The Waiting Game

It's a strange beast, this maternity leave business. 

Going from life at 90 miles an hour - marking all of the essays there were to be marked within a 10 metre radius of my right arm before the end of half-term, endless handovers of work responsibilities ('It'll be FIIIIIIINE!' *rigor-mortis grin*), packing boxes ('crap', 'stuff', 'crap stuff'), unpacking boxes ('Can 'crap stuff' go in the cellar?'), filling out horrifically complicated Belgian baby-related paperwork and welcoming the last influx of pre-baby house guests - to, well, not a right lot, really - is slightly surreal. I feel a bit like Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, thrust from one life to another and not really sure who I am anymore. Remember Quantum Leap? I used to bloody love it, especially for that moment when he looked in a mirror and discovered he was elderly/black/disabled/a woman with really badly-applied lipstick. Yup, that's exactly who I feel like: a really, really tired Sam Beckett.  

Because of my due date (end of November) and the school year (I'm going back to work in September regardless of when the baby chooses to turn up), I could take maternity leave from the 'early' starting point of October half-term i.e. with four and a bit weeks still to go to D-day. In Belgium, this is hiiiiighly unusual - because paid maternity leave is so short, women get uber-competitive about how close they're working to their due date. But I figured keep it neat (my replacement starts afresh in a new half-term and finishes at the end of the school year) aaaaaand take what I'm entitled to, even if not all of that time is with the baby (or very well-paid). And everyone I know, particularly if that person is a woman with children, keeps saying, 'Oo, four and a bit weeks. Lovely.' And then more often than not she lowers her voice conspiratorially and adds, 'Make sure you enjoy it. Sleep a LOT', which would be wonderful advice if I didn't need a wee every three hours. 

So. After all of the moving madness I still have - in theory - two and a bit weeks to fill. I found myself ironing towels the other day and had to have a word. 'LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO IRON TOWELS,' I rebuked myself mentally. 'I spent too much time ironing towels' will not be one of my deathbed regrets. Too much time worrying, yes, or too much time ogling other people's fringes: such wastes of energy are sad, but also sadly unavoidable. Not ironing towels, though. 

That said, thought, I've realised the importance of having a structure to my day to help me not go completely nuts. This 'structure' is largely a self-imposed litany of minor and largely unnecessary daily labours involving tasks such as 'find somewhere that sells nipple cream' and 'order titre service cheques' (shite, haven't done that), but it helps my poor routine-needy brain. It also helps that it now takes nigh-on an hour to get myself dressed in the morning - the bodily manoeuvring and one-legged swivelling and grunting involved in pulling on leggings and socks is something quite special and oh, sweet Jesus, the Bio oil application, now there's a real treat. Perhaps I'll park that mental image there. 

Onto happier thoughts. New apartment! Behold some photo-snippets:

It's ground floor and therefore gorgeously gloomy early in the evening - I tell you, it's just crying out for a Christmas tree and fairy lights - ROLL ON DECEMBER. It's also stuffed to its impressively high ceilings with beautiful features like a corridor of exposed brick and supremely handsome internal doors and built-in alcove bookcases with downward lighting ohmyword. And the kitchen has open dark wood shelving and white metro tiles and stainless steel work surfaces LIKE WE LIVE IN SOME KIND OF SEXY MOJITO BAR. I'm completely, unashamedly in love with it.

Isn't that changing table (avec les flamingoes) darling? We renovated it! Grey satinwood paint, some fancy oilcloth and handles and a bit of spray glue goes a looong way. And that last photo makes my tummy flip. We're just waiting for you, baby. Not long now. Gulp.  

**Clears throat**

Hiya. 

This is my face right now. 

It's a face that says, 'Hello, beautiful world! Hello, sunshine!'

It's a face that also says, 'Bedders bought Hobnobs! I haven't had a Hobnob in years! Hobnobs in Belgium!'

And it's a face that says, 'Oh, IB and A level; I have felt your keen whip for nine months, and now I revel in the blessed relief of study leave.'

School is nearly out for summer. We have three weeks left, one of which is a trip for all students to an age-appropriate destination and activity. Year 9 go sailing in France (staff sleep in tents - SHORT STRAW), Year 8 go to some kerrrazy-action-adventure-monkeybars-wonderland in Kent (staff have to swing about on highwires/monkeybars - SHORT STRAW) and Year 7 head to Albertville in the French Alps. 

I mention this purely for the gratuitous purpose of telling you about MY trip to Albertville when I was in Year 8. What's that, Laura - you went on a trip to Albertville when you were in Year 8? Why yes, I did! And I don't know what the staff did on it, really - swilled wine and sunbathed, I reckon, while we visited every slightly shabby swimming pool within a 60 kilometre radius. And poor old Gary Scott was allergic to chlorine, so every time we visited a different slightly-shabby pool, Mr Mulholland would saunter in, ask the spotty teenager behind the desk a few chlorine-related questions in his Frenchy-via-Northern-Ireland accent, and then reemerge with a shrug to say, 'Sorry, Gary. Chlorine.' And in we'd trudge, the wretched swimming cap would go over the previous day's thick red forehead welt, and we'd be entertained for the subsequent three hours by Peter Cantwell diving down to touch the bottom of the pool and then breaking back through the water's surface with arm outstretched shouting 'Two times! Two times!' in the manner of Wyclef Jean (Killing me Softly was the song of that particular summer).

God knows what poor Gary Scott was doing. 

Sooooo anyways. What's the shizzle? Well, my mum and dad and my sister and my nephew (now two! not a baby! how did such a thing happen?) came to Belgium, so that was all rather busy but super-fun. Retirement has turned my charity-and-pawn-shop-obsessed mother into even more of a magpie and we spent a productive morning in Troc, which is basically an second-hand furniture emporium catering for all tastes, with everything from beautiful G-plan teak sideboards to fugly Footballers' Wives-style diamante-encrusted pleather sofas. We bought the green chairs above (TWO FOR FORTY FIVE EUROS! Sorry, I hate it when people do that - but seriously! TWO FOR FORTY FIVE EUROS!) and brought them home on a trolley, navigating roundabouts and dog sh*t - which was a larf. So we had a Sunday Swaparound - hence the photos. 

We spent a morning in Brussels Toy Museum for Theo's sake. The guidebook describes the owner as a "lovely man" who "can't say no" to the hundreds of donations he receives each year, and so result is a "slightly ramshackle but rather quaint" mixture of traditional displays in glass cases and "interactive areas". Reality = the girl on the door announces on entry, 'Everything you can touch, you can catch' (sic). This means TOYS EVERYWHERE. THEO EVERYWHERE. NO HEALTH AND SAFETY CONSIDERATIONS. THEO, DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH DARLING, IT'S DIRTY - IT'S BEEN ON THE FLOOR AND ACTUALLY IT'S A CHOKING HAZARD...OH, AND NOW YOU'RE CRYING, YUP, COME HERE, WE'LL GIVE YOU A CUDDLE...  Repeat to fade.  

Also, it was mint.

Oh, and I'm having a baby. Yah.

Admittedly, this is bigger news than buying some green chairs (however lush they might be) or visiting a mental Toy Museum, but I've never been particularly skilful at this 'got something to tell you' business. So. Yes. So far my thoughts are alternating between 'Arrrrrrrgh!' and 'Ooo, these baby bloomers are delightful - PIN!' 

Please tell me it'll all be OK - that the responsibility of growing and caring for and raising a tiny human being with a HOLE IN ITS SKULL is not really that big a deal and definitely not something I should be having hormone-soaked nightmares about. Seriously, I could do without the nightly horrorscapes re: being an alcoholic country and western singer and losing the plot at a high-profile festival or the one about my teenage nemesis ringing me up about the fact I've missed my piano lessons for three years and Mrs Walker is really annoyed with me. I need reassurance. At the moment, I'm taking the fact the hospital smelt of croissants on my last visit as a good omen, but I could do with something a bit more rational, you know. 

Go on, tell me - it'll be fine, yeah?


***

picture above - yes, I have a pinterest board entitled 'Woof'. What of it?


  

Sometimes...

...you don't need to buy stuff.

...you just need to move it around. 

Perfick Weekend

OK, so we weren't going to spend any money ever again until March. 

But then Bedders was about to depart for the UK for work for a wee while and so we spent our last Saturday together for a fortnight doing All Of The Things In Brussels We Like Best. 

This consisted of the following: 

Bedders going for a haircut while I browsed the second-hand bookshop Pele-Mele (I beg of you, watch the video), then Bedders joined me and browsed too (I'd nearly gorged myself on smelly books by this point, so we only needed another 15 minutes or so). 

Then we went to Belga which is full of boys with little beards and silly hats and too-cool-for-school sailor tats but the food is luscious and the mint tea is awesome. And we saw some friends and had some craic and that was pretty sweet. 

Then we debated going to Le Petit Coin (they now have a website, which is here, but it doesn't show their current stock and you can't buy anything via it, which renders it pretty pointless, although here is some other stuff I bought there if you're interested in).  

Sometimes we go and there's nowt of interest. Sometimes, though, we go and we DIE. 

Yesterday was one of the latter instances. 

So we bought a luscious chair, and a cushion ('Eeet is made of vintage how-you-say fabrique, non?') and a blanket and bedside cabinet of my Actual Dreams (my pinterest board 'Wor Hoose' has almost turned into a homage to bedside tables, of which this particular one from Le Petit Coin is the pinnacle). And then we just had to go to Habitat for crisp white bedding and a rug and some more cushions. And a lightshade. And a rug for the living room which is kind of brown and fluro pink. It sounds totally VILE but in reality it's Beauty Incarnate. 

Gaaaah. 

And so I'm getting the newspapers Bedders gave me for our anniversary framed. We were both born on a Sunday, so he procured the Observers from the days we were born as a first 'paper' anniversary gift - I was obviously born on a bumper news day as the headline screams something about POISONOUS LEAD PAINT IN CHILDREN'S PLAYGROUNDS, and Mark Thatcher was doing some wheeling and dealing on the day Bedders entered the world. I think they'll look a treat above the bed.  

And then our new neighbours had a party last night and invited us up. Marion wore a party dress and heels and served canapes and Laurent kept topping up the champagne. Everyone was lovely and we had the easiest journey home ever, i.e. down the internal stairs. BONUS. 

It started snowing yesterday afternoon and it hasn't stopped since. It's freezing but the light is lovely. 

So really this weekend has been rather lovely. It's almost alleviated the pain that the Gatsby release has been put back till May. 

Hope you've had similar amounts of fun!

Chez Bedders

Bonjour. I 'av been 'aving ze French lessons, yes? So that I can speak like the natives, yes?

Today I have been learning the language of 'Objects in the Office' and 'How To Say Where They Are In The Room'. I can, therefore, tell you that the paper bin is green and it is in the corner. I can also tell you that there were two pairs of lunettes dans la salle this afternoon and one of those pairs was purple. And I can also inform you that there is a tree outside the window.

I tell ya, when there's a paper bin emergency and you need to know where that bin is pronto, you'll be glad to have me around. 

We also talked about our likes and dislikes and what we do every day. And I now know that Lewis, my fourteen year old classmate (yes, this is what I've been reduced to) likes Greenday. Beaucoup. And Nickelback. Beaucoup. Christina, the Spanish girl who works in a Cuban bar, is my favourite classmate. She speaks approximately 70% of the time in a Spanish/Catalan hybrid and barks 'QUE?' at the teacher periodically. 

Mais maintenant, allow me to show you around the apartment, oui?

First of all, those of you in need of a 1st wedding anniversary present (that's PAPER, folks), look no further than here. You may have seen previously that, amongst other things, Bedders enlisted the help of a YouTube tutorial in order to make me some origami paper flowers for our wedding anniversary.

I repeat - a YouTube tutorial. That, my friend, is love.  

I ordered address cards from the Rifle Paper Company. We have an exciting new address, and the cards are beautiful and printed in GREEN ink. I heart them.

Heart, you say? The hearts are actually a little leaving present from a lovely lady I used to work with at my old school. She tucked them inside a card with a sweet note and I was very touched.

Alors, and here is the desk at which I type. A bargain from a Leeds-y shop. Note, paper flowers on display. And our much-loved bookcase in pride of place in the dining room. 

OK, so this is what all the Pinteresting of picture frames was all about. Clockwise from centre bottom we have an Alan Stones print (Immediate Family), our Swimming for Children book framed, a trio of Irish writers (Joyce, Kavanagh and Yeats - my brother has all 6 which makes me sick with envy, quite honestly), a Guinness advert that I found in an ancient Country Life magazine and framed and then Bedders' Bathing Places Fat-Man-Diving print which he got in the Side Gallery in Newcastle many yonks ago. The blanket is my Donna Wilson BEAUTY. 

Old faithful favourites have been finding new homes...

I'm currently suppressing my inner OCD nutbag and trying not to worry about our luscious new chair being bleached by the sun. Err, hello turning-into-my-mother! No worries - the  John Lewis voiles will be arriving soon. Err, definitely turning into my mother. 

I've had to adapt to the fricking crazy weather we've been having here. When I say adapt, I mean STOP WEARING TIGHTS. Believe me, this is a big deal for me. I swear to God, last week it was so hot I was worried about expiring. On the street. Just giving up. It was SO. VERY. HOT. It was actually a bit disgusting how hot it was, but I won't go into that. 

Another Side Gallery Print on the wall. Benefits of high ceilings (even higher than Leeds) = LOOOOOADS of picture space. 

So there we go. A sneak peek around the apartment. I am as giddy as a kipper. 

It's probably obvious. 

:D 

Oh, look-see. I did a smiley. Yup, definitely giddy as a kipper.  

More coming soon - amongst all of the reading I'm doing for school I came across MORE ADDICTIVE THAN CRACK COCAINE so I'll be penning a few thoughts on that and I'll also do a Brussels: IT EXISTS OUTSIDE OF THE APARTMENT! photo post. 

Eeeep!

You say apartment, I say flat.

I did a whole post on a selection of my instagram photos from Brussels (I did, I really did) and I didn't include this bad boy - one which sums up Brussels - the beer, the bread and the honey-coloured slightly holiday-y feel of it all. Ahh.

3rd August, here we come. Moving Day. The Eurostar is leaving, baby, and I'm booked on board. This is REALLY happening (see? I said it again!)

So, how does one go about moving to another country? Problem is, I don't really know. I went to a bank and opened a bank account (or an account de BONK which, in heavily-accented French, I personally thought was hilarious but my sister thought was, well, a bit juvenile) while I was over there. That was a step towards becoming a legitimate citizen, I felt. Go me! Although our lack of French (our or reluctance to speak really shite, half-remembered GCSE French) is still seriously letting us down.

We entered the ING bank (bonk) and the fella behind the counter, glasses balanced on the end of his nose, looked up, clearly disgusted by our Englishness.

"Err, we've an appointment to open a bank account," said Adam. He's marginally less embarrassed about speaking in English to French-speaking Belgians than I am. There's not much in it, mind.

He sighed. Theatrically. A full five seconds elapsed before he lowered himself to respond. With no words, but a dismissive wave towards our (much friendlier) advisor-blokey.

Intensive French course, here we come.

So we have a bank account. I have sussed out the tramline to school. We spent what felt like five hours in a Belgian Habitat buying a bed. Like any another self-respecting Brussels-based ex-pat, I have a folding bike. We've sorted out some (very nice) tenants to pay us rent in the UK (thank Christ). We need to go to the local commune (some sort of local council-type office from what I hear - not the cult-like organisation it seems to suggest) and apply for our ID cards (ID cards - remember those? Gordon Brown was sweet on them once upon a time - for ID-card-related funnies, click here) and there's the small matter of packing up all of our earthly possessions, putting them into a big van which in turn will shunt them into a mahoosive container and pop them on a boat. And we need to make sure Bedders is on the other side to greet it.

And then we need to get them into our new 'apartment'. I've resisted saying 'apartment' as I think it sounds a bit wanky alongside 'flat', but maybe I just need to lose that paranoia, yeah? Because it IS an apartment. And it looks like this.

 It's a bit grey and drizzly (that's because it WAS grey and drizzly), but it's purdy, no? It's the first floor. That bay window you can see is a bedroom. Then working to the right the next window is the kitchen. The next two windows along belong to the dining room, but it's all an open-plan kitchen/diner anyway. Then if you had your back to the dining room windows, you could walk towards the back of the house into the living room and the French windows and the roof terrace. Yah-huh. And the rest of the apartment weaves back from the front bedroom - there's a bathroom, a separate loo, a laundry room and another bedroom. And I love it. And Bedders did very well not to have a mental breakdown finding it after viewing 573 apartments*. Bravo, husband.

*slight exaggeration

More Wants

Reader, I need you to steel yourself. If you have a penchant for stunningly beautiful home furnishings, you may regret reading. Just take a look at these cheeky little devils.

Umm, hello Donna Wilson. You seem to be making blankets that are basically ME but in a BEAUTIFUL BLANKET FORM.

Problem is, Donna, they're not exactly at impulse buy. At £180 - which I have no doubt these little beauties are worth, especially after the ill-advised trip to Hay-on-Wye's Welsh Nursing Blanket shop (yes, there is such a thing - here) which was run by the poshest woman I have ever met - a woman so very, very posh it was almost difficult, as a Northerner, to communicate with her - anyway, I digress - where was I? Oh yes, at £180, I'm going to have to save up and perhaps direct some birthday money towards this particular purchase. But that's not a problem. You see, I simply MUST own the blanket.  

Bedders does not understand the blanket. He did not get an agenda about the blanket. He thinks the blanket is pretty, yes, but does not understand that the blanket commands me to own it. He doesn't realise that I'm just a pawn in the blanket's game; a mere mortal fated to do the blanket's bidding. Never mind. Soon he will understand the blanket's wishes. He will yield. Oh yes, he will yield.  

Now which colour should I go for?

PS Don't even LOOK at the rest of the website. Certainly don't browse the cushions. Or the little birdy plates, otherwise it's game over. G-A-M-E-O-V-E-R.

I Like Stuff

When you're about to move, you need to start looking at things carefully. So says my mum, anyway. You need to have a clear out. 'Can I live without it?' you must ask yourself. 'Do I want to pack it and ship it? Do I want to pay to put it in storage*?'

*pester parents to keep it in their garage for me.

I like stuff. I always have. From the age of 7 or so I curated an impressively extensive collection of animal figurines which continued embarassingly far into my teens. If only I'd had the foresight to hang onto it; my dressing table is really missing out on a chipped squirrel. Really. I was physically pained by the donation of a stuffed hippo (enormous, useless) to a hospital play area. I almost made my mum go back for it...but didn't. I'm telling you; a life lesson was learned right there.

What I'm trying to say is, I'm emotionally attached to things. Silly things. And I'm obsessive about lists and bits of paper and...well, crap, really. Crap in a really neat pile, though. Love a bit of a contradiction, me.

I go into other people's houses and marvel at how minimally they manage to live. But I just can't manage it myself. Where are their (really neat) piles of crap? Where are their envelopes with doodles and To Do lists scrawled on the back? Where are their ornaments?

We had Harry from a removal company around last week. I walked around the house with him pointing out things that we loved, things that we wanted to take. The big things, I realised, we're not so bothered about. We're leaving the (hideous SCS) sofa (bought with a hangover on a Very Bad Day - that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) and the armchair. We're leaving beds. On the other hand, though, we're taking a brown anglepoise lamp that Adam's friend fished out of a skip (thank God!) and some duckling ornaments that I bought at a carboot sale for 40p when I was ten (I LOVE them). We have postcards stuck everywhere. Things hanging up and that. It's all about the bits.

This fixation with STUFF is perfectly exemplified by the fact that I bought a typewriter at the weekend. A fecking TYPEWRITER. And a wooden sledge (to put TOWELS on in a BATHROOM, all right? It has a perfectly valid function, OK?). And a little yellow milk jug with a lovely little handle (but then I put the other two milk jugs into the car boot sale pile in the cellar, so again, totally FINE). And I loved them all. I was delighted with my purchases. I left the Antiques Bar near Leamington Spa hugging myself with joy/like a loon thinking of my booty (booty in the piratey-treasure sense of the word. Ho ho.)

But even after a mammoth kitchen-clearing-out-session (Bedders: Shall we wipe out the cupboard bottoms? Laura: Are you my mother?), there's an awful lot of sorting to do. What to keep? What to store? What to ebay? What to chuck into the car boot sale pile? I'm really, really trying. Honestly. I told you about the milk jugs, didn't I? I get the feeling it's going to be a loooong process...

Favourite Weekend Purchase

Just what I need when I'm moving to another country. Couldn't resist, though.

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. 

Shelvetastic

So we may be moving house.

Mebbes.

But more on that later.

The thought of moving brings thoughts of packing. The thought of packing brings thoughts of hot sweats and rashes.

I hate moving. Strike that. I despise moving.

But anyhoo. I got to thinking the other day about non-negotiables as far as a house was concerned. You see, we may need to move to a house that's rented. One where we can't paint the walls or mess around with wallpaper. Or we could, I suppose, but there would be little point.

So what could I do to make it my house? What would I absolutely have to have?

I think the answer is shelves. Shelves, man. They're a massive deal in wor hoose.

More practising with the camera....more faffing about with the iPad!

Beer mats as a Save The Date? Good, eh?

Wants.

I really, really want a neon sign. I really think it could change my life. I think it's a home essential.


It all started with a tea shop in Lourdes that sold macaroons and overpriced prosecco. God knows how we ended up in there...but we did.

(photo offov the Crackberry liiiike)

Imagine this on your kitchen wall. I can. If it was there, I'd die happy.

Then I got to thinking about the SEX exhibition I went to at the Barbican yeeeeears ago and the Tracey Emin neon stuff that was there.

It being the SEX exhibition it was some of the - well - ruder stuff. But some of the other stuff is pretty awesome, hey? Look.

I could put this on my office door so that people KNEW when they came to talk about a difficult kid or a staffing problem or whatever they could have my response immediately - I know, I know, I KNOW.

For the insomniacs amongst us.

I don't know if this is hopeful or hopeless, but it's one of my favourites nevertheless.

This is a lovely, very un-Emin-like reminder to stay positive. I almost wish it was 'IN your dreams' to get a wee bit of word play on the go.

So Emin. Sleazy and tacky but wanting desperately to be oh-so-beautiful and rise above it all.

Lumiere Durham was on recently. From the website, it looks a damn sight better than Leeds' attempt. There were multi-coloured lights on Prebends Bridge (amongst the scaffolding, like). And they had Martin Creed's (isn't his hair wonderful?) Everything Is Going To Be Alright which I LOVE displayed on Old Shire Hall (I believe).

So now I just need to start saving - ooo, I don't know - a grand? - to have a custom neon sign made.

And, of course, I need to start deciding what it would say. Hmm.