Bruxelles

So. We have been to Brussels this weekend for a bit of a scout around da hood. Da hood we might live in. In September. Argggh. 


FYI, that was the noise of excitement/strangulation. 


Oh, you haven't been paying attention? You don't obsess over the minutiae of my life? How very dare you. Allow me to fill you in. 


1) Bedders got a job in Brussels. A supremely wonderful job in agricultural policy. Cue the Halleluiah Choirs. 


2) Then I got a job in Brussels. Like, last week. I still need to explain more about that. I will.  Cue the Jurassic Park theme music. 

Suddenly our Whole Ruddy Life has changed and I'm having all of these idealistic notions of parquet flooring and open-plan living and roof terraces and big windows and beer in the park ('...because that's what they DO in France!', I proclaimed last weekend. 'Err, you're in Belgium,' Bedders retorted), writing a book and Jaysus wouldn't that be marvellous? 


So yes. We were there this weekend. And amongst everything else I've been doing (it really has been crazymaniatastic in Bedfordville), I HAVE DOWNLOADED HIPSTAMATIC. 


Yes, I am well aware I'm about fifty billion years after everyone else. Seriously. When I got my iPod shuffle in 2010 I thought I was the cutting edge of hipness. Alas, I no longer labour under that illusion.  


So here are a few Hipstamatic treats from this weekend. 

Clockwise from top left. The Grand Place. Tulips, obvs. We bought Clare some winter roses and anenomes and then left them in the apartment. Doh. I am the worst sister ever. I am SO excited about having a bike. My new school is 6 miles away from the neighbourhood we're looking at and I'm having (perhaps slightly unrealistic but nevertheless delightful) visions of cycling to work, geeky helmet and all. War memorial. After my Pat Barker-inspired WWI musings I looked at them with fresh eyes. 

Ah. Now. If you ever go to Brussels (and you MUST, it's lovely), you need to go to this shop. The owner is impossibly chic and has impeccable taste (aside from her blatant love of wicker fans, which I wasn't feeling so much) and you could spend a LOT of money here. We restrained ourselves to the following...

It is BEAUTY INCARNATE. Bought with wedding euros, so it's Totally. Fine. Yeah?

And these plates, which make me so happy I could cry. Nearly. They are so square and so colourful and so European. 

I hope you all have some exciting Easter plans. We have a wedding (the lovely Susie Smith will become Susie Murphy - or Smurphy. Huzzah.) and a trip to a Hertfordshire cottage. And then Wales next weekend with the ma, for what is becoming an annual pilgrimage. I think we'll leave Snowdon this time, though. 

The Girl With The Boring Hair

I know a girl - a friend of a friend, if you like - who has a phobia of being referred to by other people as The Girl With The Boring Hair.

Not Girl-Who-Bores-The-Arse-Off-You. Not Girl-With-A-Ferocious-Monobrow. That-Girl-With-The-Deeply-Irritating-Laugh. The tag she fears most is to be deemed to have have boring hair.

I nodded sagely when I heard that. Because, guess what? I have my own cross to bear. I, too, have always felt my barnet to be sadly lacking in the Interesting? Dept.

At school I had fair hair. It was all one length. My mother put me off having layers cut in a'la Rachel offov Friends (it was the 90s) because she said it'd look like I had "a head full of split ends'. And so it remained shoulder-length, mousey-brown with a persistent cow's lick at the front (this may have been the days of Rachel offov Friends, but it was also pre-GHDs).

At University, I got a side fringe cut in. You'd have thought I was having a lobotomy from the excruciating self-examination that went on prior to the big event. Then I went for a slightly chestnutty shade. Oh my. Teetering on the edge of anarchy. Vivienne Westwood ain't got nothing on me.

So what have I been up to recently? Well, amongst other things which I shall go into in due course, I have been HAVING MY HAIR DIP-DYED. I believe 'ombred' is the correct term. Fair play to the hairdresser who squinted at the pixelated picture of Alexa Chung on my crackberry screen and refrained from rolling her eyes when I said, "Errr, sort of like that?"

And I do rather like swishing it about.

Pen Do.

So the weekend saw the advent of Pen Do. And, by Christ, Sunday saw the advent of New Lent. I will be alcohol-free for forty days and forty nights.

It's fine to start Lent a week in. Chris Evans said so. He did - on Monday's breakfast show (for the record, he's cutting out beer and bread. I swear, a significant part of my carb-related paranoia is down to Mr Evans.) No, I don't know what the Pope's official line on it is. But if the Big Man himself did 40 days in the desert, so if that's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

But I digress. The reason for enforced sobriety? PEN DO WAS STONKING, MAN.

Although that combination of gin, red wine and apple sours (why?) was not. Gaaaaah.

Sunday was a Day of Twos. two hot cross buns. Two naps. Two Panadols. Two lime and sodas. One of anything just wasn't doing the job.

Anyway, so PenDo. Penny has written about it. Anna K has written about it. And now I shall write about it. Oh yes I shall.

I will put links in to their witty write-ups when I'm not on the iPad - oh yes, DID I MENTION I BOUGHT AN IPAD?! And years of being scathing about Apple have come to an abrupt end? - mainly so that you can read and internally vomit about 'intimate pink' being used as a colour description for any kind of branding purposes and for Anna's rather lovely sum-up of everyone. Aw, shucks. It's all true.

If this was Guide camp, we'd be hugging right now.

First of all, let it be known that it was like a massive blind date. Oh god. I haven't been in the back of a taxi wearing a pretty dress and trying to ignore sweaty palms for Quite Some Time. I didn't enjoy that bit. Wasn't dating exhausting? Cilla lied to us. Our Graham and his quick recap lied. Dating isn't exciting. It's overrated and stressful and leads to whiny existential conversations with female friends.

Secondly, let it be known that they are all REAL PEOPLE. I know, I was surprised, too. But they are. And they live up to their personas. Because, let's face it, prior to Saturday, they were all personas. Rebecca was the epitome of swan-like elegance. Anna was a Quip Machine with incredible pouting abilities. Penny was an edgy rock goddess. And so on. But on Saturday they came to life from the moment I found Amy, Anna, Gemma, Kirsty, Bex and Lucy at the bar and uttered the immortal words, 'Pen Dooooo?'

There was a pause that in reality was about four nanoseconds. At that moment it felt like aeons. Then Amy said, 'Yes!'

Halle-flipping-luiah.

So Rebecca and Penny appeared. And Neon Cactus fed and watered us. And we sang karaoke. And Daniel by Elton John was on the machine. Ah, me. And someone took lots of photos (apparently. I was doing too much Elton-loving to really notice, it seems.)

And do you know, it was bloody marvellous? Completely and utterly out of my comfort zone if I'm totally honest - all gob, no trousers, me - but actually ace. I was reminded of Baz Luhrmann and that 90s hit Everybody's Free (to wear sunscreen) - 'Do something each day that scares you.'

Although I think what scared me, on reflection, wasn't actually the meeting up, but the measuring up. I don't think I've ever hung out with such a gang of Ridiculous Over-Achievers. Errr, girls, I think it would do you some good to, like, FAIL AN EXAM or NOT BE SO DEVASTATINGLY STYLISH or HAVE A BAD HAIR DAY. You're showing the rest of us up.

Thanksbye.

"Though lovers be lost, love shall not."

That's a Dylan quotation right there. Dylan Thomas, that is. Yes sirree, I have been in the land of one of the greatest Masters of the Simile of all time - unconvinced? "Smiling like a razor blade." Wowzers - as well as the land of Charlotte Church and her cheeky Vimto shots. The land of sheep and mining choirs. The land of Mr Tom Jones.

And we had a lovely pre-Valentine's/thank-God-above-it's-half-term break.

We walked and talked and made some plans and put the world to rights.

We spent a full hour on Sunday morning in bed with a coffee and the Saturday papers. That was a little bit glorious.

And I played with the camera.

We stayed at Pennant, near Llangollen. There was freezing fog when we arrived. It felt like we were on top of the world, although not in a euphoric way. More like a 'can't-actually-see-if-this-road-is-tarmac-or-a-dirt-path' kind of way. Look at that ice formation, I told Bedders. A theist would use that as part of a teleological argument for the existence of God.

Mmm, said Bedders.

There were woodland pigs at Chirk Castle. They were utterly monstrous.

They were definitely representative of the colour palette of the weekend, though.

We saw a sliver of blue sky in the gardens at Chirk.

But was it enough to make a pair of sailor's trousers? Bedders wanted to know.

Thank you, Paul and Claire for our National Trust membership-as-a-wedding-present. The perfect gift for a pair of utter nerds. You know us well. 

The animals on the farm had pretty Welsh names. This chap's girlfriend was called Beti.

We did a bit of hiking in between all the wine-drinking and blue-cheese-eating (obvs), for which we needed a map. I once again marvelled at how studiously Adam consults maps. I'm happy to wander*; he, alas, is not. 

My new walking boots are wicked. Merrell, don't you know. And I bought them with a wedding voucher**. Gerrin! Free boots!***

And then I did something very reckless.

On the way back, we stopped in Manchesterrrrr, land of the nasal twang. The land of the Gallagher brothers. Land of-OK, ENOUGH ALREADY!

And I purchased one of them ol' iPads. And I am clearly destined to be completely obsessed by it. Cue a lot of laborious faffing about with my photos from the weekend.

But I'm fulfilling my promise to work out how to make photos look prettier (I did actually vow that. Here)! Surely that must be worth a 69p app and a hell of a lot of fiddling?!

* OK, so I mean dither.
** Thank you, English department colleagues.
*** Well, significantly subsidised.

Happy Birthday Bedders.

Like the card? Find it here.

It was a wee while ago. The 15th, in fact. To celebrate this auspicious occasion, we went to Lahndahn Tahn and lived it up. We met up with Lovely Matthew. We stayed at the Farmers' Club. Bedders is now lusting after (and justifying) a membership. We went to see The Ladkillers at the Gielgud. We ate tasty Italian food somewhere that Giles Coren has raved about. Then we went to see The Pajama Men, where I nearly expired laughing. It was a bit rude.  But very, very funny.

Oh Baby

I'm trying to find a present for some lovely friends of ours who've just had a little 'un. And I want to buy them some REALLY AWESOME baby clothes.

Now, I appreciate that dressing your baby like a gangster isn't for everyone. But how amazing are these?

No, indeed she isn't.

I appreciate a good pun as much as the next girl.

Actually bought this for a work colleague once upon a time. Well, for his child. He WAS a Dylan fan.

And these are my ACTUAL favourites. Love and Hate scratch mits!

Sadly, I don't think gangster wear is what our dear friends have in mind. They farm. They are wholesome. They are uber-lovely.

So...those Scandinavians. They're bloody cool, aren't they? Just type 'Scandinavian Baby Clothes' into Google (you know, if you're bored, like) and see what comes up.

In fact, you don't need to bother. Look - I'll show you.

I like the psychedelic LSD-inspired surrealness of this one. It's all a bit Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

This baby's daddy is a farmer! How perfect is this?

get your baby farmer-gear here

Oh, hang on. Not as perfect as this! (although secretly I suspect this might be a little bit ugly and I'm being sucked in by the kitsch factor).

When I have a child, it's going to be EXQUISITELY dressed.

Nyerrrrrrcasstle

I've been home for the weekend. HOME home. You know, like where my mum and dad live. Newcastle. Nyerrrcasstle.

credit where credit's due

Or actually, Washington, Tyne and Wear. Washington. Yes, as in America. No, it's not IN America. Hence the accent. It's the ancestral home of George Washington. No, there's not that many American tourists. Yes, an American president visited us once. I don't know which one. He planted a tree on the village green, or so my Year 6 primary school teacher informed us. Yes, it's a New Town. That means there's a lot of roundabouts. Yes, it was horrific learning to drive there. No, I've never seen Jimmy Nail. Or Gazza. Or Sting.

With Bedders still in Brussels, I had a Proper Family and Friends Weekend. And it was lovely. I had lunch at the Italian we used to go to when we were, like, 17 and fancied ourselves as a bit grown up. The lunchtime special (two courses) used to be £4.95 - now it's £7.50. Still a bloody bargain.

We went for a drink in the Central, site of a crafty hen do some months back. Ah, a grand time was had. 

(bloody art teacher outshining us all with her talent)

Oh, Newcastle. Leeds has nabbed me by accident of history, but my heart belongs to you.

And I love this Geordie Jeans sketch from Vic and Bob.

"They're geet tight roond the arse."

Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl but she doesn't have a lot to say

Bedders and myself ended up at a Rotary Club dinner the other night for reasons I won't go into.

I know. We're wild. Sometimes I wonder about the toll this crazy lifestyle is taking on my poor body.

I had no prior knowledge of the Rotarians. Well, other than they organised Public Speaking competitions in the educational borough of Sunderland in the mid-90s. Which I may have entered. And maybe used as a soapbox to project my views on sexism in soap operas. Or whatever.  

Anyhoo, so a Rotary Dinner we attended. I tried to prepare myself by having a snoop on their website.

There were lots of photos of men wearing medals and standing next to flags with their hands on other men's shoulders and whatnot.

I sat opposite the chap in the middle at dinner. I'm pleased to report that he was very pleasant. 

And lots of photos of men shaking hands. Ah, shaking hands.

'Secret handshakes and all that, I imagine,' I said to Bedders, nodding wisely.

'That's the Masons, you idiot,' he retorted. 

There were galleries and galleries of photographs. Galleries including photographs like this. 

Which I found hilarious. It's like those caption competitions they used to do on Have I Got News for You.

We arrived at the Golf Club (of course), the husband in a shirt and tie and me in a dress (NO DENIM!) and headed for the bar. I ordered a small glass of wine and, boy, it really was small. They served it in a teeny sherry glass.

Bedders collared a knowledgable-looking chap. Knowledgable-looking in that he was wearing a red jacket and a pink tie.

"Wat's this Rotary Club business about, then?" he asked flippantly. I swear, having a Yorkshire accent means you can get away with being cheeky ALL of the time and no one takes it to heart.

"SERVICE BEFORE SELF!" came the barked reply.

A helpful fellow came over before the meal.

"We're going in now. First, we eat. Before we eat, there's a grace. Afterwards, we usually make a toast, then business, then annoucements from the secretary. Then we toast the Queen, which everyone generally stands up for."

"Bedders." I hissed. "Bedders!" I hissed again, more urgently. "Toasting the QUEEN?"

"Calm down."

"I once LICKED a picture of the Queen in a PUB for a DARE. There's empirical evidence of it on Facebook. I can't toast the Queen. I'm not toasting the Queen."

"Calm down."

"I'm not toasting the Queen."

So we went to dinner and I sat between Norman and Tony (lovely fellas) and listened to the business and the toasts and had the craic about international security risks and training teaching assistants.

And everybody was very warm and friendly and totally unlike the bloke I sat next to at a wedding over the summer who was utterly unpleasant and told me in no uncertain terms that India is "remarkably dirty" and I'll probably die of dysentery in one of their squalid hospitals over Christmas. Buuuuh.

But I think he was a Mason, anyway, and not a Rotarian at all. Oopsy.

And they still do public speaking competitions, which I was pleased about.

Eesh, one's wedding day. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

On Friday night, we went to a friend's for tea. And a sumptuous tea it was. We popped out into Leeds for a wander afterwards in parkas and proper sensible shoes - it's winter now, man - because it was LIGHT NIGHT. Ah, Light Night.

http://lightnightleeds.co.uk

**my links are being grumpy for some reason**

Basically, the museums are open late. One can wander into the City Museum and draw/write something on a postcard. Hand your postcard to a curator. Curator staples it to a washing line. BADABING - you're an artist.

Cue lots of pseudo-political whinging and bullshit from students. "Love my country - hate my Government." Deep, man. Ah me, I'm finally at the age where I curse the presence of students. They drive up house prices in the area - and speaking of driving, they drive bloody everywhere and clog up the roads like nobody's business. Since when did a student have the money to run a Mini Cooper S? 

And the Town Hall was open late, too. So we went in, attracted by the promise of Victorian Cells. Oo, Victorian Cells, I thought. Spooky!

Except they were full of crafts. Like stuffed foxes made out of felt. And fairy lights. And hand-stitched mushrooms. Bit incongruous with the spirits of those poor souls sentenced to death in there. It was all a little bit odd.

Anyhoo. That wasn't the reason I brought this up. So we went for tea and received a Very Exciting Parcel. A belated wedding present.

And this is what lay beneath the pretty paper.

Oh my word. It's a WW2 child's evacuation case.

With a lovely blanket.

I am speechless.

Once again, the cleverness and originality of our friends astounds me.

So there you go, folks. Stuck for an original wedding present? Get them a retro picnic set. They'll love you forever.*

*guaranteed



WORMGATE

Something is rotten in the home of the Bedfords.

Figuratively and literally.

You see, Bedford decided some months ago that he wanted a womery.

"A what?" I asked.

"A womery. It'll be marvellous," insisted Bedford. "We'll be like George and Lennie. Livin' off the fatta the lan'. The dream!"

"Does it involve worms?"

"Err, yes."

"Making compost? Chewing up our leftovers?"

"Yeah! Amazing, eh?"

"And then pooing it out?"

"Yeah!"

"No way."

And that was it. I drew my line in the sand. However, my zero-tolerance anti-worm stance lasted all of...oo, ten minutes. You see, Bedders made some promises. Here's promise number one. Ready?

"Laura, you will never have to see the worms."

OK, this sounded fine. We have a cellar, you see. And in this cellar there's a separate little room. I call it the Man Cupboard. There are mysterious things in there like puncture kits and those two types of screwdriver I can never remember the difference between. It has a latch on it which I find nigh-on impossible to open. Pathetic upper-body strength.

He claimed the worms would live in there. They would be happy and content. They would munch away all day and I'd never even know they were there.

Second persuasive tactic. They would live in a lovely little house. No ordinary wormery for us, oh no! Bedders wanted the Porsche of composters. Being a farmy type, he'd come across Wiggy Wigglers. Behold, the Worm Cafe!

Ooooo.

Sturdy, says the website. That sounds good, I thought.

But I was fooled, you see. Fooled by the clever branding! Worm Cafe? I had visions of them ordering a Diet Coke and meeting other worms for a date. But no! These are WORMS, people! They DON'T ORDER DIET COKES OR GO ON DATES!

Sounds obvious, I know. But I was sucked in.

Anyway, the worms moved in. They bedded down and settled in to a life of chomping and reproducing. Sounds great, eh?

I wasn't exactly fond of them, as such. But I quite liked the thought of them down there. You know. They were kind of like pets. Hairless ugly pets with no legs.

But tonight I went down into the cellar. I was putting a wash on, you see. I know, these crazy Monday nights are gonna kill me.

And this is what I saw.

Oo, what are those swirly patterns on your otherwise-grey-and-lifeless concrete cellar floor, Laura?

Gosh, I don't know reader, let me take a closer look...

I gasped. Gagged. One of them was still writhing.

THE CARCASSES OF WORMS!

With the exception of the still-writhing one. Obv.

Maybe the worms, grown fat and disorientated from the leftovers Bedders lavishes on them, fell out. Maybe there's some disillusioned teenage worms in there who've listened to too much Placebo. Maybe they've all joined a cult where flinging yourself to an untimely death from the third storey of the Worm Cafe is all the rage.

Eiither that or he hasn't put the bloody lid back on properly.

Look at this one! It's perished mid-way under the door of the Man Cupboard! Caught on the threshold between a dark former coal store and the relative pastoral idyll of the utility room!

Oh wormy, what were your final thoughts? What final cry broke the air as you met your doom? "Damn you, Bedders, and your incessant coffee granules! I'm so jittery on Taylor's Lazy Sunday blend I just fell out of the bloody thing!"

I have sent a text. It reads, "Sort it out."

Excuse me while I go and try not to have nightmares about giant worms slithering up the stairs and eating my face off as I sleep.

Today

Bedders is on his stag do.

I have spent the day doing the following:

- Picked up my car from Headingley before the traffic wardens come on duty at 8:30. Got there at 8:33. Realised the sign read 'No Parking from 8:00am'. Not 8:30. Didn't get a ticket though. Woop.

- Spoke to my sister about potential bridemaid dresses at length (for her wedding, not mine). Looked online at a Laura Ashley number. Recalled a Laura Ashely denim pinafore of my youth with much fondness.

- Walked into town. Bought a lovely top in Joules. Browsed in Oxfam Books.

- Spoke to a hungover Bedders. Spoke to my mum. Spoke to Bedders' mum. Spoke to dear Alex.

- Charged my phone.

-Bought sushi. Ate sushi. Realised M&S's new long packaging is a con. Exactly the same amount of sushi as before but it LOOKS LIKE MORE.

-Thought about doing work. Discarded thought.

- Kate came over. Discussed her (very exciting) love life at length. Drank tea.

- Ran five miles. Grr. Machine.

- Realised the oven is broked. Hmm. Made scrambled egg and salmon on toast. Realised my day has been quite fishy, what the sushi and whatnot. Ho hum.

-Bought paper. Read paper. Laughed out loud at Caitlin Moran's Royal Wedding Run-Down.

"Later in the show, presenter Andrew Neil asked if he, (Richard) Madeley, would "get rid of Charles and make William king. Madeley replied, "Well, if he was gaga, obviously," with the kind of breezy certainty that suggested that, should our heir apparent actually "go gaga", Madeley would step up to the plate and finish Charles off with a spade, as if he were an old badger knocked down by a car."