Where did that come from?

There I am, heralding the impending and imminent arrival of spring. And somewhere, Winter is laughing into his sleeve. ‘We’re not quite done with you yet young lady’.

The next thing you know, there I am driving home from the back of beyond with snow clouds gathering.

When we arrived in London real snow had fallen. Real. Snow. Lots of powdery white flakes not just sprinkled on the driveway but white over. By the time we dragged ourselves out of bed this morning, the bird table was piled high with the white stuff. By the time I’d got from the front of the flat to the back, the man of the house was in his boots and out playing in the snow like a ten year old.

London is a whole new town in this unheard of snow. With trains and buses unable to run, things are incredibly quiet. The noises which do float into our flat aren’t train rumbling on track but squeals from grown adults throwing snowballs at each other. There are people walking everywhere; some in woolly hats, and some in entirely inappropriate footwear.

It looks as though there’s plenty of snow still being held up in the sky. It all looks very foreboding yet strangely pretty from my warm living room. The towels are relegated back to the drying rack in the spare room for a little while longer. Me and my big mouth seemed to have fetched a half ton of snow down from the big blue yonder. Winter, it seems, is having the last laugh round here.

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Everyday life

One of things I miss from our apartment in Chicago is the giant tumble dryer in the giant laundry cupboard. The noisy buzzer alarm which alerted anyone within a ten-mile radius that the clothes were dry, I don’t miss so much.

Still, it was great to have a dryer which dried things. Novel.

Here, however, I have a washing line. A real life, bona fide, washing line, which we bought at the start of what has seemed a particularly cold, wet winter. We only used it a few times before it was back to inside airers and radiators.

And whilst other people might be out looking for snowdrops, or the appearance of green shoots from their sleepy bulbs, yesterday, for me, the early herald of the possibility of spring was putting the washing on the line.

It may not have dried, and it may not be possible to put the washing out tomorrow. But it’ll do.

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Blue and yellow are a dangerous mix of colours (Or: How many times can I write IKEA in 330 words?)

Last night, my baby sister took me to IKEA. Well, to be more accurate, she took me straight past IKEA, back past IKEA again, round the car park for IKEA, and then finally into IKEA itself. There were, it seems, some navigation issues. I try not to think about how she finds her way to and from outer Mongolia each workday.

Anyone who has been to IKEA will be well aware of the psychological condition that takes hold the minute you step through the door. Did I come to measure up a sofa-bed and a book case and to pick up a new closet organiser? I did? Well you can bet I will reach the checkout with a trolley full of soft furnishings, a few indescribable somethings without which my kitchen will not be complete, a new glass vase to add to my collection, and one or two random articles which I wasn’t even aware existed three hours earlier.

I never pick up one of those ubiquitous yellow bags straight away. I fool myself that I’m just browsing; that I can carry one or two trinkets, if they should take my fancy.

After the lamp, bulbs, and cushion covers are collected to my person, I give up and take a bag. Then, downstairs in the Market Hall, IKEA madness sets in, and I need a trolley to take care of the new rug, new inserts for the new cushions, a new rug gripper for the new rug, new food storage jars, a new plant pot…….

Still, at least all my purchases were there; on the shop floor. At least none of my purchases had to be waited for; waited forty-five minutes for, to be precise. Believe me, there are people still shopping in IKEA at 9:30pm. There are still people still queuing in IKEA at 9:40pm. There are still people eating hot dogs, french fries and fizzy drinks in IKEA at 10pm.

Oh yeah. That last one was only us.

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And yes, it did take us so long to unwrap the garlic bread that the waitress came over to help

On Friday night, my baby sister joined me for a girls night. She has to drive from outer Mongolia to get to us from where she works, so by the time she arrived for dinner I’d already eaten two-thirds of my own body weight in nibbles, snacks and downright carbs.

On the phone

So, after a quick call to Mum to point out that although her babies don’t live at home anymore, they still meet up and admit to being related, we choose tapas for dinner.

It had nothing to do with the fact that the restaurant that you reach first when you walk out of my flat and onto the main road, serves wine and Spanish-style nibbles.

Luckily, the closest bar to our home is really, really good. I always think unsolicited food reviews can be a bit lame reading, but this place was so good I’m trying to persuade my husband that we should go next Friday night. Garlic bread comes in piping hot parchment paper; chorizo and new potatoes are the right kind of spicy; green salad is exactly what is says it is; and we worked out how to share a great beef fajitas plate. The leopard print stools at our low coffee table were a little random, but the low leather sofa was perfect for picking at a choice of plates. The staff made me realize that blanket criticizing the British service industry is as unfair as saying that you never get bad service in the States, as they were quick, friendly, and helpful.

And there’s the lame food review I wasn’t going to write. I could also write a lame movie review, but then I’d have to tell you that we were home by ten pm and my younger sister was crying at a chick flick by ten past. And that wouldn’t be sisterly.

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A Fairy-friday-tale

Once upon a time, so the old, old story goes, the prince and his princess got married, moved back to their homeland and lived happily ever. And that meant that each day the Prince rode off on his silver charger, except, wait, not this morning; because the silver steed had not started since Friday night and the Fairy God-RAC-man had been thwarted by the evil garage assistants who had been hanging onto it ever since. So the prince tottered off on the 8am train and left the princess to see to cleaning up after their fairytale weekend.

Except, wait, not this morning; because this morning the princess’s marvellous modern brush and dustpan dirt-sucking-contraption didn’t get very far. In fact, it got two minutes into the bathroom floor, leaving the crumbs from 11 hungry visitors from Sunday afternoon to fester under the dining table – not to mention the dirt tracked through the hallway by twenty-two Sunday-best shoes. The princess was just as unhappy about the loss of her vacuum as the prince was about his wheels.

So she phoned the nice customer service people, who assured her that it was all very simple. It was going to be all very easy. All she had to do was…

wait in between 9am and 5pm the next day for an empty box to be delivered

wait in between 9am and 5pm the day after for someone to pick up the box, now containing her sad, shiny-no-longer vacuum cleaner

pay an extraordinary sum of money and

wait a few days for the return of a new, shiny, problem-fixed vacuum.

Here’s what happened….

the princess waited and waited and waited, and at 4pm called the nice people to see what had happened to the empty box

called back at 5pm, as requested

called back at 6:30pm, as instructed

received helpful comments on how it was too late to rearrange delivery now, because the delivery service was closed for the day

arranged with the helpful man for another box to come tomorrow

then the princess hopped around the dirty-floored flat making up bad words.

Shortly afterwards, the princess’s fairy god-next-door-neighbour turned up with the empty box, which had been delivered at 11am.

So she called back the helpful man who said he was really sorry, but tomorrow’s pick-up had already been cancelled and she would just have to wait until friday. This was okay with the princess, because she didn’t really fancy being stuck inside for three days in a row.

The next day, after the prince had disappeared on the 8am train, she got dressed and went out for the day. When she arrived home, she was met by the tall and handsome stranger who’d been waiting for the box for ten minutes.

And now, the princess is waiting. In her dirty floor home. Living happily ever after.

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