Naked gardening is rude

Naked gardening is rude.
So says the fridge magnets on my new (to me) fridge. Which is now populating the kitchen along with a washing machine and a freezer, as well as assorted crockery, cutlery and cleaning equipment. Huzzah! The house move is progressing and there are boxes everywhere. At some point these will have to be unpacked, but for now I'm just quite pleased that the house is no longer empty.

I spent a while again today cleaning. Well... I say cleaning. Some cleaning did happen, but I was a little distracted by playing with the fridge magnets. In addition to 'naked gardening is rude' we now have 'granny dances for people on her rusty zimmer frame', 'wheel of dentures' and - a result of me having a soppy moment -  'I like cheese, I love cake and our home'. Ahh.

Balancing acts and elbow grease

I have a house.

Well, I don't have a house. I have the keys to a house. And my name is on a contract. My name, and a man I've never heard of. His name is similar to Mr. C's, but there are a few distinct differences. The spelling mainly. Yes, that's right. The not-so-efficient letting agency got Mr. C's name wrong. Twice. Three different spellings all together. I think he's going to have to take my name once we're married - I can't be doing with people getting my name wrong all the time. I'd have uncontrollable outbreaks of pedantry, and that wouldn't be pretty. 

The not-so-efficient letting agency also managed to botch up the collection of the keys, having had them delivered to one office and telling us to attend another. So the much anticipated Key Collection Day had to be postponed, albeit only for 24 hours. 

Anyhoo - I have a house! I collected the keys yesterday and, with a great sense of relief and anticipation, made my way to my new home. 

It was freezing inside. All of the windows upstairs were open - not a bad thing, at least it didn't have that stale smell empty properties can have - and being empty, it had that abandoned feel about it. After a quick swoop of the house to make sure it really was empty (I've seen far too many true crime documentaries!), I set about completing my To-Do List. 

1. Read the meters: Gas, check. Water - hadn't realised the water was metered. Oops. Anyway, water, check. Electricity... Electricity meter... Hmm. I searched the house and couldn't find one. The lights worked, the plugs didn't, so the electricity was on (in part), but where was the meter? Second check of the house and I spotted it. Nestled above the front door, a good seven feet from the floor. Now being a five-foot nothing hobbit, this presented a bit of a problem. However, I'm nothing if not daring (stupid?), and decided it would be a good idea to step off the third step of the stairs and onto the radiator, thus balancing and able to reach the electricity meter. It worked and I'm pleased to say that both myself and the radiator survived intact. 

1a. (amendment) Add step ladder to the To Buy List. 

2. Check everything is working: I'd sorted the electricity in the Great Breaker Box Hunt, so I knew that was all in order. Next up, gas. I opened the boiler cupboard to find a bright yellow warning label attached to the boiler. "At Risk" it declared "Danger of Death". Excellent. There was a certificate with it explaining further - the boiler's ventilation was faulty. Cue several phone calls back and forth to the not-so-efficient letting agency. The fault had been fixed and a copy of the safety certificate would be put in the post, so nothing to worry about. Phew! I hope. Having had carbon monoxide poisoning once, it's not an experience I'd like to repeat... Next I turned to the water. Very low pressure - not a good sign - followed by a trickle and then nothing. I investigated beneath the sink and found two stopcocks - one of which I could not have turned if my life had depended on it. So the water remained off. Damn, I really needed the toilet now I knew I couldn't use it... 

3. Clear up mountain of unread post: Most of it was junk mail - leaflets from Lidl and the like - but there were some 'proper' letters in there, addressed to at least three different people. This set me off wondering who else used to live here? And what are the neighbours like? I wonder if they'll let me use their toilet...

4. Clean! I spent many hours cleaning. The place was in pretty good condition, but the kitchen and bathroom were in definite need of attention. Armed with rubber gloves, de-greaser and litres of antibacterial cleaning solution (kills 99.99% of germs!) I scrubbed and scraped (grease - *shudder*), wiped and polished, and mopped and vacuumed. When I could clean no more, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I have to say, the place looked good.  Empty, but good. Not quite a home yet, but it will be. 

5. Fill house with stuff (pending) and live happily ever after. 

Once I've been to the toilet that is...

Spartans do not cure insomnia

Isn't it just awful when you can't sleep? Laying awake for hours, tossing and turning and desperately trying to sleep, as if it's something that you can exert control over. I never normally have to try to sleep. It just happens. Whether it's on a Sunday afternoon in front of the tv or after a long day of work/play, there just seems to be a moment when you nod off and that's it. You're asleep. No trying necessary. So why do I think I can try and sleep? It never, ever works. And the old counting sheep ritual, well, I'd like to meet someone for whom that actually has slumber-inducing effects.

Last night I tried counting Spartans. One Spartan with an unfeasibly toned physique, two Spartans with an unfeasibly toned physique, three Spartans… you get the idea. This unlikely digression from the more traditional sheep was influenced by pre-bedtime viewing. The film 300 to be precise. I'd not seen it before and had been reliably informed (by Mr. C) that it was a homoerotic muscle-fest, starring the delectable Gerard Butler, and the very easy on the eye Dominic West. "Yeah, ok then, let's watch it." Er…  That was mistake number one. I've never seen a film brimming with so much testosterone in all my life. Super-stylised in comic book fashion and incredibly violent (not that you could really expect any less in a retelling of the incredibly bloody Battle of Thermopylae), 300 is most definitely what I would call a Boy Film. Mistake number two, of course, was counting Spartans in my attempt to sleep. Those physiques really were incredibly toned…

I can't even begin to imagine being a chronic insomniac. I expect there's a degree of adjustment made to the lack of sleep, but I'm sure there are people out there who would, through bleary eyes, have no qualms in correcting me. What would you do with all of those extra hours? It would be nice to think that they could be used productively, but surely you'd just be too exhausted to reinvent the wheel or write a classic to rival Dickens?  My default can't-sleep behaviour doesn't usually extend beyond taking the opportunity to read, or pottering about in the kitchen, cleaning.

Neither option struck me as appealing last night. My inability to sleep was lurgy-induced. I've been afflicted (I like that word. It sounds Ye Olde and Important) with a virus that, I have to say, is a resilient little bugger. Ten days in and it's still going strong. The initial sore throat developed into green (yes, green) tonsils, which then became typical cold symptoms, which has now turned into laryngitis. My incessant coughing is driving me to distraction, my throat is incredibly sore once again, and last night I discovered that laying down induced what I can only describe as a drowning sensation. Not pleasant. So after much tossing and turning, and trying to sleep, I gave up and retreated downstairs so as not to disturb Mr. C. Wrapped in blanket (or two - bit nippy last night!) I amused myself by playing Angry Birds on my phone, taking regular doses of cough syrup and comforting myself with the knowledge that as coughing causes the abdominal muscles to contract, if nothing else I may one day have a physique like a Spartan.  

Not enough hours in the day

Like the title says, sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day.

So, bearing this in mind, starting a blog seemed like the most sensible thing to do.

Let me start from the beginning. Well, not the very beginning. That would be a long and arduous task and I think I'll leave that sort of thing to the likes of Brian Cox. Let me start from the beginning of this year.

I was at a party. A timer was counting down to midnight. We stood together in age old ritual and, in unison, counted down to the strike of midnight. Big Ben chimed, fireworks erupted in brilliant technicolour explosions, and, hands clasped, we attempted to sing Auld Lang Syne. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, ner, ner, ner, ne ner ner neeerrr!" We clinked glasses and kissed, and toasted the new year. And what a year this one is lined up to be.

Firstly, I'm getting married. April 14th, the day I acquire a husband (Mr. C) and I become someone's wife (Mrs.C). Now there's an interesting thought... What sort of wife will I be? I wonder if there's a moment of magic when I say 'I do' and I'll transform into the perfect 1950s housewife, complete with twin-set and a secret recipe for scones. But before all of that there's the wedding arrangements. I naively thought it couldn't possibly be that difficult. How wrong I was.

Secondly, I'll turn thirty this year. The big 3 - 0. Three decades done and dusted, and the start of my fourth. Where did that time go? What did I do with it? I've got quite a lot of DVDs and a dodgy knee from running. I guess that's something. More on this another time.

Thirdly, I've started my PhD. It's been a long-held ambition of mine to be a doctor, although I'd always fantastized about the white coat and stethoscope, this will have to do. I fear I'm *ahem* too old now to go back to university and start again. By the time I'd have qualified and be safe enough to be let loose on the unsuspecting public I'd only have twenty years or so in me before I could collect my pension. Now that is a scary thought. So a PhD it is. Three years of reading and researching and being erudite and academic. Well, in theory...

Fourthly (I shouldn't have started numbering things...), Mr. C and I are moving house. We collect the keys next week, and can move in any time after that. This all made perfect sense when I was going to be working Oop North (further Oop North than our current location that is), but now it's just a 25 mile round trip for both of us. Hmm. Even so, it's very exciting! The first place that will be ours. We can make it into a home. I've already got my eye on a novelty Marmite teapot that will be just perfect. Err... I think the housewife transformation has already begun...

Fifthly (do people even say fifthly?), I'm getting a car! My own little brom broom! Yes, yes, I know, nearly 30 years old and never had her own car, but I've never really needed one before. My lovely Dad has always let me use his little red Rover Metro, and I'm quite happy to walk, so why buy a car? I could also claim it was an environmentally conscious decision, but that wouldn't be entirely true. I couldn't afford it. Not that I can now - have you seen how much car insurance costs?! And strangely enough, the quote goes up if I say I'm married. Do insurers assume married drivers are predisposed to nagging at the wheel, thereby being more liable to accidents? Your guess is as good as mine.

Sixthly (now I'm certain I've never heard 'sixthly' before) - there isn't actually a sixthly. Not that's worth mentioning now. And quite frankly, firstly to fifthly is quite enough to be getting on with.

So there it is. 2012, my year of everything happening at once. How will it unfold? Well, I hope. Guess I'll just have to wait and see.