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 Archives 
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Sunday, March 27, 2005
Ikea wasn't as terrible as I feared. We arrived before it opened and sat enjoying a Swedish coffee with all the other early birds. Just before ten, some people started twitching and creeping towards the entrance, clutching their little free pencils (good for eyeball-stabbing) and paper tape measures (for strangling), as if there was only one plastic bag dispenser for sale and they would kill to get it. By five-past, this hardcore had been swallowed up by the store's great belly, allowing Butter and I to saunter around planning the decor of our nest. It was almost too relaxed. Halfway through the marketplace area, we realised we needed a trolley, so I made my way back to find one. The crowd got denser and denser the further I went back. I grabbed a trolley and, making my way back to Butter, felt my first stirrings of Ikea rage. 'Quick,' I said, when I found her again in the light-bulb aisle, 'the mob are behind us. Press on.' We made it without losing any limbs, and will be returning, this time to actually buy some furniture. By the way, Ikea's vegetarian option - watery pasta covered with some kind of green gloop - was the most revolting food I've had in a long time. Even Oliver Twist would have turned his nose up. Doctor Who returned last night. I've been waiting for a long time and wasn't disappointed. Billie Piper is sensational in it. A truly inspired choice of assistant. Mmmm, Billie. I knew she'd come good. I've just finished reading 'The Insider' by Piers Morgan, which was astoundingly entertaining and interesting. It's written as a diary, but was actually written retrospectively. Shame Piers can't stop himself saying things like "When I heard Di was going out with Dodi I knew it would end in tears". Okay, I made that example up but it's not far from the mark. Despite this, I like Piers. He's almost fearless, and an excellent editor. The front pages of the Mirror during the Iraq war were powerful and righteous. Of course, sales plummeted. But that's the British public for you. Sunday, March 20, 2005
The first hint of sunshine and the whole country goes ker-azy. Friday evening, half of London was standing outside pubs wearing shorts and T-shirts. We were in a summery mood too, and got very drunk before going to Wagamama. As anyone who's read my guide to being a veggie in Japan will know, food was the worst thing about our stay in Tokyo. Wagamama (it means 'selfish' in Japanese, fact fans) is great though. The food is almost authentic and is highly veggie-friendly. Excellent beer too: Asahi, Kirin, Sapporo. Yum. I took Mimo to Wagamama in Covent Garden and despite staring incredulously at some of the bizarre, to her eyes, dishes being served up, she gave it her seal of approval. We visited our house again yesterday, armed with a tape measure. The sun was shining in the garden and I was relieved to find that I still liked the property. Touch wood (not woodworm-ridden or damp wood, obviously) we'll be moving in before the end of April. This means we'll be spending the next few weeks swatting up on fridge freezers and washing machines and visiting Ikea. I've never been to Ikea before. I've been put off by the thought of being crushed to death in a riot, or stabbed during a fight over a sofa. Sofas aren't worth dying for, no matter how nice and cheap. Did I tell you we got our car? It's a bright blue Rover Metro, L Reg. It's the least cool car in the world, and came complete with my grandad's tape collection: Chas and Dave; Dusty; the Royal Grenadier Guards. Still, it may be uncool, but it goes. It will henceforth be referred to as the Buttermobile. We've bought tickets for the V festival in Chelmsford in August. We're going with Debbie and Richard. I've heard that the V festival is full of posh people in designers wellies with fold-out chairs and tents with porch extensions. In my day, only scruffy students were allowed into festivals, three men to a six-man tent, and we'd survive on one lousy veggieburger for the whole weekend then hitch a ride home tied to the roofrack of an old banger driven by a hippie. Ah, Glastonbury 1993. The worst sunburn of my life, dropping my friend Dave's torch down a legendary Glasto toilet and waiting 3 hours beside the motorway in Birmingham for a lift. Those were the days. My company's sending me to New Yawk in May for a conference. I'm hoping this time I won't (nearly) get arrested or stay in a hotel that's so filthy that even roaches won't stay there. Monday, March 14, 2005
Butter ran the Hastings Half Marathon on Sunday and finished in a highly respectable two hours and two minutes. I stood with my mum and watched her run off, then, while she legged it up hill and down, er, hill, I sat in a cafe and ate biscuits for an hour and a half. The Hastings Half is known as one of the best distance running events in the country. The townsfolk lurch out of their caves and bang drums and stamp their feet as the runners go by. At the end of the race the whole seafront is lined with spectators, trying to ignore the biting wind that blows in from the sea, talking about how next year they might just get off their butts and join in. Of course, I would, if it wasn't for my dodgy knee. Just before Butter came in - barely out of breath, though a bit pink - Supergirl ran past me and puked on the pavement. Butter beat her target time by ten minutes. I was very proud of her. |