#Looks over at the pile labeled ‘stuff that makes me just like my mum’ …adds not having friends

[witheringnostalgia]

If I think about the fact that I don’t have any real friends that I talk to and spend time with regularly for longer than 10 seconds it makes me want to vomit

[isidar-mithrim]

Letters from Hogwarts – Hermione

For more than a thousand years, every summer, in the United Kingdom, the lives of a lucky cluster of eleven years old are radically changed.

These are the stories of four of them.

The fourth is that of a girl rational enough to know she was special, but too rational to admit it.

{Fourth installment of the ‘Letters from Hogwarts’ series, but it stands alone}

{‘Letters from Hogwarts’ on tumblr: Neville, Gus and Remus; on Ao3: Neville, Gus, Remus and Hermione}

________________________________

Thanks so much to @siderumincaelo for betaing this story!! ^^

And happy birthday, Hermione! :D

This is a companion piece of  Night in Transylvania (on Ao3), but the stories can be read independently and in whichever order you prefer.

_________________________________

Of Matilda, War and Peace

°1985°

“Excuse me, are you the librarian?”

The man with the white beard behind the counter raised his head, offering Hermione a radiant smile.

“I am,” he said with a little bow. “At your service, milady.”

“I’m looking for a book, sir.”

He winked. “You’re in the right place, then. Do you remember how it’s called?”

“Well, I’m not looking for a specific one, just for one with a real story. I can’t keep reading books for little kids with pictures and nursery rhymes anymore.”

The librarian chuckled with amusement. “You are a bright kid, aren’t you?”

“And a very particular one,” said her mum with a smile, caressing her hair. “It turns out that Elmer the Patchwork Elephant is too simple for her.”

“I finished it in thirteen minutes!” It was obvious that she would have found it simple.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll manage to find a real book that suits you.” The librarian walked around his desk with a delighted expression and gestured for them to follow. “Come, I’ll show you the junior section.”

Hermione nodded, pleased, and she followed him over the stairs, making an effort to keep up with his steps.

“So, young lady, may I ask you how old are you?”

“I’m five years and a half old,” she answered promptly, her chin held high.

The librarian turned toward her, his eyes wide in surprise. “Five years and a half? Then you’re even smarter than I thought!”

“I’m the only one in my classroom that can read proper books,” said Hermione, happy to clear things out. “The other girls still play with their Barbies.”

“Once in a while you could play with them too, Hermione.” Her mum gave her a gentle smile. “There’s nothing wrong in it, and books don’t run away.”

“Oh, well, sometimes our books do!” said the librarian with mirth. “One day they vanish, and they never come back.”

Hermione’s heart missed a beat, and she swallowed hard. “ Vanish? You mean… into thin air?”

Her mum squeezed her shoulder, but the librarian chuckled again. “More like at somebody’s place. I’m afraid not everyone remembers to bring back the books on loan, but I’m sure this won’t be your case.”

Hermione’s heart calmed down. There was nothing to worry about: books couldn’t just vanish in thin air. Nothing could: her teacher had said it very clearly when Julia had made up that her Barbie had suddenly disappeared while she was playing.

“And here we are! This is our junior section.”

Only the label at the entrance distinguished it from the rest of the library: there were shelves upon shelves filled with books, real books, and Hermione nodded in approval.

“Give me a minute to pick something that might intrigue you, then you’ll tell me which story appeals to you the most, okay?”

Hermione stared in awe while the librarian checked rack after rack, grazing the covers with his fingers in search of the right title. Once in a while he stopped to pull out a book: sometimes he nodded satisfied and held it under his left arm, other times he put it back, shaking his head.

He seemed quite pleased when he finally came back to her, laying four books on a little table.

“Et voilà!”

The old man took the first book and showed her the front cover, a picture of a beautiful girl with an aquamarine dress.

“Swan Princess. It’s about a princess cursed by an evil sorcerer and –”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve already seen the animated movie,” cut in Hermione. “And I don’t want a princess story, anyway.”

The librarian raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “No princesses?”

Hermione shook her head, making her bushy hair dance in front of her eyes, and he chuckled with amusement.

“I reckon I should have seen it coming,” he said good-naturedly, winking at her mum. “Now I understand why you said you have a particular daughter.”

Mum smiled. “I knew you’d agree, eventually. I should have warned you that at the moment princesses aren’t her cup of tea.”

Hermione huffed, annoyed. How many times did she have to explain to her mum that she didn’t like that kind of stuff anymore? “It’s not my fault if princess stories are all the same.”

“I can see your point,” agreed the librarian. “I won’t waste your time suggesting this novel, then.” He moved the second book at the bottom of the pile and picked the third one. “This is The Secret Garden. It’s about a girl that finds out how to sneak into a garden and starts exploring it with her friend Colin. What do you say, think this might suit you?”

Hermione studied carefully the drawing on the cover. In the middle of the page, a girl with curly blonde hair and a red coat was peering through a hedge.

“Maybe,” she conceded with a hint of curiosity. She wanted to see the last book as well, before making a decision.

The librarian clapped his hands cheerfully. “Particular, and prudent! In all frankness, I think you’re right to be cautious, because it’s time to see my fourth – well, third – recommendation.” He leant closer and spoke in a whisper, his hand around his mouth as he was confiding her a secret. “And I assure you it’s no coincidence that I kept it for last.”

He held the book in front of her with a certain reverence. A girl with straight brown hair and fair skin sat on a wooden box with a big volume opened on her legs, and piles and piles of coloured books rose from the ground around her.

And just like that, Hermione knew.

“It’s the story of –”

“I’ll take this one.”

The librarian gave her a bright smile. “I knew you’d pick Matilda. Or maybe I should say the book picked you…”

°1991°

June

“It’s about a witch that falls in love with a vampire, and there are werewolves too! It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, Fardly,” said Mrs Stendeer, writing down the title on the blackboard. “Granger?”

“Well, I believe spending the summer reading about children’s fantasies such as sorcerers, unicorns and vampires would be a real waste of time, since these things don’t exist,” stated Hermione. “I’d rather suggest trying out War and Peace. A light reading, I finished it in eight days.”

The teacher gave her a strained smile before writing the title below Night in Transylvania, then she turned again toward the class.

“Mitchell, what do you propose?”

“So, how many votes for Night in Transylvania? Five… ten… Castark, is that a raised hand? Then thirteen… fifteen… twenty-one!” Mrs Stendeer wrote down the number beside the title. “It seems you were very convincing, Fardly.”

Hermione huffed loudly, trying at the same time to convey all her disapproval and to ignore the excited giggles of her classmates.

“Now, how many votes for War and Peace?”

It was definitely harder to remain indifferent to the scornful laughs that broke out when she raised her hand, but Hermione held her arm up until the teacher had written ‘one’ beside War and Peace.

When the last bell of the year rang in the halls, her classmates screamed like little kids and rushed to the door, shoving each other in their haste to leave.

Hermione looked away and her eyes caught the line she had just written down.

Homework for the summer: read ‘Night in Transylvania’ by Stacey Moore.

She slammed her homework planner shut and shoved it in her packed schoolbag. After standing up, she slung the heavy backpack on her shoulders, adjusting the straps to balance the weight better.

“Have a good summer, Mrs Stendeer,” she said with cold courtesy.

“Thank you, Hermione.” The teacher took a deep breath, and for a moment Hermione thought she was about to add something meaningful.

She was clearly wrong, though, because “Good summer to you too,” was everything Mrs Steender deigned to add.

Hermione gave her with a curt nod, and walked out of the door.

Jayne was twelve years old and she had long black hair, intense blue eyes and a petite figure. In short, on the surface she was a girl like every other, if it wasn’t for a tiny detail.

Jayne was a witch.

While the other mothers taught her friends how to cook, her mum made her brew magic potions; while her classmates learned to dance, she studied spells to move objects. While normal girls’ only worry was not to get their clothes dirty, she trained to hunt vampires.

Hermione closed the book with an abrupt thump.

She hadn’t finished the first page yet, and she already hated it.

How silly, she thought with deep annoyance. Nobody can move objects without touching them. Nobody, not with their thoughts, not with magic.

“Magic doesn’t exist,” she said through gritted teeth. Of that she was sure: magic only existed in books – books for stupid kids.

Six days had gone by since the last time Hermione had opened Night in Transylvania, but now that she had finished Les Misérables she had run out of excuses to procrastinate her assigned reading.

She took the book from her bedside table and sat down at her desk. She usually read on her bed, but she wasn’t going to qualify something this insipid as ‘reading’.

It’s homework, Hermione told herself. And homework shouldn’t be done in bed.

After finding where she had left off, she heaved a long, resigned sigh and began reading.

Because that was her family’s specialty. Hunting vampires was an art they passed on from mother to daughter for generations, and it would continue until all the vampires in Transylvania were eradicated.

Her mother had very similar features: she had the same bushy brown hair, the same hazelnut eyes and even the same protruding front teeth.

Hermione froze, her heart beating loudly inside her chest. Her eyes feverishly skimmed over the last sentence and then went back to gaze at the first lines.

Hermione was eleven years old and she had bushy brown hair, intense hazelnut eyes and protruding front teeth. In short, on the surface she was a girl like every other, if it wasn’t for a tiny detail.

Hermione was a witch.

She dropped the book like it was burning hot, and jumped from her chair in shock when it actually caught fire.

“Please, go out, go out!” she squealed, horrified. “Please, please, stop!”

A moment later, there was only a pile of ashes on the unmarked desk.

Hermione looked at it in bewilderment, her breath still ragged.

As if by magic, the little fire had died out, even faster than it had flared up.

No, not by magic, rectified Hermione, taking a deep breath. The fire extinguished itself only after consuming the whole book, or maybe the wind put it out.

And yet, the window was closed. Hermione opened it to let in fresh air, even if she couldn’t sense any burning smell, then she lifted her bin near the edge of the desk and swept the ashes inside with trembling hands, fighting the urge to wipe her silent tears.

This time it was going to be much harder to persuade herself that it was all a dream.

°1985°

By the age of one and a half her speech was perfect and she knew as many words as most grown-ups. The parents, instead of applauding her, called her a noisy chatterbox and told her sharply that small girls should be seen and not heard.

By the time she was three, Matilda had taught herself to read by studying newspapers and magazines that lay around the house. At the age of four, she could read fast and well and she naturally began hankering after books. The only book in the whole of this enlightened household was something called Easy Cooking belonging to her mother.

Hermione was immediately won over by Matilda’s incredible abilities.

I wish I was that clever, she thought with a hint of envy.

An instant later, though, she felt terribly guilty. It must have been horrible for Matilda to have parents like that.

One and half pages later, Hermione had understood two things.

One, that her next book had to be The Secret Garden, since Matilda herself had read it.

Two, that she didn’t want to be Matilda anymore.

She would have much, much preferred having her as a friend.

That afternoon Hermione devoured page after page without ever stopping, except to write down the books Mrs Phelps recommended.

As she read, she was indignant over the dishonesty of Matilda’s father, warmed by Miss Honey’s kindness, enraged by Trunchbull’s hammer throw, impressed by Bruce Bogtrotter’s resilience, and when dinner time came, she hadn't even realised she was hungry.

Hermione ate in a hurry and then crawled under the covers.

She was laying on her stomach with the book on the pillow when the story took an unexpected turn.

Slowly Matilda sat down. Oh, the rottenness of it all! The unfairness! How dare they expel her for something she hadn’t done!

Matilda felt herself getting angrier . . . and angrier . . . and angrier . . . so unbearably angry that something was bound to explode inside her very soon.

The newt was still squirming in the tall glass of water. It looked horribly uncomfortable. The glass was not big enough for it. Matilda glared at the Trunchbull. How she hated her. She glared at the glass with the newt in it. She longed to march up and grab the glass and tip the contents, newt and all, over the Trunchbull’s head. She trembled to think what the Trunchbull would do to her if she did that.

The Trunchbull was sitting behind the teacher’s table staring with a mixture of horror and fascination at the newt wriggling in the glass. Matilda’s eyes were also riveted on the glass. And now, quite slowly, there began to creep over Matilda a most extraordinary and peculiar feeling. The feeling was mostly in the eyes. A kind of electricity seemed to be gathering inside them. A sense of power was brewing in those eyes of hers, a feeling of great strength was settling itself deep inside her eyes. But there was also another feeling which was something else altogether, and which she could not understand. It was like flashes of lightning. Little waves of lightning seemed to be flashing out of her eyes. Her eyeballs were beginning to get hot, as though vast energy was building up somewhere inside them. It was an amazing sensation.

The description was written so well that even Hermione could feel that warm, electric sensation in her own eyes. She went right back to reading, filled with curiosity.

She kept her eyes steadily on the glass, and now the power was concentrating itself in one small part of each eye and growing stronger and stronger and it felt as though millions of tiny little invisible arms with hands on them were shooting out of her eyes towards the glass she was staring at.

“Tip it!” Matilda whispered. “Tip it over!”

She saw the glass wobble. It actually tilted backwards a fraction of an inch, then righted itself again.

She kept pushing at it with all those millions of invisible little arms and hands that were reaching out from her eyes, feeling the power that was flashing straight from the two little black dots in the very centres of her eyeballs.

“Tip it!” she whispered again. “Tip it over!”

Once more the glass wobbled. She pushed harder still, willing her eyes to shoot out more power. And then, very very slowly, so slowly she could hardly see it happening, the glass began to lean backwards, farther and farther and farther backwards until it was balancing on just one edge of its base. And there it teetered for a few seconds before finally toppling over and falling with a sharp tinkle on to the desk-top. The water in it and the squirming newt splashed out all over Miss

When Hermione moved her gaze to the next word, a patch of water started expanding on the page, blurring all the letters.

Hermione looked at it with horror. The book from the library! she thought in despair, blowing on the paper in the faint hope to make things better.

Dry up, dry up, please dry up!

That’s when the book caught fire.

Hermione squealed and threw it on the ground, grabbing a slipper and hitting the book with it. Go out, go out!

With a last hit, the fire went out.

Hermione leant against her bed to catch her breath, but any chance to calm down vanished as soon as she saw the state the book was in. How am I going to explain it to the librarian? she wondered with anguish.

A moment later, she heard the door opening, and with a quick push she sent the book beneath the bed before her mum could see it.

“Hermione!” she exclaimed with worry, rushing at her side to help her get up and gently rubbing her back. “What happened, darling?”

“Just… just a dream.” Hermione’s voice was trembling, in part because of what happened, in part because of the lie and the ruined book hidden beneath her.

“Did you fall from the bed?”

“I… I think so...”

“Don’t worry, honey. Everything is fine now.” She gently kissed her forehead, and Hermione felt a bit relieved. “Now get under the covers, so I can tuck you in.”

Hermione lay on her side and hugged the pillow, letting Mum fuss over her. Her heart was still pounding, so she made a conscious effort to breathe slower. Even if her mind kept running to the ruined book beneath the bed, Mum’s soothing caresses helped her calm down.

She was finally drifting off when Mum kissed her forehead and stood up.

“What is this?” she asked a moment later, reaching down to grab something at her feet.

Hermione jerked awake and watched in horror while her mother picked up the book.

When Hermione saw it, though, her horror turned into astonishment.

Mum smiled knowingly, glancing at her bedside lamp. “You fell asleep while reading, didn’t you?” She held the undamaged copy of Matilda in front of her. “Would you like me to read it to you until you fall asleep?”

Hermione shook her head, unable to speak.

“Good night, then,” wished Mum, before turning down the lamp and leaving the room, closing the door behind her with a low click.

As soon as the sound of her steps faded away, Hermione turned on the light, eager to understand how the book could look as new.

She grabbed it and turned it over in her hands, flippin through the pages: not a patch of water, not a single word washed-out, not a corner blackened by the fire.

The book looked as if nothing had happened.

She focused on the cover, and froze when she recognised herself as the girl of the picture. She shut her eyes, and a moment later Matilda was back, lost in thought.

Clearly, it had really been just a dream… After all, only in fairytales little girls were smart enough to make things happen with their mind.

In that instant, Hermione decided that the next time she would give the librarian even more specific instructions: no princesses and, most importantly, no magic.

[sohaveyoubeento-blog]

V is for Vietnamese & Vintage

Us three ladies had always played it pretty safe by way of our lunch dates. Not to say the local deli isn't absolutely kick ass - it's very tasty and very enjoyable every time we go, but in much the same way as I struggle to go to the same country more than once on my holidays (excluding India, you can never have enough India) I couldn't help but think that life's a bit too short to sit in the same eatery every time we meet for lunch, given that the whole day is ours, and within reason, travel is no issue.

The three of us decided that we would try different cuisines every week, and with the girls (Laura and Dani) living in the quieter, leafier suburbs of Otley and Burley in Wharfedale, with me (Alex) living in what I frequently describe as the bronx, 5 minutes from central Leeds but gloriously populated by some of the best food joints in the country (confirmed) they usually end up meeting at mine and then we go into town to try somewhere a bit off the beaten track. Invariably, being three mums of young children, we eat at the speed of rabid dogs and end up having a bit of time to go explore some local weird shop or two, never anything mainstream like a department store. Oh no. We like vintage shops. You know the type, they smell like damp and the inside of your nan's wardrobe, and we prance around pretending to overlook the fact that we are just in a well laid out, slightly more selective charity shop without the undertone of giving. Usually there's some blue haired student with a headscarf and a faint stench of Bobby Orange pawing through piles of shirts and jumpers that are deemed as retro, when they've actually some of them originated in C&A - we remember that place the first time round,depressingly. The whole vintage scene is a bit ironic and try hard and a bit sad at times, but the one thing that it does offer is the piece you are often looking at, generally is one of one only in the store. The same goes for charity shops, generally. We like stuff that can't be bought in bulk.

Dani owns Deluxe Blooms, and is a luxury faux florist, and very good at it too. Laura is a nail technician and spray tanning afficionado, and the owner of Maibella Nails and Tanning. I own a salon called Lexa Hair, and the three of us work together frequently. The ridiculous thing is though, that work is going really well for us, and while in the past we may have dug around in charity shops for a bargain simply to be economical, now it has begun more of a habit. And you know what they say, old habits die hard. We don't have to eat streetfood on picnic tables anymore, and we can shop anywhere we want, but at least just for me, I don't like extravagance and I'm not impressed by labels or price tags. I like pieces that are unique,with a story behind them. My two accomplices sort of get dragged in to it I think, but they seem on board with most of it. I hope.

And street food is the best food on earth, everyone knows that.

We kicked things off with a visit to a fairly new (maybe a year old I think) Vietnamese place on North Lane in Headingley named VietBaker. Inside it's very wooden looking, quite industrial and urban, stained wood everywhere and dark red leather chairs. It smells like the rice cooker that's chugging away in the corner, mixed with plenty of garlic and of course, the fresh baguettes that are stacked up in a glass cabinet above the front desk.

We opted for a sharing platter for £9, and from the menu us Yorkshire ruffians requested spring rolls (the deep fried ones, not the fresh, healthy ones obviously), prawn toast, and 'rustic chips'.

This was skin on chips with salt and pepper (well cooked and so tasty) and the prawn toast was understandably made of baguette slices. It made for a much heavier slab of prawn toast and therefore an even more unhealthy treat but man alive, was it good. The spring rolls were pork, prawn and the usual crispy vegetables inside. Not floppy or soggy, totally crispy and served with a really light and watery sweet chilli dip that's more sweet than chilli. It was all very lovely.

I've personally eaten from here a number of times and I think the Vietnamese have got it absolutely nailed when they make sandwich. Or a Ban Mih. Laura and I opted for one each, chicken for her and pork for me. Dani went for something off the new part of the menu, the fusion section, which even featured a take on beef bourgignon, Vietnamese style. She tried the Shanghai pork belly, served with rice. Her whole bowl was piled high, and we're not talking a polite, peanuts size bowl. More like a ‘free ceramic crunchy nut cereal box’ bowl, with the with tokens on the back of the pack, that you’d send off as a kid. It was huge. The second bowl was just plain rice, which worked really well as the pork alone was…. alot. It was sticky and tangy and rich and all those other wanky words that just mean amazing. I'm trying so hard to limit the wankiness. I like writing and eating, combining the two is hard work though. Bear with me. The slow cooked pork made me feel a bit gutted I went for a sandwich until I got stuck in.

Vietnam was a former French colony, and much like their neighbour Cambodia, found their local best offerings being bastardised to accomodate the 'local palate'. The nice version is that the baguette was the French's gift to the Vietnamese, although I imagine it was more a case of 'put your lovely meal in my baguette for me or you're in deep shit.'

I've never been to Vietnam but having visited Cambodge a few summers back, I remember being astounded at the gorgeous, light, dairy free Asian cuisine that had been shoved in a crusty, warm baguette. Whoever's story was true, it's the absolute bollocks.

They cut this freshly baked baguette open and spread it with patè on one side and on the other mayonnaise (already weird but hang in there) - add a ton of crispy green leaves, cucumber, pickles, coriander and fresh chilies, and add some meat into what little room is left. Enough meat to give you meat sweats. It. Is. Superb.

The pork was very finely sliced, dark and sticky again (here she goes) and you can bang on a fried egg, too, if you're an absolute wrong un. No thanks.

Laura had the chicken which was a milder flavour but none the less tasty and flavoursome. I noticed Laura pulling bits off her sandwich and delicately chewing away at them, while I picked it up and ate it like I'd been sleeping in the dark arches for the last month. I even had to be asked to wipe my face. Sorry, not sorry. No messing with a Ban Mih. Especially not this one.

The bill was a very respectable £11 a head, and they threw in a free set of spring rolls for us, which was a nice unexpected surprise. The place had a steady flow of traffic, and although wasn't packed, I've been on an evening and I think it's safe to assume that's the bulk of their trade. It was fantastic food, very reasonable and highly recommended. Great staff and great location. We'll be back!

Afterwards we drove for about 3 days to find a parking spot anywhere near Hyde Park, so we could check out the newly (ish) renovated (OK sign replaced and possibly ownership changed) Vintage something or other in Hyde Park.

I forget the name, and if I'm brutally honest I can see why. It's alright, but it used to be alot better. The last time I went in there was alot of very old apothecary style wooden drawer units, some weird taxidermy, and unusual pictures in frames that would look incredible in the lounge. This time there was quite a bit of formica, and some hideously orange stained TV units that I guess in some context would be deemed as cool again.

The music collection seemed to be where the most effort had been made. The clothing was actually quite 'quirky' in the sense that you wouldn't actually wear alot of it, there was a whole department that seemed to have been handed over by the owner of the late knob head Jimmy Saville, shell suit after shell suit in every colour of the rainbow, in that non breathable fabric you'd get a two man tent in. Hideous. Still, there are some absolute finds in there. I would encourage people to bear in mind that these shops have a high stock turnaround and in their uniqueness, and ability to replace items based on sales, any vintage shop can be a complete bag of shite one week and a total gold mine the next. Its the luck of the drawer, I love that about them. That and the fact that we call them vintage shops. The three of us refer to them as shit shops, but potato patato.

I find it depressing that as I mentioned before, alot of the 'retro' stuff is just normal stuff we, in our 30s, encountered in our youth. There was a 'vintage phone' that was £15 and I'm pretty sure my gran has it now. It's literally a BT £10 phone still in argos, but clearly it had lived with a heavy smoker, adding to the aged facade.

Some of it was very authentic, some of it was broken crap, but the general feel of the place is a good one. There is more 70s stuff than anything else which is quite cool, but like I say, stock changes very frequently. Dani bought an oversized T shirt with a University football team logo emblazoned across it, and to be honest I would have too. There was a vast array of university related large varsity based sweaters, some unnecessarily cut in half width ways (why?!!!! Serves no purpose now, you fools) and that's the kind of thing I would have liked to look at. But as I was in charge of a one year old who was bombing around the floor, doubling as a human sweeping brush and coming back with more dust on him than the inside of the V6 after the attic stairs have been tackled, I gave it up as a bad job and put my bank card back away. No spending for mum today. Gutted.

The shop is pretty fabulous, on the whole. They do know how to charge when it comes to furniture, but the clothing is far more reasonable. It's not all one off pieces, a couple of items make an appearance a few times and that kind of ruins it for me, I start picturing some huge factory in China making hideously outdated clothing and leaving them in a damp garage for a few years, chucking a bit of tea down them and wearing the cuffs and collars down, before exporting the newly knackered pieces to us dumbasses in our 'quirky vintage shops'. Who knows. It's well laid out, and pretty cool, and although not my favourite, I imagine the next time I go it'll be a whole different experience. Swings and roundabouts with these places. It was an interesting look, and if Parker hadn't been doing his best ferret impression I would have definitely bought a jumper. Well worth a look.

Until next week!

Laura, Dani and Alex X

VietBaker, Headingley

https://www.thevietbaker.co.uk

Vintage Boutique, Hyde Park

https://vintageboutique.com

[elevenhoursinfront-blog]

26th July 2017

How is it Wednesday already? This is great. I can't wait to leave now. I woke up and got ready on the third toilet cubicle as I always do. I like the third one - it has a new toilet roll holder and a hook on the back of the door. I've been speaking to a girl in the last week or so in the bathroom as I get ready. She is the one that now works where I work but in a different team. She was hired through a different agency and her contract is for 4 weeks only. She is leaving Australia at the end of September as her visa is up. She is going home via Thailand and Vietnam. Everyone I have met so far has said 'go to Thailand, it's the best place!'. I've been and it wasn't the 'wow' factor I imagined having - maybe we went to the wrong places. Far too many people have said how amazing it is so I probably would go again now, to try and change my opinion. The Chinese definitely ruined the experience for me there though. 

I got to work, sat down and listened to everyone running around like headless chickens. The company are still getting used to Salesforce. The cellotape made chart on the wall has expanded like crazy, we're onto the third wall. I say 'we' like I'm apart of all this - I'm not, I haven't a clue whats going on. Kayly and I are sort of ignored now, we're pretty unnecessary. I sat there for about 2 hours bored. We had literally nothing to do other than twiddle our thumbs. I got on with my blog which was good. I use the internet here to post them. 

By 1130, we were still sitting there doing absolutely nothing. We kept asking for stuff to do but there literally was nothing. We knew we was going to get sent home. They're paying us for nothing. I hadn't even logged in. Nick came over and told me that I could go home. I asked whether I was back tomorrow and he said yes. Nick isn't the type to say 'no' to your face, he's very shy and quiet (when he's sober).  I thought he batted for his own team when I first met him, it was only when Kayly told me he was newly married I realised he didn't. Nick asked for my mobile number which I thought was weird. Why would you ask for my mobile number to contact me when I only have two days left of my contract? I immediately thought I was out of a job. He would text me tonight to say "Sorry Charlie, don't worry about coming in as there isn't any work". I got home and luckily Steve was off work. At least I wouldn't be lonely. He was laying on his bed about to do the washing (please add emphasis to the word 'about'). I sorted all of my washing out as Steve went to go and get the laundry card. We went and put our stuff into the washing machine at the same time as our new roommate. Steve has spoken to her a fair bit - I haven't as I've been out every time she's been in. I'm not sure what her name is, all I know is that she's from Germany but speaks great English. Oh, and she's been very quiet when coming into the room at night. Love that. 

Washing in - time to sort what I'm throwing out. I sat on the floor and went through all my clothes. Steve did the same. We got our big backpacks out of the locker and sorted through our summer stuff, too. We ended up packing the majority of the stuff into our new packing cubes. They're amazing. I'm going to keep them for my future holidays. You can keep all your clothes folded nicely - tops in one cube, shorts in another, dresses in another. What a great invention. Steve went to put the washing into the dryer but took about 5 hours to do so. I went down to him sorting it all out, looking through the clothes labels to see whether they're tumble dry-able.  He's so thorough (slow). Bless him. Whilst the washing was in the dryer for an hour, we went down to make lunch. We had Turkish rolls left which was great. Steve had beans and cheese with salad on the rolls, and I had a cheese roll. We had a cup of tea and then went back upstairs to get the washing out. Steve looked at the mail and saw another package for him from his Mum and Nan. He is so spoilt by them at the moment - they must've spent so much money on him. It's nice to see his smile when he gets the post though. They had sent new trunks which will look great in Cairns. We have a swimming pool in our hostel at the farm too so they'll come in handy. He also got a few more tops which are always useful for him. 

I carried on sorted through my chucking away pile. I ended up with about 20/30 items including about 4 pairs of shoes. Great! I'm going to take the good stuff to Lena at work as she's the same size as me, the rest will go in the free clothes bin unless it really needs to go into the bin. 

Mel came up to the room when she finished work. She saw all the stuff I was chucking and said she was impressed - as a hoarder, I was too. Mel is going to pack on Friday so she can throw away all her work stuff. I got carried away and ended up packing literally everything I could. All I need to do now is put the cubes into my backpack and sort through my toiletries. Steve had done the clothes that he could, knowing he wouldn't wear them. Probably the smarter idea but I'm going to just get stuff out of the cubes as I go. That's what they're for - to keep stuff neat and tidy. Steve has more stuff than I do, but his work stuff takes up so much room and they're pretty heavy items, too. I managed to fold down my holdall so I can use my pink IT-Luggage backpack as hand luggage. Steve will probably need to use his holdall. 

Tommy came into the room, beaming. He had got 5 job offers this morning. He's going to take the one in Darwin as he'll be working in a National Park as housekeeper and cook. Tommy is a chef back home but he swore never to cook again (professionally). He would get $30 an hour if he did cook so he wasn't going to miss out on that kind of money. He will most likely fly out on Monday. 

By 1900, we were all ready to go to the market. I say all, Steve, Mel and I. We are meeting Sharon and her cousin at the market and Tommy is there with his friends too. We walked the 5 blocks to the market and the music was great. There is always a live band playing but this week they were great - playing good songs too. We walked around looking at what we wanted for dinner. Mel and I went with pizza from '400Gradi', which is meant to be the best pizza ever. The restaurant is always booked out - we can never get a table there. The pizza was nice, not the best I ever had. We carried on walking around and Steve went with a philly cheese steak sandwich. He said he had better at TGI. Mel then went for an apple crumble which looked nice but I don't like cooked apple. 

Steve went for an apple cider and I went for a mulled wine. We walked around looking at all the stalls. There were performers - jugglers, dancers, a girl dressed up in luminous clothing with light up hula-hoops. There were girls on stilts and fire dancers. Mel and I really wanted to join in on the silent disco but we didn't have any more money left. It looked so much fun. We started to walk back around 2100. We got back to the hostel and Sharon text to say she was just arriving at the market which was typical. We didn't see Tommy either. I got myself ready for bed and chilled out for a bit. I was half asleep when Tommy came in and said that he was leaving tonight. He had to check out in the morning but his friend said he could sleep on the sofa. That's going to save him just under $200. He'll be flying out to Darwin Monday morning. We said goodbye and I fell asleep straight after.

[katyjustso]

It is my first post of the year so I shall begin with the obligatory…

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Yes, it’s the fucking 19th alright?

New Year, New Me.

Except it’s less an Emphatic Statement of Intent and more a Bewildered Question.

New Year, New Me…?

Erm….perhaps next year.

Listen, you’re going to have to excuse me for a minute because I’ve reached that age (and weight) where I can no longer blithely dismiss sudden chest pain as ‘just trapped wind’ and it feels like someone just dropped a breeze-block on my sternum.  I better go and investigate.  I’ll be back (I hope).

Yup.  Just a massive fart.  Yet more of the anxiety wind which is currently blowing through my life. Anxiety, you say? This early on in the year? Even with the kids safely installed back at school?

Well, yes.

Sadly, I haven’t had the kick-ass start to the year I was dreaming about.  More a massive kick you UP the ass kind of start to the year that I could not have anticipated in a billion years.

The wank start to 2017 comes hot on the heels of a fairly dog-shit end to 2016 which left me uncharacteristically desperate for the festivities to end and gagging for the 1st of January.

I use the term dog-shit advisedly (believe it or not) because that’s what our festive period felt like tbh.  Like, if Christmas 2016 was a spanking new pair of white Nike Tn’s, then I spent the majority of it trying to scrape off a steaming turd only to find I’d walked through it again.

But, much like a shit-covered shoe, our Christmas troubles were mere trifles; annoying inconveniences which rather threatened to spoil everything than actually doing so.

The main culprit was sickness and disease.  Having swerved such things at Christmas for the last 16 years or so, I guess we were due a turn.  But it’s always crap when your kids are poorly and it’s even crapper at Christmas.

A particular highlight (for me, not him) was Thom’s impeccable sick-etiquette on Christmas morning.  Not wanting to spoil the splendour of the occasion, Thom repeatedly asked to be accompanied to the kitchen between opening his own gifts so he could chuck up what was left of his little guts.  Bless.

Although between MTV’s Bangin’ Bassline Christmas Hits (absolutely no fucking sign of Bing Crosby at alll) blaring out of the TV and the frenzied ripping of wrapping paper by his siblings, his bile-only retching would doubtless have gone unnoticed.

The real highlight of my Christmas morning is still telling the kids not to worry about dropping all the wrapping paper on the floor cos we don’t live with your anti-mess freak father anymore.

The smug satisfaction I still get from saying this after five years is quite shameful but in my defence, as a single mum at Christmas you’ll take any little win you can get.

I might have to chalk it up as a loss though, cos it’s one thing to let the kids open presents without following them around the room brandishing a carrier bag for the rubbish but when you use it as an excuse to leave the room strewn with wrapping paper and ribbon for about 10 days, you start to look less care-free and more lazy bastard.

So yeah.  The ‘Noro-Virus’ did the rounds over Christmas.  Noro-Virus sounds more sympathy evoking than 24hr bug. Also, I don’t think 24 hours carries sufficient gravitas when you’re 8 and the 24 hours in question starts at 11pm on Christmas Eve  and lasts right the way through your Christmas dinner.

And, whilst I felt dreadfully sorry for Thom and his khaki coloured sick, my Christmas Eve wasn’t exactly all wine and wassail.  Well, it wasn’t wine cos, recovering alcoholic obvs, so yeah that bit of Christmas has gone out of the window.  But as is my Christmas custom, I still had about 80% of the wrapping to do once the little ones finally lost consciousness.

But no sooner had I rolled up my sleeves and attached my snazzy new ‘On-hand Sellotape dispenser” than I was interrupted by Thom’s tired and tremulous crying.  Actually, to my shame (just add it to the fucking list shall we?), I sent the teen upstairs the first time I heard him crying and that was only after there was a break in the carols I had blaring out from the TV.  The teen has even less patience than me, if that is even possible, so when he came downstairs after fifteen seconds armed with the considered conclusion that Thom was ‘over-excited’, I took him at his word and carried on with my frantic wrapping.

By 8am Christmas morning, there was a pile of presents under the tree that might as well have been wrapped by an 18 month old.  I was so tired with darting up and down stairs to hold back Thom’s hair (oh, hang on, I don’t do that with him do I – so why does he need me?) as he was sick every half an hour that I’d barely bothered to hide all the tape and left over bows.  Not that anyone noticed.

Boxing Day saw the girl fall foul of the wretched bug and the day after that had me dashing between bathroom and bedroom all day.

*Sigh*

God.

With all this festive digression, I have quite forgotten the subject of my post.  Which is a relief actually, cos it’s fucking painful to think about.

The reason I have entitled this post The Moving Memoirs #1 is not because I believe these posts will be moving in any emotional sense.  Whatsoever. They will be filled with a shit load of whingeing and bitching about various stuff going on but this is not a sympathy seeking exercise. I can’t be arsed. No, I shan’t be moving anyone to tears.

For you eagle-eyed readers, the #1 is not accidental.  The thread of this blog will probably take at least three months to exhaust itself and so I may manage to write a few more posts.  That’s not a threat, nor am I making any promises.  I am struggling to write at the moment.  I am struggling to do most things.  Functioning is at an all-time low.

So. Not trying to ‘move’ anybody emotionally and it might be a three month long series.  Dunt take a genius to work out that the moving in question is a house move and I shall be blogging about this for the foreseeable future.

I have moved house before but in the five years that we’ve lived where we live now, so much has changed, and I fear this move is going to be pretty different to any I’ve done before.

So. I remember seeing something on Pinterest once – like a ‘countdown to moving day’ list or something like that.  I must have read it cos I sort of remember it saying shit like this:

Three months before you move

Begin to compile a list of removal companies you could use

Make an inventory of each room

Invest in some ‘packing boxes’ and begin to label them by room

One month before you move

Inform the relevant phone and cable TV companies of your impending move

Start wrapping your breakables in newspaper

The day before you move

Make sure you have left the kettle and other essentials out for your last day

Have your gas and electric meters read (my mother just told me this…seriously I have no idea about this shit.)

The day of the move

Get up early

Blah

Blah

Fucking blah

  Right.  You get the picture.

Here is how my list thus far with my confident predictions for the next few months:

Three months before (eviction notice served)

Spend 36 hours in a stunned stupor because you can’t believe your home will no longer be your actual home in ninety days

Say ‘fuck’. A lot

Cry

Hide under a duvet

Desperately call parents and incomprehensibly wail about impending homelessness

Two months before

Still say fuck. A lot.  Also shit, wanker, twat and bastard.  For example:

(a) “What the fuck are we actually going to do though?”

(b) “You tell me where we’re going to fucking live then you stupid fucking twat.”

(c) “What sort of wanker calls that a third fucking bedroom?”

And so on.

More crying

Spend excessive amounts of time on sofa whilst permanently hiding under a blanket that now hasn’t been washed for six weeks and is covered in tears, snot, chocolate and crumbs

Eat everything you see that is in the sugar/carbs group

Stop cleaning the house in a kind of half-assed protest over being evicted

Continue to barrage those close to you with totally inappropriate over-emotional calls about your ‘desperate’ predicament

One week before

Resign yourself to fact that you are absolutely fucked and you’re going to end up moving you and your three children into your mother’s house

Start hurling random things in Morrison’s carrier bags whilst telling everyone how you’ve ‘nearly finished packing’

Panic and start throwing away things you need simply cos you don’t know what box to put them in. Seriously, do tea-lights go in the box marked kitchen or living room? You fucking tell me.

Order a massive skip that you can’t afford whilst kidding yourself (but actually nobody else) that THIS time you mean it when you say you are going to de-clutter. Then spend two of the three days you’ve hired it for watching inconspicuous members of the public (seriously, they may as well put on a comedy moustache and glasses) surreptitiously chucking all manner of shit into YOUR skip because THEY’RE too fucking tight to hire one themselves.

On the evening before the skip is due to be collected, gaze in wonder and horror at how little space there is left to put your own mountain of crap into now the skip-jackers have filled it.

Try to remedy this problem by shifting all the contraband crap to one corner of the skip.

Stumble upon at least four priceless pieces of other people’s crap you can’t believe has been thrown away and now you can’t possibly live without. Like, we could be talking about a fucking lava lamp or a scabby nest of tables that you just know you could upcycle with that tin of Annie Sloane pain that has been gathering dust in your garage for the last three years.  Y’know, ever since you abandoned upcycling that old book shelf you had and ordered a brand spanking new one off ov Very instead.

Seriously, you are genuinely thinking how unbelievable it is what people will throw away as you cradle your new free treasures (one man’s trash etc..) and take them into your already shit laden abode.  At this point, it is fair to say that the balance of your mind is clearly disturbed because the child’s manky old bicycle you’ve picked up has only got one wheel and is clearly for a four year old.  Your youngest child is 8.

  OK.  I’m majorly rambling now but are you getting the diabolical picture?

Moving house is a great big pile of shitty turd.  Moving house is something you don’t want to do even when you do want to do it.  As in, when you’ve chosen to move out, onwards and upwards in your life.

But when your only reason for moving is a big fat eviction notice that couldn’t have been any less expected if it had parachuted through the letter-box and kicked you in the fanny, well, the prospect of moving is bloody, fucking, shitting, bastard horrible.

So.  There you go.

My blogging raison d’etre for the next ninety days – give or take.

If the last fortnight is anything to go by there will be tears, tantrums and possibly some hilarious moments – like when I tell my kids that two of them are going to have to share a bedroom (jokes. It’ll obviously be me hunkering down on the sofa until one of the little bleeders moves out).

Arm yourself.

It ain’t gonna be pretty.

The Moving Memoirs #1 It is my first post of the year so I shall begin with the obligatory… New Year, New Me.