let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see

I looked at my suitcase this morning, after forgetting what a suitcase was called (no lie), and felt like a newborn child. what the fuck do i put in this thing? everything? nothing?

in the before tines, i could (and did) pack half asleep with one hand behind my back. i had a system, bags for short haul and long haul equipment, chargers for business trips and phone leads for every occasion. now i stare at these things and think 'how many toothbrushes to i need for five nights away?', 'am i really going on this holiday?', 'will i get to come home after this holiday?'.

similarly, the last week or so i've had to leave the house with more than one credit card or just my keys and phone. i've had to start the slow road back to carrying 'stuff' around with me. loyalty cards (looking at you, nando's), oyster card, bottles of water. things i used to carry with out thinking but that now seem a particularly frustrating and outdated burden. i can see that i will probably be a person who finally puts a nectar card on my phone in the near future.

but of course now i can go to a restaurant, order some texas brisket, and eat it. in a restaurant. with other humans i don't know sitting around me. and finally have a conversation that maybe is only 70% related to this fucking pandemic. in. a. restaurant.

i look at my passport. it's hard to tell which side is the front from five years of intensely frequent shoving into back pockets, back packs, handbags, whatever. it was last used in february, and even then to go to and return from a funeral, so it's been a while since the poor thing had any fun.

but then again, i also hear the traffic all the time again. the birds arent there (audibly) in the early morning anymore. of course neither is the crushing fear of dying/losing someone/collapse of society into a dystopian nightmare/catastrophic economic repercussions/global poverty and starvation/weakened immunity from all diseases caused by lack of contact with normal bugs we just bat away (no pun intended) thoughtlessly and any number of myriad other nightmares that for most of us were merely the premise of a bad Michael Bay film. a lot of that is still there, but i've gotten better at forcing myself out of bed in spite of it.

as a person who's somehow remained employed throughout this utter disaster of a year, i find now that it's my personal responsibility to re-start this economy. i need to get on planes, not simply (but absolutely still) for my own sanity, but for the flight attendants, pilots, baggage handlers, guys who work at pret at the airport, train drivers, etc. possibly the best and worst thing to come out of this has been the way it's forced everyone to see just how connected we are to each other, whether we like it or not.

i've always been dorky enough to think about supply chains. ill go to a chinese restaurant and ask how many ducks they go through in a day. but i think a lot of people dont. and now the time is here for all of us to realise just how important our spending, and our spending habits, are. support jobs, and business. support ethical purchasing. everyone just got the reset button mashed on their whole lifestyle. we got a do-over. use it. especially bc some people won't get the chance to make different choices. their choices will be 'feed my kid or feed myself?', 'go to work and risk getting ill or stay home and risk getting evicted.' and it is also because of this that those of us who have any kind of spare cash need to go spend it. the more people we can employ, safely, the fewer people will need taking care of. and, i'd like to think, the better we can take care of everyone. i realise that last part is pretty much a pipe dream, but someone out there needs to have some goddamned hope right now, so it's gonna be me.

but of course, people are still dying. countries are at different phases, so sometimes the option isnt there. but i am not sick, and i do have common sense and know how to wash my hands and social distance, and i do have a job, so i am getting on that plane to keep a gelateria from going out of business. and when i get back i will do the same for as many places as i can afford. call it the 'engine starting tax'.

so i will go to italy (maybe) in a few days. and look out over an alpine lake. and sanitize my hands before i fall asleep reading by the pool with a mask on and suffocate.

you wait for darkness then you wait for day

it's time to ask myself, do i really like going to gigs? i hate the guys who don't stop talking, i hate the people who are going to or from the bar or toilet who (even in this moronically overly apologetic country) don't say 'sorry', 'excuse me' or even 'back the fuck up, homes', i hate the couple (there is always at least one) who seem to think that if they are not completely entwined at all times perhaps the world will fall apart, i hate standing up, i hate the bit before the opener/after the opener before main part, i hate the wait before the encore, i hate holding my bag/jacket/beer, i hate that they start/end so late and never take place in my living room.

these feelings are not new. not at all, but now, on the eve of my 35-and-a-half birthday (happy birthday, maj!!), i am old enough to admit: i can't wait till they are over.

it all starts with an email announcing [insert mildly esoteric band here]'s impending arrival and listing an on-sale date. cut to day tickets arrive in post--yay! can't wait to see them/they were so good last time! doors arent till 8? wtf? cut to afternoon of actual gig--hmmm, why didn't i book?/thank god i booked seats. it's gonna take SO LONG to get home. who is this random opener?

yes, yes, the point is on its way.

the thing is, for all the crap that annoys me about gigs, ill still react the same way whenever i get those emails, because gigs are good, and fun, and interesting. and i love them. even if BtS didnt play 'the weather' (again), you might see them play 'while my guitar gently weeps' or 'dont fear the reaper' and 'how soon is now'. 

so i will go, and i will moan, and razberet and i will continue to develop 'home by 10 productions', for people who like to gig, but like to do it early, and sitting, and with an established personal space for all in attendance, and with the promise that you'll be tucked up in bed by 1030. and ill shift my weight but reshift it anyway so i can keep tapping my foot, and do the indie head bounce dance, and look at guys in checked shirts, and drink a few beers, and spill some on me, and wait for them to end, and be sad when they do.

it's a lullaby from a giant golden radio

the haze is wearing off. all of london has woken from a collective dream. a sort of time when the nerdy girl is asked to sit at the cool table and the cute jock takes a shine to her, when the guy working at gregg's gets talent scouted by a hollywood producer, when all the dreams you'd almost given up on come true, so much so that you have a lingering fear of when it will all end. well, end it has.

at first we wondered if it would last. one day of 22 degrees and sun sent us into a panic. 'get out, get drunk, every outdoor activity on the list for TODAY, people, we don't know when we'll get another chance'.

but then, we rolled over in our sleep, let out a satisfied sigh and the dream went on. sunshine, not in bits and pieces, but a lengthy, reliable stretch of halcyon days. followed of course by truly british complaints of it maybe being ever-so-slightly too warm.

we basked in long evenings at the pub, not even thinking of wearing jackets. we wore the hopeful summer wardrobes in legitimate summer weather, and even had to repeat outfits! we made plans for outdoor activities without fear, without the traditional british plan b of an indoor activity.

but now, the jackets and coats have come out. we eye up the darker colours in our wardrobes and try our jeans on again for the first time in months. we relocate our brollies - the work brolly and the home brolly - 'where on earth did i chuck those hoping never to see them again?'

but it's not tragic, far from it. walking along the streets of london the last couple of days i sensed a feeling of relief. we have awoken, we are rested, the dream is over, we return to our table of geeks and our job at gregg's. we have returned to our element(s).

after all, this weather is our home.

too important for all that song and link malarkey

this is more of a news bulletin than anything else cause i find these two facts amazing enough independently and almost circuit-shorting when combined.

Three-time Academy Award-winner Daniel-Day Lewis is half Jewish. He also supports Millwall FC. 

oh when you're cold, ill be there

ugh, SARA, what else is going on? it's not like we're content with some bullshit about how fancy you are cause you puked four times in a northeastern english train station. like you think that's interesting? well it's not. it's boring and i have a mind to stop reading this shit altogether if you dont come up with something better.

something like, say, pictures from London's brand-new (for-the-time-being) tallest building in Europe?

FINE

who likes instagram!?! razberet totally gave me a trip up the shiznard for christmakah so we went a few weeks ago. on opening weekend. cause we are fucking trendsetters.

Trend. setters. first we went for brunch at the drift. it's a little chain that's got some of the twee-est decor ever but i love it despite my generally grumpy-arse self.

we had some decision-making issues so ordered (and shared) a sausage sandwich, eggs florentine and some bubble and squeak with a poached egg on top. it was faaaaabulous. i might. even. have. a -- oh here it is. there you can see the sandwich and the eggs and the B&S (really good).

as i said, this place is part of a small chain. i've been to the folly near bank and had some fabulous scotch eggs and mac n cheese, and the refinery, which does lovely cocktails and occasionally sort of has bocce. it's a decent little chain. if you find yourself near one, it's worth popping in.

I'm not about to blow [chunks] now

my god where to begin. a month's absence! it might be hard to believe but there are actual people on this green earth who are upset with me. so here i am. back in black. return of the mack. the terminator only nice this time.

following the last post, i went to harrogate for a lovely weekend with the mayoduck family. we went on walks, we sat by the fire, we had pie and lamb for tea, we had hearty breakfasts, we watched it snow, we played with the baby. then we got norovius while on the way to the Yorkshire Dales.

what is fun? well, this much i do know. spending almost two hours freezing in Leeds train station while trying not to retch is not fun. eventually going in to the toilet and staying there because 1. it is warmer and 2. that was your last 30p and in this state of vomergency, i needed to be near a toilet more than i needed anything else. once on the train, i imagine i looked remarkably like a junkie. not many people sit on a 2.5-hour train journey with their gloves, coat, hood, hat and scarf on the whole way, while also shivering constantly.

getting home that night was the best thing that ever happened to me.

i'm sure a few other things have happened, but we'll get to that. the focus now is on the fact that last night razberet and i totally saw dave grohl and a bunch of other mental musicians at the forum. it was amazing, although it was VERY LOUD. i still can't really hear anything. of all the things i figured i'd get to see in my life, most of nirvana playing back up for renditions of 'jessie's girl' and 'i want you to want me' was really not on the list. but wonders, they say, never cease.

speaking of wonders -- did you ALSO know that one of the lines in 'Jessie's girl' is "but the point is probably moot". who the shit is saying 'moot' in songs?!!!?! rick springfield, motherfuckers. that's who.

teeny tiny pre-northern adventure update

Message recieved from mayoduck: 
By the time you get to me tomorrow it'll be late, maybe near midnight. Phone or text me on your travels, let me know if you will want a bit of supper when you get in. I went to my favourite flirtatious butcher today (he's my version of your bagel guy), and I got a steak family pie, and also some leeamb

then she told me that the baby's stroller is getting its all-terrain wheels ready to go. 

i could not be more excited. this may be the one time in my life i'm praying for it NOT to snow very much.

im sending a letter, ill send it right to you

in the words of a certain dustin hoffman character, i am an excellent driver. you can ask a great many people. i only fell asleep driving once, and that was when we decided to go to ohio and back in a day to see radiohead, and i have never been in a wreck that was my bad. i have covered a good third of the union, a decent part of a tiny area of greece and about 10 feet in borneo.

but american driver's licenses don't last forever. and mine expired. and even if it hadn't the UK only accepts those for the first six months you're here. so last year i thought i'd get a new one. for anyone outside the UK this part will sound as totally ridiculous as it is, and actually make you thank whatever it is you thank that you ONLY have to go to the dmv.

first  you fill in a form, which you have to send, along with like a passport (in my case my residence permit), to the middle of fucking nowhere in wales. I think they moved the dvla out there so welsh people could have career opportunities.

so yeah, i sent it off, and before you ask, i didn't send it special delivery. and before you say anything else, yeah i know that was dumb. but the envelope was all addressed and freepost so i thought that was just the like normal way of doing it.

if you fancy ending up without your residence permit and then passport, while having to miss three holidays, then it is totally the normal way of doing it. let's break it down.

1. report your permit missing
2. get police report confirming the above is true
3. fill out a bunch of forms and pay like £90 in processing fees
4. wait
5. travel to america twice with only a passport and a panicked look and a letter from your immigration attorney
6. miss birthday trip to zagreb
7. miss razberet's birthday trip to iceland
8. miss trip to mallorca
9. get pissed and find anyone to call
10. receive replacements just in time and go back to the US, and to vietnam & cambodia

It may now be obvious to you why i am doing nothing but hitting refresh on the Royal Mail website for the next 48 hours.

i've been driftin' along in the same stale shoes

you'll probably get the idea that i do fuck all with my life these days, but any of you sarah lundies out there will know that there's more than meets the eye with stuff like this. really i haven't been writing to you fine people cause i'm like totes busy style.

and because i love you all so dearly, i will start with the least interesting updates.

I bought new kicks, we are in love and will be together forever:

after the most scientific and legitimate study conducted since those guys tried to kill us all at CERN, we now know that it takes me two and a half months to get through five bottles of salad dressing.

my bagels, while delicious, lack a rob reiner-produced lovin' feeling these days. as the pod man is gone, gone, gone, whooa oh oh oh oh.

and now, in the name of chronology, turns out that i managed outdo my escapade home just before christmas with my escapade home on boxing day. Yep, i said boxing day. 'but sara, we're in england. you know shit is snoozin' on boxing day!' dear readers, i sure as shit do now. but i didn't think of it at the time. i was once again enjoying the vast hospitality and fine food and drink one encounters when staying with the razberets, when mrs razberet asked when i was going back. 'today! for i must be at work on the morrow!' i declared. everyone looked a bit shifty after that. and it was only then i remembered that last year i hadn't come home on boxing day but the day after, since we had that extra day off and whatnot and so on.

POINT, WCS, get to the POINT!

right fine! so mr razberet had to drive me and the fam to cambridge (i was duly mortified), whence i spent a panicked hour trying to book a national express bus on each of my dying phones. three coaches were booked. which got me up to about 6pm. but luckily (depending on your outlook on life) there was a 3pm coach. from cambridge. to stansted. to london. which took three hours. instead of the 40-min train journey to king's cross. whatever! i cried. 'i shall book this and have the divine comedy stuck in my head and get home before midnight and all will be right with the world!' it wasn't actually that bad after i freaked out when my phone died and thought they wouldnt let me on the second coach with literally zero proof that i was a paying customer. this was about the only way in which it being boxing day was of any use. the guy was also clearly convinced by the sheer terror on my face that evinced the underlying sheer terror of having to live at stansted airport.

i made it home safe, and then i ordered a lot of indian food.

the next morning, i woke up feeling like someone was taking a weed-wacker to the back of my throat and had a fever, and called in sick.

it be cryin'; yeah, you thought it was rain

so here we are at christmas. not surprisingly, i've been drunk almost constantly since last week. chicago is a heavy eating and drinking town, and i indulged to the best of my abilities. that was followed by two leaving dos back in london and saturday i was pretty over being hungover. i also found evidence of a late night trip to burger king that reminded me i'd got on the tube, off at waterloo (where i procured said burger king) and then got into a cab from waterloo. so there is definitely the most idiotic voyage home of my life. except the time my flight to atlanta got diverted to maine. but that's for another day.

or is it? it was last christmas (just after i'd given you my heart, but before the very next day when you gave it away). we got onboard and the lady was like 'welcome to this delta airlines flight to atlanta, via bangor, maine'. i'm like 'oh funny joke! i bought a direct flight you mo'fos'. anyway, the whole thing was we have to land cause half the crew were off sick and you can't fly for more than eight hours without a new pilot or some shit so we had to pick up a new pack of yo yos to get us the whole way there.

i mean i would have just been like 'yo, ill take a long shift dudes, let's just get the fuck home', and the flight attendants really shouldnt have cared cause there were about 14 people on my flight. anyway, we stopped, we refueled, we got some new peeps onboard and then we taxied out to the run way.

it is at THIS POINT. not some EARLIER POINT ON THE FLIGHT that they say 'we have some paperwork to handle and have to go back to the gate'. you hardly have to be a frequent flier to know that paperwork never means anything but 'mechanical issues we dont want to talk about' or 'there may or may not me a terrorist on board'. in this case it must have been the latter because the guys who had been looking suspiciously like sky marshalls throughout the flight unveiled their shields (ooh la, la) and escorted this dude off the plane. then some puppies came on board and sniffed around everywhere. in case you're wondering if this feels massively unnerving, it does.

anyway we took off again and then all the women (inc yours truly) piled on one side of the plane to gossip about what may or may not have happened. we decided it was drugs, since otherwise i suspect we might not have made it all the way to maine.

today we aim for a less traumatic journey as we head up to razberet's parents' for more food and drink than i want to think about. merry christmas, all y'all!

And the embers never fade in your city by the lake

Please note: this post is about a week old. deal.

welcome to this special report of bor, broadcasting from chicago. yesterday we spent most of the day on a plane. we sat next to a very nice young man who'd just been studying in milan for three months. he was on a hellish journey from milan to sfo, via london and chicago. we enjoyed some delightful chat, he flattered me to the moon when he asked me if i was also studying in europe. i realised it's been 13 years since i was in college.

but i know what you're all focussed on is what i've eaten so far. well, last night we went to ing (not to be confused with that big bank), and had the 'nightmare before christmas' tasting menu. steve8 had oraganised the whole shebang and met me at the hotel after i got in. anyway, here are some pictures along with what, after about fifteen different drinks and jet lag, i can remember. 

 first up was this ball of something with mushrooms in it painted to look like the guy from the movie. neither steve8 nor i have seen the movie so we had no idea what the connections were, but it did look familiar. what was less familiar was the octopus underneath it. it wasnt quite my scene but it was good to taste. the broth and the weird ball were amazing.

i also had a pumpkin sour, which was, shall we say, not that great. they served it with this miracle berry stuff, which changes the way everything tastes. steve8 advised me i might not want to have that before a 10-course tasting dinner. some of the courses also came with booze, and we had a bottle of wine. you can imagine what sort of shape i was in after eating and drinking all that when i'd been up for untold hours.

 accompanied by low-lit pictures, and in no particular order, here's what else we had. pork belly with like six different kinds of foams and purees, accompanied by a luscious shot of rum and apple cider and pumpkin something. this was top notch. it also came in a massive silver skeleton hand, which was unnerving.

there was a deep fried frog's leg (meh), some little sweet potato things filled with sage, green cardamom and caraway pastes. delightful! oh, those came with truffle shavings. holy. fucking. shit. those are great.

then there was a whole fucking plate of duck. a devilled duck's egg, potatoes with a duck-fat gavy, sweet potato sticks fried in duck's fat, confit duck leg with stuffing foam and some berry thing.

then we ate the berry stuff and ate a lemon and it tasted amazing. the chestnut ice cream was also amazing. all in all, it was one of the most epic dining experiences ive ever had.

we had a chilean wine.

today i went to the gym and then went a little apeshit on the mag mile. i had to go to the apple store to get something and on the way back i basically stopped at every store i could find and bought at least one thing. after all this, i was pretty freaking hungry so i went to the corner bakery. here i was able to get a half a rueben and something called fully loaded potato soup. 

they deftly manouver and muscle for rank

despite royal mail having told us all that things were gonna be amazingly simple when it came to receiving packages this year, i still ended up queuing (twice) at the southwark post office distribution plant or whatever they call it these days. you can see here, in this picture i so lamely took, that this was a pretty hefty line. i mean we were out the door and around the corner. anyway, this is what i did last saturday. it took up a substantial part of the day.

what a black & white will look like

monday, beep visited from new york and brought me a black & white. for those of you who have been deprived of the experience of black & whites, they are large, very cakey cookies that are iced with half chocolate icing and half utter pointlessness. The chocolate icing, you'll notice, will cling to whatever style of wrapper your black & white comes encased in. cling film, a plastic packet, whatever it is, the chocolate, in all its chocolate glory, announces its gooey nature by drawing the plastic to it like a moth to a flame. meanwhile, the white icing has the reverse effect. plastic can't be paid to stick to this hardened version of tasteless toothpaste. this is all by way of saying, when you buy someone a black & white, that person will always eat it exactly this way:

1. break off tiny piece of white side - this is to make sure that yes, it does taste like nothing useful at all
2. eat most of the chocolate side, relishing every bite
3. eat another bite of white side. still sucks
4. eat the remainder of chocolate side, bar one bite
5. break off a chunk of the white side. peel the icing off and eat the cake
6. eat your last piece of chocolate
7. look at the remaining disappointment
8. 20 minute later, peel off the rest of the white icing, eat cake
9. wonder why they even bother with the white side

it's all a mystery

this is a technomolociaglly themed post. i know you guys are mega geeks like me so it's all good. first up, we have this yesterday morning's commute. my iPod's battery died and blah blah lazy blah blah didn't listen to music on my way in today. that didn't matter, cause someone on the bus was fucking blazing his ears off with some shite techno shite. so i was in like the fifth row of the bus. i had to narrow it down. this is where i discover i am a racist.  i looked around. it was clearly not a chick. we dont listen to cock music. and this was like gay cock music. but cock music, nonetheless.

so my options are: guy with shaved head and from what i can see not impressive facial hair who has a blackberry and some clear headphones that like come up around the back of your ears and look more like a hearing aid than a hearing destroyer. chap 2: beats by dre headpones and his collar up (twat). these were who it was, in order. the first guy i was like 'wow dude that is really loud cause you're in the first row and i am way back here in the fourth row so holy jesus, you are not going to be able to hear much longer'. he totally ruined my theory when he departed the bus (looking much older than i thought he was from the front) and the noise remained. then it was little mini twat. he was young, and as we know, the young are prone to stupid behaviour like keeping their noises too loud and being anywhere i am. then he got up and left the bus. 

so now there was just one bottle of beer on the wall. the guy right in front of me. here's the racist part. i pegged the facial hair guy and the young guy even though their distance from me was not in any way indicative that they might be the culprit. so this guy, sat in front of me, was spilling his shitty techno all over my airwaves. he was, in no particular order, asleep (who can sleep with that shit on??), large (like very rotund), asian, possibly chinese, with a longish pony tail (vaguely pink from previous dye job), old and sporting fu man chu facial hair. 

dont be racist, kids.

hello from 1994

next up we have something that's been causing me endless joy ever since i saw it. someone hacked a website .here is what they did.

i mean if this isn't the lamest hack since johnny lee miller and angelina jolie in that movie (which i have of course not seen like 20 times), i don't know what is. but it's also fucking brilliant. yeah evil hacker. it gives me a weird sense of joy to know that these kinds or people are still kicking around, doing this rather than making hats out of people.

and finally, last thursday i was cajoled into going out for a few pints and the liverpool match. of course, i got home at 9 or so and was thinking 'why stop now?'. so i called up xx via face time on my phone and cracked open a pumpkin ale. cut to two hours later. she has found a bottle of whisky she claims is mine (i have never bought jamesons ever) (she also hates whisky) and i have started to eye up a 2-year-old bottle of polish gin.

this is the part where you're all 'holes in the story, wcs! your battery wouldnt last that long!' and, my smart readers, you are right. it was also around this time that we were grappling with my dying battery on my phone, which we still had to use to communincate properly to figure out what was going on with the SIMULTANEOUS usage on my macbook of: facetime, iChat video, Gchat video and a Google+ hangout. for those of you keeping count, that means we were on five different versions of the same kind of programma and couldnt get any of them to work. it was not cause we were drunk!

ps after the last guy got off the bus, you could hear something else. the guy two rows behind me snoring. ahh, commuting.

not a chill to the winter but a nip to the air

amongst my many cultural endeavours of late are nsfw at the royal court in sloan square, followed by a long period of time wandering around whole foods in kensington acting like going to a grocery store is an actual activity for a saturday night rather than just something you do when you need milk.

nsfw was pretty good. we all found ourselves vaguely shocked to discover that julian barratt is quite hot in real life. i won't get into the plot but it was a pretty weak swipe at sexism and gender equality and 'are women doing it to themselves'-ness. it was good but it was almost so superficial there wasn't much point in bringing it up. like saying, 'those poor people, eh?' then going for ice cream.

speaking of cream! we bought some of whole foods' very, very good pumpkin pie and a cup full of fresh cream. it was, as you might expect, lush. i bought a whole bunch of other random shit, including gefilte fish, which never ceases to make whoever i am shopping with (unless it's a select few people) relatively uncomfortable.

artsy fartsy king's cross picture

anyway i also went to see talvin singh and some lady who seriously kicks ass at percussion play a live score to a movie at Kings Place. i've done this sort of thing before, so i know it's a bit of a crap shoot. it was pretty cool, though. not least because the film itself was shot in new york in like the god-knows-whenties. they went to coney island when luna park and the steeplechase were still around. those of you who care will know what that means.

then we went to the grosvenor and had a lovely roast and a relaxing evening and it was lovely and i was happy. i am in love with a pub. like truly in love. with a pub. although i don't know if i'd get the lamb again.

if. i. would. would. you?

some of you remember the good old days when i was just a drunk with a keyboard. now i'm a sort of older-than-i-feel actual adult person who defo drinks more pints of water at the gym that fozzies at the pub. so boring as i may have become, here's a bit of old school wcs.

Friday i decided to attend after-work drinks. we started out at the old crown, where i promptly re-claimed my mayorship. after a few drinks, we decided to rock up to camden to see a band called Steak at the Black Heart. Steak are made of up, among others, the boyfriend of a lovely little lady called lindseed oil, who i work with. I recommend you go see Steak, if you are into loud music that might be in the direction of metal. I would not recommend you see them if you are me. I gave it a shot, but that is severely not my thing. they are nice guys, though.

after that, we went to the world's end, which is seriously where i cut my teeth as a drinker. i spent almost all of 2000/2001 in this bar. and it was oddly just like i remember it. it's also massive. they also still play the exact same mid-90s grunge in there. but the girls are all different. it's all young (like i used to be), really dressed (tarted?) up (like i never really managed to get the hang of), apparently indian ladies (which i am not). i found it a bit weird really. i wouldn't have guessed these kinds of girls were particularly into like alice in chains and nirvana. but you know, more power to them!

so i ended up trashed. i remeber telling damson jam and her bf that alaska punches you in the face when you get off the plane in juneau, so that's useful. we got the tube home and i went to switch back north at kennington but doh! last nbound train was gone. so i went up and tried to get a bus. i was cold and tired and no cabs were anywhere so i got on the first bus that came. which only went to Elephant & Castle. what happens next is just the kind of thing you tell you young daughters never to do. i walked from E&C, mainly focussing if anywhere that sold curry was still open, at 130am.

but! i made ti to chicken cottage. there is a £5 minimum to use a card there. so i bought two meals and had one for breakfast.

eating barbequed iguana

i made 554 dollars last year.
i spent £44 on stamps today.
i am down to two bottles of salad dressing.
my bagels are always extra cream-cheesed these days.
will bailey is in a new show, and it's good. i'd venture to say it's sort of a sexed-up version of the killing. with will bailey!!!!
kate is knocked up and the media in at least the UK has lost its damned mind over it.
if loving tesco's finest mexican cole slaw is wrong, i don't wanna be right.

lovely as a [winter]'s day

nothing says love like extra creamcheese

who wants a bagel update? i know, i know. so there are now two guys FIGHTING over me at pod. one guy  is my favourite of blogs past. this other one is just very tall and polish. that's about all i know. course the first one is rather short and west-asian, and that's all i know about him. anyway little pod went back to overdoing it with the cream cheese, but big pod WINKED at me today. oh my god. they are right, girls, when it rains, it pours the men of pod on you.

it's gotten a bit cold round good old london town, but the other day it was a reasonable temperature so damson jam and i went for a walk at lunch. coming up one of the seven dials (the one with the two brewers on it), seemingly out of nowhere, the first few seconds of 'my cherie amour' floated out from a window, or through a doorway or -- where the hell was it coming from? and why is the doppler effect not in effect? oh i'll tell you why, cause like a scene from a movie about a hot new york city day in the '70s, some guy was walking down the street, and i mean walkin' down the street, playing it.

but wait, what was he playing it on? the days of ghetto blasters and boomboxes are over, sara! you know this!

i will tell you. he was carrying a Bose iPod dock.

welcome to the future, kids. it's weird, and apparently rich.

Greece is the word

This is all very outdated, like when you watch an episode of 'friends' and think, 'wow, those jeans look horrible, how did we not see that at the time?', but it's still funny, so here it is.

razberet and i have booked a trip to crete. whilst in the decision-making process, i consulted a colleague. the rest, as they say, is little-known history.

colleague 10:22

You can upgrade to all inc and get it for £399

wildcherrysaral 10:25

i like HB

cause then you still get out and eat locally 

occasionally

and keep greece alive for one more hour

colleague 10:27

True. True. I like the unlimited drink element of AI

wildcherrysaral 10:27

fair point

colleague 10:27

If you're confident you can drink £99+, then you can still go out for lunch

oooh, it's a mess alright

it's truly embarrassing that this story is caused by neither hangover nor still-drunk-the-next-day-itis:

not the same as tottenham court road

Scene: a cold, rainy Wednesday morning. a woman in her mid-30s crosses the street to the Tube station, runs downs the stairs, and jumps on a northbound northern line train.
Cut to: 5 minutes later. woman exits train and files like an ant in an ant farm (i so want an ant farm. christmas pressie anyone???) through the corridors and spiral staircases at bank and plops right into the train that arrived, as though choreographed to, just as she enters the platform.
Scene: a woman in her mid-30s sits on the Central Line doing some work. she is already a bit late and slightly annoyed at the whole Tube situation in general. suddenly, with a jolt, she looks up, shocked, as the lady on the train announces 'the next station is Bethnal Green'.
Fade to black.

yes, that's right, boys and girls. today, sober and well-rested, i got on a tube going the wrong direction and failed to notice for four stops. what really started to make me wonder was how it wasn't very crowded. anyway, i discovered this at bethnal green, but it was too late. so at mile end, i sheepishly exited train one, walked up the stairs (and this is the worst part, cause the people behind you all know, they know, what you've done) and turn back down the Westbound platform. I needn't confirm that i was indeed late to work, but the worst, WORST part is.

my bagel-making soulmate is mad at me. we are in a fight.

today my bagel, for no reason i can imagine, was covered with a paper-thin layer of cream cheese. there was no (actually kind of annoying) glob of extra poking out of the hole in the centre that i and my OCD-ish self had to scoop out and redistribute evenly with my index finger. there was no exciting little treat stuck to the bag that i could eat as an amuse-bouche to my actual bagel. i tried to smile at him but he was hard to see through that little window today. what have i done!?

i honestly can't think of a song for this post so here is your very plain headline

before i forget to tell you the gripping story of how i ended my weekend, here it is: o'shea and i went to the calf for a roast and saw Argo. i was down with the plot the second i heard CIA/sci-fi movie ploy... i mean, this is shit perfect! and it's true! and rory cochrane is in it! LUUUUCAAAAAASS!

so here is the roast picture, as you are all anticipating. we both had chicken, extra gravy (natch), creamed leeks and cauliflower cheese. it seems the calf has been taken over by the same group that owns the sun in clapham, the erstwhile sundog and soon-to-be sun of camberwell, the phoenix and razberet's old local way up north. they keep it pretty low key on the site, ie, are trying to fool you into not noticing these pubs are all run by the same evil corporation or whoever is behind the curtain. but i can tell because i am sara, like sarah lund, and i noticed that they all have the same basic setup, menus and images. and the book now for christmas thingy. all this notwithstanding, it was a pretty good roast. although despite asking clearly for two lots of extra gravy, we got one. poor show.

Argo was fantastic. i highly recommend you see it. affleck's not even annoying in it. and who doesnt love a bit of alan arkin? 

the other intense bit of info i forgot to share with all you good people is that on the way home from friday night's movie disco, razberet and i were lucky enough to see a real-life head injury in the Tube. Someone had cracked his old noggin open right at the entrance to the platform at oxford circus. there was blood on the floor. he didn't look too jazzed, i must say. i think he was going to make it, though.

Factoid: you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement when you go to facebook's offices. they also have many snacks. i think im allowed to share that.

well if all this hasn't got you in a right old state, we topped off sunday evening by watching, i dont know, three or four more eps of the Killing. we are down to our last two for tonight. it's gonna be a mental night.