in us as breathing, or walking down the street. We even walk down the street to a rhythm!
But I digress. I was listening to all the songs I had on my mp3 player, and I realised that nearly every single song on there, brought back some memory or the other. When Girlfriend by Alicia Keys came on, my mind instantly went back to the time I spent living in France. I’d borrowed that CD off one of the guys living in my halls, and listened to it quite a lot. I liked it so much, I went out and bought a copy. Then there’s Africa, by D’Angelo. Once again, another song from my time in France. I played that a lot on a Saturday morning, before I went into town. It’s such an amazing and beautiful song. I listen to it, and I’m instantly transported back to Saturday mornings in Evires. Evires was the halls I lived in. I’m coming out of those horrible communal showers, back to my room, fearing I’ve picked up some horrible infection from one of the societal rejects that lived there. I’ve just washed my hair, and I’m drying it, while dancing to D’Angelo. We Need a Resolution by Aaliyah came on, and right away, I was back in my room in Spain, getting ready for work on a morning, or killing time in between classes. I bought that CD on one of my weekends back to England, and listened to that song over and over again. Whenever I hear Butterflies by Michael Jackson, I think of early morning or late at night, since I usually kept that song on loop overnight, to help me sleep. And when any soca song comes on, my pores begin to raise and I get all homesick and nostalgic.
I’m back in town on Carnival Monday or Tuesday. My band is crossing the savannah stage. My section is waiting to go on, and we’re all pumped up and rearing to go. The security men are holding us back, waiting until they get the all clear from the stage managers. The music band on the truck next to us is getting us really worked up, and we’re practically going mad. I’m with my friends, Delise, Nikki (even though they were playing in another section, they crashed ours), Solo, and Christianne. Then, suddenly the security men break links, and let us on stage. They were singing Stampede, and it really was like a stampede. Those ten minutes we were on stage were like nothing I’d ever experienced in my life, before or since. The feeling is totally indescribable. Saying it was amazing is not nearly enough. You feel euphoric. You’re running and dancing and jumping and wining across that stage. You’re laughing and shouting at your friends and singing along to the song. You know you look good in your costume, and you feel like some sort of goddess. Some man has come behind you, and is wining and grinding on you like there is no tomorrow. You don’t know who he is, but you wine back on him. Another man might come from the front, and suddenly you’re in a “you” sandwich. But you don’t care. You might even raise up your leg and throw your head back, and get totally lost in the moment, because you never know how long it will last. They could stay there wining with you for a few minutes, or get bored after ten seconds and move on to someone else. Either way, you love it. You might lose a piece of your costume in all the melee, but that’s inconsequential. The entire year has led up to this point. You’re on the savannah stage for fuck’s sake!! I swear to God, I am playing mas in 2007, if I have to sell my body on street corners to pay for it. That may take some doing, as I don’t think anyone will really pay for my body, but if needs must… All I have to do is hear that bull horn and the opening bars of “Toro Toro” and I know I have to be there, come what may.
Like I said, I also find it very hard to sleep in silence, so I always have a radio on, keeping me company. While I was growing up, it was Music Radio 97, which plays adult contemporary and older music. Of course, growing up black in the Caribbean, this wasn’t appreciated by my sisters or brother or most of my friends. They were all heavily into dub (dancehall) and hip-hop. It was all you hear out in the clubs and stuff, and people might mock you or look at you strangely if you mentioned that you liked Al Green or knew the words to Midnight at the Oasis. I rather liked hip-hop myself, but didn’t feel the need to be bound into listening to only one kind of music. So I listened to all sorts, and I still do now. It makes me feel free, which I guess is a bit cheesy. But it’s true. Music is probably the only thing I really and truly enjoy. One of my most favourite things to do in the world is drive around in my shitty little car, listening to music. It’s great. Sigh!
So now I download my music from the internet, legally of course. I love it because I’ve been able to find all the songs that no one here has ever heard of, and freak them out by playing it really loud in my car. My latest additions have been Les Fleur by Minnie Ripperton and This Woman’s Work by Kate Bush. Two absolutely beautiful songs, that bring back amazing memories. Let the good times roll!!
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
My life in foreign lands
I'm feeling all nostaligic 'n shit today, sat around staring through my balcony doors. I feel this way several times a day, so I just sit back and let it wash over me. It can be quite enjoyable actually. Earlier this morning, and even up to a couple days ago, I was thinking about my time in Munich.
Mr Bunny worked in Munich for eighteen months, and about halfway through that time, we got married. So a while after the wedding, I took some unpaid leave from work and went over there for a couple months. And I must say I bloody loved it. Munich is the way Trinidad could be, if we were a lawful society and people saw the bigger picture and didn't have their heads up their own asses so much. The culture itself is very West Indian, which struck me as odd, as we really have had no German influence in our history. I mean, Spanish culture is basically West Indian culture (and it's ace there too) but the Spanish had a huge presence back in the day. So to see such similarities in Germany was a bit strange.
I mean, the Germans have a reputation for being dull and humourless, but in Munich they love a good party. They're very big on socialising and spending time with friends and family. But the difference is, they know when it's time to work and when it's time to play. There are laws, and they follow them to the letter. Take something as simple as crossing the street- I'm guilty of gross impatience and not always waiting for the little green man to light up. If the red man is showing and there're no cars coming, I'll dart across the road, because I mean, why wait? The road's clear, so I'm not going to get hit. So I take the chance. Pas les Allemagnes! They will wait until that green man lights up and then, and ONLY then, will they cross the road. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, whether it's raining or snowing, or even if a car stops to wave them across (it won't but let's say it did for argument's sake); they will not cross against a red light. And it's admirable. It's the little things like that, that make a big difference. Because if they have no problem obeying such a tiny law, they have no problem following the big ones.
Life in Munich was almost idyllic. It was actually slightly insane how much I loved it. There was a bar about ten minutes from where we lived, called Egger in der Au, and it was one of our favourite places. They served wicked cocktails and awesome food. So one of our little routines was to go there at least once a week for a Munchner Schnitzel and some drinkies. On a Sunday, we'd go down to a biergarten for lunch and just to spend the afternoon. And this is where I really think the Germans (and to an extent other Europeans) have got it sussed. The beer garden is run by or linked to a brewery, so it serves that brewery's beer, much like the pub system over here. But the layout and rules are so much better. For example, you're allowed to bring your own food into the biergarten, but you have to buy their drinks. There aren't any individual tables, but long picnic benches, where you end up sitting next to people you may not know. If you don't fancy bringing your own food, you can obviously buy food there- pommes (chips), currywurst (sausage in curry sauce. The Germans love their currywurst. It is disgusting.), plain bratwurst, schweinhaxle mit kartofflen (pork joint with potato dumplings, which was actually pretty nice) or you could go inside and have access to the full menu.
What was so amazing to me, was that they actually used real cutlery there. Like actual, genuine steaknives. I mean, you try cutting a schweinhaxle with a butter or plastic knife! So this knife is porper dangerous. And it's being used by people who have been sitting around drinking for the better part of the day. And drinking ein masse of bier at a time. A masse is about a litre, by the way. AND NO ONE GETS HURT. There are no fights, no stabbings, no 'incidents'. Families come to the biergarten after church on a Sunday. Munich is very Catholic. So much so, Catholics pay an extra tax, on top of normal taxes, and this goes to the church and helps with maintenance and what not. The only way this tax is collected, is if you inform the state that you're Catholic (which you're not under any obligation to do), but it speaks to German character, that I think it's something like 52% of the population there pay this tax. But to get back on track, families come down with a basket of food (the German equivalent of a pot of pelau), sit in the biergarten all day, and just have a good time. They meet up with friends, have some drinks, have a laugh, watch their children play in the play area, and when it's time to go, they hop on their bicycles and wait for the little green man to show, before they cross the street. I would sit there with Mr Bunny (he with his iPod and a book, me with a magazine of some sort and maybe my iPod) and just watch in amazement. You'd see teens happy to be with their parents, laughing and joking, grandparents playing with young children, or just couples sitting together. I'd have to make up in my head what they were saying, because my German is atrocious. But it was all just brilliant, and it made me wish SOOO hard that Trinis would get their act together, because this is how it could be. No one was afraid that someone was going to come by and rob them, or that their car would get nicked while it was parked outside or that a fight was going to break out. It was as if everyone was on the same page and they just knew that one stupid action, would ruin the day for everyone else around. Sigh!
We'd walk home from the biergarten, maybe have an ice cream on the way back, and go home to watch a DVD or Ein Shot at Love mit Teila Tequila or other assorted non-dubbed garbage on MTV. And Mr Bunny would sort his stuff out for work that week.
Sometimes on Saturdays, we'd go up to Riem, which is a shopping centre that was built on the site of the old airport. It wasn't a great shopping centre, but the food court was excellent and there was a Mango. For some reason continental Zara and Mango stores have MUCH better lines than the ones here. Hmmmm. Plus it was about a half an hour away on the U-bahn, so it gave us something to do. I used to go myself, during the day, just to get some pizza from this place, whose name escapes me now. But I remember they did the most deelishis four cheese pizza I've ever had in my life. And I'd be all nervous in the queue waiting to be served, practising my numbers and pronunciations, so I wouldn't be the one douchebag holding up the line while the servers struggled to understand me.
Ah, sweet memories. Tune in next week for the tale of the time I went for a wax and the masseusse ended up massaging my boobs.
Mr Bunny worked in Munich for eighteen months, and about halfway through that time, we got married. So a while after the wedding, I took some unpaid leave from work and went over there for a couple months. And I must say I bloody loved it. Munich is the way Trinidad could be, if we were a lawful society and people saw the bigger picture and didn't have their heads up their own asses so much. The culture itself is very West Indian, which struck me as odd, as we really have had no German influence in our history. I mean, Spanish culture is basically West Indian culture (and it's ace there too) but the Spanish had a huge presence back in the day. So to see such similarities in Germany was a bit strange.
I mean, the Germans have a reputation for being dull and humourless, but in Munich they love a good party. They're very big on socialising and spending time with friends and family. But the difference is, they know when it's time to work and when it's time to play. There are laws, and they follow them to the letter. Take something as simple as crossing the street- I'm guilty of gross impatience and not always waiting for the little green man to light up. If the red man is showing and there're no cars coming, I'll dart across the road, because I mean, why wait? The road's clear, so I'm not going to get hit. So I take the chance. Pas les Allemagnes! They will wait until that green man lights up and then, and ONLY then, will they cross the road. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, whether it's raining or snowing, or even if a car stops to wave them across (it won't but let's say it did for argument's sake); they will not cross against a red light. And it's admirable. It's the little things like that, that make a big difference. Because if they have no problem obeying such a tiny law, they have no problem following the big ones.
Life in Munich was almost idyllic. It was actually slightly insane how much I loved it. There was a bar about ten minutes from where we lived, called Egger in der Au, and it was one of our favourite places. They served wicked cocktails and awesome food. So one of our little routines was to go there at least once a week for a Munchner Schnitzel and some drinkies. On a Sunday, we'd go down to a biergarten for lunch and just to spend the afternoon. And this is where I really think the Germans (and to an extent other Europeans) have got it sussed. The beer garden is run by or linked to a brewery, so it serves that brewery's beer, much like the pub system over here. But the layout and rules are so much better. For example, you're allowed to bring your own food into the biergarten, but you have to buy their drinks. There aren't any individual tables, but long picnic benches, where you end up sitting next to people you may not know. If you don't fancy bringing your own food, you can obviously buy food there- pommes (chips), currywurst (sausage in curry sauce. The Germans love their currywurst. It is disgusting.), plain bratwurst, schweinhaxle mit kartofflen (pork joint with potato dumplings, which was actually pretty nice) or you could go inside and have access to the full menu.
What was so amazing to me, was that they actually used real cutlery there. Like actual, genuine steaknives. I mean, you try cutting a schweinhaxle with a butter or plastic knife! So this knife is porper dangerous. And it's being used by people who have been sitting around drinking for the better part of the day. And drinking ein masse of bier at a time. A masse is about a litre, by the way. AND NO ONE GETS HURT. There are no fights, no stabbings, no 'incidents'. Families come to the biergarten after church on a Sunday. Munich is very Catholic. So much so, Catholics pay an extra tax, on top of normal taxes, and this goes to the church and helps with maintenance and what not. The only way this tax is collected, is if you inform the state that you're Catholic (which you're not under any obligation to do), but it speaks to German character, that I think it's something like 52% of the population there pay this tax. But to get back on track, families come down with a basket of food (the German equivalent of a pot of pelau), sit in the biergarten all day, and just have a good time. They meet up with friends, have some drinks, have a laugh, watch their children play in the play area, and when it's time to go, they hop on their bicycles and wait for the little green man to show, before they cross the street. I would sit there with Mr Bunny (he with his iPod and a book, me with a magazine of some sort and maybe my iPod) and just watch in amazement. You'd see teens happy to be with their parents, laughing and joking, grandparents playing with young children, or just couples sitting together. I'd have to make up in my head what they were saying, because my German is atrocious. But it was all just brilliant, and it made me wish SOOO hard that Trinis would get their act together, because this is how it could be. No one was afraid that someone was going to come by and rob them, or that their car would get nicked while it was parked outside or that a fight was going to break out. It was as if everyone was on the same page and they just knew that one stupid action, would ruin the day for everyone else around. Sigh!
We'd walk home from the biergarten, maybe have an ice cream on the way back, and go home to watch a DVD or Ein Shot at Love mit Teila Tequila or other assorted non-dubbed garbage on MTV. And Mr Bunny would sort his stuff out for work that week.
Sometimes on Saturdays, we'd go up to Riem, which is a shopping centre that was built on the site of the old airport. It wasn't a great shopping centre, but the food court was excellent and there was a Mango. For some reason continental Zara and Mango stores have MUCH better lines than the ones here. Hmmmm. Plus it was about a half an hour away on the U-bahn, so it gave us something to do. I used to go myself, during the day, just to get some pizza from this place, whose name escapes me now. But I remember they did the most deelishis four cheese pizza I've ever had in my life. And I'd be all nervous in the queue waiting to be served, practising my numbers and pronunciations, so I wouldn't be the one douchebag holding up the line while the servers struggled to understand me.
Ah, sweet memories. Tune in next week for the tale of the time I went for a wax and the masseusse ended up massaging my boobs.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Plus ca change
The reader of this blog may have realised that I no longer live in nasty Crewe, but in slightly less nasty Preston. Actually, I now live in a lovely village just outside slightly less nasty Preston, called Walmer Bridge. The land my estate is on, used to belong to a farmer, until he decided that the hefty chunk of cash the developers were waving in his face, was preferable to waking up at three in the morning to milk his cows and feed his chickens. I mean, who doesn't dream of a life free from financial constraints, even if that means getting rid of the land that's been in your family for generations?
Anyway, we moved up here because I went to uni in Preston. I came here in 1999 to do my degree, and developed a soft spot for it. Preston was my first home in England, so it holds a special place in my heart. Even though it was a thoroughly depressing little town and it rained basically all day, every day during my first year. It was where I met The Princess, The Egan, my mate V and my G. It was where I lost my virginity and first lived with a man. It's where I came out of my shell. I guess I would have felt the same if I'd gone to a similar shit hole, such as Scunthorpe, Skegness or London.
Preston is also where I met Mr Bunny. In a not altogether unplanned coincidence, we actually live on the same estate we met, when he became my new flatmate and then my boyfriend. We only lived in Crewe, because that is where his flat was. He owned it, so when I came back from Trinidad, that is where we lived (apart from my two month stint in Munich).
But I hated Crewe (as is well documented in this blog) and couldn't wait to get out. It was only a matter of time, as we couldn't spend the rest of our lives in the World's Tiniest Flat TM, so it was just a matter of picking a place. Mr Bunny seemed to forget that he was a married man, and was very keen on all these city centre flats, cool they were, but practical they were not. We discussed living in Manchester (and I even viewed a few flats there, including one in the Hilton which had spectacular views), Leeds, Sheffield, Gloucester and I even went to look at a couple houses in a place called Glossop. But my heart was always back in Preston- more specifically, Walmer Bridge.
In the end, I won. As I always knew I would. And I'm fairly happy here. I love our house, I'm closer to some of my friends and Mr Bunny is only ten minutes' drive from work. I can go back to my old church and we're in the catchment area for two 'Outstanding' primary schools (according to Ofsted anyway) and one of them is even Catholic!
So there's been lot's of change, least of which is in Preston city centre. Yes, it's now a city. The uni has expanded almost to the point of silliness. The halls I used to be in charge of, no longer exist and are going to house a new building for the Faculty of Health. They bought a row of council houses that were behind another set of halls, and turned them into a carpark. That makes sense, because they built another Student Services building on one of the other carparks. Good grief.
And don't even talk for the high street! Tokyo Joe's, where we spent many a cheesy Wednesday night, drinking Smirnoff Ice for £1 and throwing some serious shapes, is now called something a lot less fun to remember. The Pizza Hut we used to go to whenever it was someone's birthday, has closed down. The Gap (which used to be a George @ Asda, which used to be a Tesco Metro) is now a JD Sports. Martin Dawes is now a Costa Coffee, Principles has closed down, and the old Woolies is now a giant Next. This has perplexed me, since I think Next is shit. But I guess that's happening to Woolworth's stores across the land. Faith, where The Princess and I spent so much of our free time trying on shoes and stalking the sales, went into administration and so the shop it was in, is now a front for some money laundering operation. Miss Selfridge's has moved into St George's shopping Centre, which is now called 'The Mall'. Eh? Mood, which was a fun place to go on a Friday night, to observe the 'grab a granny' proceedings, has closed down and is now empty. And Bar Censa, where we spent many an afternoon eating chilli cheese fries and drinking hot chocolate, after a hectic day's shopping, and planning our nights out, is now a Chinese Buffet! What the fuck?! Have they no respect for our memories? I mean, a Chinese Buffet, for fuck's sake!
I can't handle all this change. I like routine, the familiar, knowing where you stand. Y'know? I mean, I understand that a lot of stores have gone bust- Principles, Woolworth's, Faith, Zavvi- but even so, I'm going to be all petulant and unrealistic and demand that things stay the same forever. Sigh.
But it's not all bad, because the Topshop was renovated and expanded, and is now over two floors, and is MASSIVE!!
So, swings and roundabouts, eh?
Anyway, we moved up here because I went to uni in Preston. I came here in 1999 to do my degree, and developed a soft spot for it. Preston was my first home in England, so it holds a special place in my heart. Even though it was a thoroughly depressing little town and it rained basically all day, every day during my first year. It was where I met The Princess, The Egan, my mate V and my G. It was where I lost my virginity and first lived with a man. It's where I came out of my shell. I guess I would have felt the same if I'd gone to a similar shit hole, such as Scunthorpe, Skegness or London.
Preston is also where I met Mr Bunny. In a not altogether unplanned coincidence, we actually live on the same estate we met, when he became my new flatmate and then my boyfriend. We only lived in Crewe, because that is where his flat was. He owned it, so when I came back from Trinidad, that is where we lived (apart from my two month stint in Munich).
But I hated Crewe (as is well documented in this blog) and couldn't wait to get out. It was only a matter of time, as we couldn't spend the rest of our lives in the World's Tiniest Flat TM, so it was just a matter of picking a place. Mr Bunny seemed to forget that he was a married man, and was very keen on all these city centre flats, cool they were, but practical they were not. We discussed living in Manchester (and I even viewed a few flats there, including one in the Hilton which had spectacular views), Leeds, Sheffield, Gloucester and I even went to look at a couple houses in a place called Glossop. But my heart was always back in Preston- more specifically, Walmer Bridge.
In the end, I won. As I always knew I would. And I'm fairly happy here. I love our house, I'm closer to some of my friends and Mr Bunny is only ten minutes' drive from work. I can go back to my old church and we're in the catchment area for two 'Outstanding' primary schools (according to Ofsted anyway) and one of them is even Catholic!
So there's been lot's of change, least of which is in Preston city centre. Yes, it's now a city. The uni has expanded almost to the point of silliness. The halls I used to be in charge of, no longer exist and are going to house a new building for the Faculty of Health. They bought a row of council houses that were behind another set of halls, and turned them into a carpark. That makes sense, because they built another Student Services building on one of the other carparks. Good grief.
And don't even talk for the high street! Tokyo Joe's, where we spent many a cheesy Wednesday night, drinking Smirnoff Ice for £1 and throwing some serious shapes, is now called something a lot less fun to remember. The Pizza Hut we used to go to whenever it was someone's birthday, has closed down. The Gap (which used to be a George @ Asda, which used to be a Tesco Metro) is now a JD Sports. Martin Dawes is now a Costa Coffee, Principles has closed down, and the old Woolies is now a giant Next. This has perplexed me, since I think Next is shit. But I guess that's happening to Woolworth's stores across the land. Faith, where The Princess and I spent so much of our free time trying on shoes and stalking the sales, went into administration and so the shop it was in, is now a front for some money laundering operation. Miss Selfridge's has moved into St George's shopping Centre, which is now called 'The Mall'. Eh? Mood, which was a fun place to go on a Friday night, to observe the 'grab a granny' proceedings, has closed down and is now empty. And Bar Censa, where we spent many an afternoon eating chilli cheese fries and drinking hot chocolate, after a hectic day's shopping, and planning our nights out, is now a Chinese Buffet! What the fuck?! Have they no respect for our memories? I mean, a Chinese Buffet, for fuck's sake!
I can't handle all this change. I like routine, the familiar, knowing where you stand. Y'know? I mean, I understand that a lot of stores have gone bust- Principles, Woolworth's, Faith, Zavvi- but even so, I'm going to be all petulant and unrealistic and demand that things stay the same forever. Sigh.
But it's not all bad, because the Topshop was renovated and expanded, and is now over two floors, and is MASSIVE!!
So, swings and roundabouts, eh?
Friday, 14 January 2011
Requiem for a friend
I miss Mad Cat and all his handicapped and freaky friends. As much as I hated and feared him (in equal measure), he was a focal point of day. Mad Cat gave me something to channel my hatred and anger towards. I think I hated him about as much as he did me, and that sort of equilibrium is hard to come by these days.
My new estate is all quiet and posh, and there isn't a disabled animal in sight! The most I've seen is some bloody ugly stripy cat, waiting to be let in outside one of the houses we viewed when we were still on the market for a new house. So now there's no need for me to keep my camera to hand, so I could try to get photographic evidence of three-legged cat pissing in my flowerbed (I'd become a sort of deranged paparazzo, stalking disgusting animals instead of being a functioning member of society). Instead, I look out of my balcony doors and yearn for a stran animal to hobble past, so I can feel normal again. I mean, yes I can walk out to my car without fear of being hissed at and attacked by an insane and possibly feral feline, but is that what life is really about? Who knows the secrets, eh? Sigh.
Mr Bunny does not read this blog, so this is something I can say freely here, without fear of being served with divorce papers. It's the little things, innit?
My new estate is all quiet and posh, and there isn't a disabled animal in sight! The most I've seen is some bloody ugly stripy cat, waiting to be let in outside one of the houses we viewed when we were still on the market for a new house. So now there's no need for me to keep my camera to hand, so I could try to get photographic evidence of three-legged cat pissing in my flowerbed (I'd become a sort of deranged paparazzo, stalking disgusting animals instead of being a functioning member of society). Instead, I look out of my balcony doors and yearn for a stran animal to hobble past, so I can feel normal again. I mean, yes I can walk out to my car without fear of being hissed at and attacked by an insane and possibly feral feline, but is that what life is really about? Who knows the secrets, eh? Sigh.
Mr Bunny does not read this blog, so this is something I can say freely here, without fear of being served with divorce papers. It's the little things, innit?
Thursday, 30 December 2010
La petite pauvre
I'm writing this from what might well turn out to be my death-bed. I have the flu, and I bloody hate it. I haven't had the flu in ages and I'm terrible at being sick. Even though I'm mad lazy, I still like to be able to get up and do whatever I need to do, without feeling like I'm literally falling apart.
Bah.
I slept for about thirteen hours yesterday evening, into this morning. And I've only gotten out of bed to hack up a lung and use the facilities. At least Mr Bunny is looking after me...sort of. He slept on the settee last night, so he wouldn't get sick, which is fair enough. But this morning he came up to check up on me, and he asked me if I wanted anything. So I said I'd like some tonic water and a cup of tea. He vanished downstairs and I've only just seen him, three hours later. So he's being dispatched to the shop to fetch me some Lucozade.
But he needs to hurry back, because our new washing machine comes today and I'm in no state to let anyone in. At least I have my new telly in my bedroom, so I'm here watching a Colombo marathon, in between bouts of conciousness. So, not all bad then...
Bah.
I slept for about thirteen hours yesterday evening, into this morning. And I've only gotten out of bed to hack up a lung and use the facilities. At least Mr Bunny is looking after me...sort of. He slept on the settee last night, so he wouldn't get sick, which is fair enough. But this morning he came up to check up on me, and he asked me if I wanted anything. So I said I'd like some tonic water and a cup of tea. He vanished downstairs and I've only just seen him, three hours later. So he's being dispatched to the shop to fetch me some Lucozade.
But he needs to hurry back, because our new washing machine comes today and I'm in no state to let anyone in. At least I have my new telly in my bedroom, so I'm here watching a Colombo marathon, in between bouts of conciousness. So, not all bad then...
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Crackhead life, take two
So we've just moved into our new house and it all feels a bit surreal. I mean, we've never had this sort of space before, so that's weird. But the estate is lovely and it's great to be back in Preston again. The only downside is that we're back to living like crackheads. It's not as bad as boiling water in a pan, but we have no sofa and up until last night we had no curtains. So the marish and the parish could see into our living room and the fact that we haven't hung the telly yet and are sitting on dining room chairs and a pouffe. We also didn't bring up our entertainment unit (couldn't be arsed packing it up) so the DVD player and DVR are on the floor next to the telly. Before we got curtains, Mr Bunny suggested we hang a blanket over the balcony door, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this would be the pinnacle of the crackhead lifestyle. And this was one achievement I felt it would be ok to let pass me by.
Getting the curtains was painful enough. It involved a lot of shouting (both of us, but mostly me), foot stamping (me), cursing (both of us) and name calling (me). It was so infuriating. I just wanted to punch Mr Bunny square in the middle of the face. He thinks he's decorating some cool bachelor pad in a city centre, while I'm obviously looking to decorate a family home. But once I unleash my secret weapons (a shrill voice and the opinions of others), he's powerless to resist. So now we have curtains and can at least hide our crackheadness from public view.
But we still have no sofa (left the old one in Crewe. Couldn't be arsed faffing about, getting it out of the flat and up these stairs), no landline or broadband, the vendors left a load of garbage in the back garden that I really don't want to touch and last night Mr Bunny was testing out paint samples on the wall, so there's now two blots of colour on an otherwise pristine, white wall. Sigh.
But at least I still live up North, so I don't have to change the name of this blog.
Getting the curtains was painful enough. It involved a lot of shouting (both of us, but mostly me), foot stamping (me), cursing (both of us) and name calling (me). It was so infuriating. I just wanted to punch Mr Bunny square in the middle of the face. He thinks he's decorating some cool bachelor pad in a city centre, while I'm obviously looking to decorate a family home. But once I unleash my secret weapons (a shrill voice and the opinions of others), he's powerless to resist. So now we have curtains and can at least hide our crackheadness from public view.
But we still have no sofa (left the old one in Crewe. Couldn't be arsed faffing about, getting it out of the flat and up these stairs), no landline or broadband, the vendors left a load of garbage in the back garden that I really don't want to touch and last night Mr Bunny was testing out paint samples on the wall, so there's now two blots of colour on an otherwise pristine, white wall. Sigh.
But at least I still live up North, so I don't have to change the name of this blog.
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