iNarcissist

Forgive me for I have sinned.

I went into the Apple Store at Bluewater and put my blog on display on one of the nice, shiny new 27" iMacs for all to see.
It felt naughty, but I liked it :-)

Married

So, what's it like, then? Getting married - the whole walking down the aisle and saying your vows thing - describe it for posterity in the blogosphere. Dish the dirt. Put it into pixels. Well, I would have to say it's the most overwhelming thing I've ever done. Nothing prepared me for it. The fact that my husband and I had been together for so long before we got round to actually marrying didn't remotely temper the emotional impact of it all. It was, quite simply, an amazing day.

We actually enjoyed ourselves, which was a fact that took us by surprise. There had been a low level hum of constant planning and organising throughout the eighteen months of our engagement, but this had turned into a full-on, roaring frenzy in the final six weeks before the big day. Returning from our Spanish jaunt marked the start of an unrelenting round of printing, phoning, shopping and general running around that didn't let up until the night before we were actually married. There was no time for quiet reflection and I think we both expected the wedding day itself to be a continuation of the sheer effort we were putting in, rather than the start of a new, long-anticipated chapter in our lives. The summit got lost in the climb, to an extent, but I suppose this made achieving the pinnacle of the ascent all the more pleasurable, coming as it did as a joyous shock and a startling achievement.

Even now we almost have to pinch ourselves to remind us that we are married. I still get referred to as "girlfriend" - a term I've never liked, to be honest. Gok Wan can probably get away with using it liberally, but even he would struggle to convince onlookers that I am realistically still in the full flush of girlhood. For my part, I rather enjoy introducing people to "my husband" but it takes a good deal of effort to remember to do it and, of course, I have slipped up now and then. At another wedding soon after ours, telling people that "my husband is a former colleague of the groom" felt alien, each conversation now etched in my memory as some kind of out-of-body experience. There was a certain satisfaction, though, in having a husband by my side and in not having to join in the scrum trying to catch the bouquet.

This feeling of being settled - of knowing that, however many petty arguments you might have about mud on the carpet or hair in the plughole, you've stood up and made this big public commitment that far overshadows daily nonsense - this is good. It feels like how life should be. This was reflected during the ceremony for me by the utter conviction that what I was doing was right. I dither by nature, but from the moment I got up on my wedding morning and started painting my toenails to the comforting sound of the Today programme, I was gripped by certainty. Today was my wedding day and that was the way things should be. I hoovered the flat early because it was my wedding day - I almost wanted to wake people up so that I could tell them. Walking through town to go and get my hair done I wanted to stop people and let them know I was marrying a wonderful man that day. I didn't, but in my head a dizzy bridal voice was screaming out to all the old familiar places I passed, "hey train station, Waga Mama, BBC Studios, Wine Shop - today I'm a bride!"

As a bride you get burled along in the tidal wave of it all, from getting ready to your walk down the aisle, champagne, photographs, food and dancing, but that's fine. You're at the centre of things, but you're not in control. You surrender willingly. Sometimes, if you're lucky, time seems to slow down and you can look at things from outside of yourself, almost, getting brief glimpses of what you can only describe (somewhat cheesily) as the love in the room. Some of the happiest memories I have are of looking around and seeing other people enjoying themselves, chatting over dinner or sharing a joke. People who I didn't think were dancers took to the floor, shuffling along to the jazz band in the evening as if they'd been waiting all their lives for the opportunity to strut their stuff. I liked that as much as I liked the feeling of flight as the skirt of my dress twirled around when I danced myself.

The intensity of something private made public during the ceremony made the day such a happy one, too. Looking into the eyes of my other half and promising to love him for the rest of my life made me feel as if we were the only two people in the room. I know every millimetre of those eyes now, each subtle change of iris hue, each lash, fleck and lid freckle. Then, of course, comes the moment when you get to see the professional photographs and you realise that, as you were making your promises, there was a room full of people there too. But more than that - those people were looking on, as focussed on your words as you were and smiling, feeling the same happiness you felt. This profound act was shared and people were happy for us. To me it's still hard to believe, but I think it's a truly amazing thing that so many people came so far to be there and be a part of it. I think it's great and I'll never be able to thank them enough for it. So many people showed up, gave their time, made so much effort and spent so much energy willingly to help make our day special and I feel that I owe them many lifetime's worth of gratitude.

The path to matrimony was one that I never thought we'd take, my new husband and I. Looking back on our wedding day, though, it seems like it was the completely natural thing to do. Having lived over a decade of our lives together, it feels fitting to celebrate our achievement. Though the promises we made to each other bring with them no guarantees of eternal wedded bliss, they provide us with a starting point for something new, a future to look forward to with hopefully many more years of happiness grounded in the formal commitment we've made. This thing - this "us" that somehow evolved out of a chance meeting at university and has kind of mapped out a life of its own in the twisted landscape of the passing years since, this strange enduring entity publicly manifested now as "love" - we, me and him, us - provided the best damn excuse for a party I've ever known.

To Africa... With a Garlic Baguette

Gibraltar and its Spanish environs are fortunate enough to be located in the part of Europe that is closest to Africa. The ferry trip can take as little as thirty five minutes, depending on where you leave from and go to, which means that taking a day trip to another continent is very easy indeed. Feeling a little nervous about exploring the wonders of Morocco independently in a short space of time, we booked ourselves on a guided tour.

We left on a ferry from the port of Algeciras, which turned out to be just like any other port in the world except that one of the cafes sold enormous jars of honey in Pooh-bear sized portions. The catamaran crossing was thankfully uneventful, though we were very prepared for any possible events. Since the safety video gave all the necessary instructions in five languages (accompanied by the very best in eurotastic dance music) and the crossing was short, it played for most of the trip. We picked up our coach and tour guide on the other side in Ceuta, a little perfect Spanish town and a resolutely Spanish place stuck onto the end of Africa... much as Gibraltar is a resolutely British place stuck onto the end of Spain, I suppose. Then the exciting part – crossing the land border between Spain and Morocco and finally leaving Europe. Except that it wasn't very exciting at all. They didn't stamp our passports, because we were only there on a day trip. They did, however, take our temperatures to see if we had Swine Flu or not. Which was nice. Declared medically sound, we sped off to sample the wonders of Tetuoan and Tangiers.

The terrain around the Moroccan coast was quite different to Spain. Cedar trees punctuated the horizon and flat roofed, whitewashed houses sat back from the sandy roadside. Steep mountainsides and blue, cloudless skies rose from blue rivers and lakes. Everywhere the Moroccan flag waved, be it in town squares, at roundabouts or road junctions or just seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huge, red and green and contrasting with its surroundings, standing out for miles around. This was a country in the grip of a surge in pride and confidence. Construction projects abounded, from the fresh tarmac underneath our wheels to the huge new sparkling edifices of bus and train stations and the new port being built in Tangiers. In the Medina in Tetouan we found a contrasting view of old Morocco. A maze of tiny streets winding up a steep hill was home to all manner of tradesmen, even some selling parts of taps and old remote controls that must have belonged to long-deceased electrical appliances. As we walked through the gateway into the Medina we were hit with the strong smell of pepper and spices. Each successive stall we passed and alleyway we walked down had its own distinctive odour. Meat, leather, perfume, cat – all could be smelled in great intensity in the North African heat. As we passed by a street corner Mosque we heard the Muslim call to prayer and our transition to a place far from home was complete.

Tangiers was much bigger than Tetouan, being a major port city. There was a distinct French flavour to it and amidst the heavy traffic we saw so many “Salons de Thé” that we could almost have been in the Galeries Vivienne in Paris. We didn't have much time to explore Tangiers and we are quite keen to go back and see more of it on our own. Frankly by the time we had reached Tangiers we had grown out of being in a guided tour group. It quickly became clear when we arrived in Tetouan that the primary objective of our guide was to get us to spend money. From the carpet shops of the Medina to the authentic lunch with cous cous and Moroccan music, it was all one huge attempt to extract as much cash from us on a grand scale. Somehow we resisted the temptations of rugs, lamps, teapots and other Moroccan bits that many friends of our guide were very insistent that we buy. We did get a taste of local culture, but it was marred somewhat by regular attempted assaults on our wallets.

It was a bit of a relief, really, to arrive back in Spain and set foot in our apartment again to unpack our few, carefully chosen and prudent purchases. As we opened the rucksack we were pleased to find that our tea glasses and camels had safely survived the journey. Then, from out of the corner of the rucksack, behind the now empty water bottle and camera case, there emerged a Morrison's garlic baguette. It had clearly not been kept chilled, as the packaging advised. It had also clearly not come from the Moroccan souk. The fiancé had popped to the shops on the way home from work on his bike the previous evening, as he did most evenings in fact. Somehow all of the shopping had not been unpacked. Our African odyssey had been undertaken with a small buttery companion. The bag had been x-rayed by Spanish customs officers on the way back and you would assume that such a thing might have aroused suspicion, but it appears not. I suppose people don't usually hide drugs or guns in garlic baguettes... despite their convenient size and shape for the purpose. Suffice to say we didn't eat the baguette. Compared to the average garlicky accompaniment, though, it lead a very exciting and well travelled life. We suspect that some of those pungent odours in the Medina may actually have been emanating from us as the baguette quietly warmed itself up in the African sunshine. Yum. It must be nearly dinner time...

Tarifa

This is a picture of the fiance, relaxing at a chiringuito in Tarifa. As you can see, the life of a Ruby on Rails consultant is all work and no play :-)



Tarifa has beautiful beaches, but it is a strange place. Surfing is popular, as is kite surfing. I assume kite surfing is like normal surfing but with a kite somehow attached to something, giving a little bit of extra oomph. Anyway, the sand round there is golden, the sea is blue and the beach is full of beautiful people wearing not very much. In the town there are many leathery skinned old surf dudes, bejewelled with leathery beaded necklaces and leathery bracelets. The cobbles under foot echo with the light tap of flip-flops and people have that far away look of the perpetual dreamer in their eyes. Truly this is the last refuge of a generation of people who read Paolo Coelho's “The Alchemist” and thought that they too could find enlightenment by going to Tarifa, meeting an old guy and catching the ferry to Morocco and back. The problem being, of course, that “The Alchemist” wasn't really based on a true story and now they're stuck in Tarifa with nothing to do but look dazed, give surfing lessons and hand out flyers for bizarre nightclubs located down tiny alleys with even tinier doorways.

At around one in the morning a group of the beloved's colleagues and I rolled out of a restaurant and started to negotiate the buzzing backstreets of the port in an attempt to start heading back round the coast for home. In a small square, not too far from the ferry terminal, there was a tiny shop with a tempting window display. In between all of the shops selling surfing paraphernalia and tourist tat there was a perfect little patisserie in the French style. A small, smart, non-leathery lady was selling cakes and tarts in the early hours, portioned out with great care into little containers and handed over to late night revellers with dainty serviettes. The chocolate gateaux was divine.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen...

... really do go out in the mid-day sun, or so it seems on the Costa Del Sol.

The apartment of my husband-to-be is situated in a holiday complex. The recession meant that he was able to get a very good deal on renting here for a longer term, but most of the other apartments are either empty or being let out on nightly rates to mainly Spanish holidaymakers. There are a handful of German and French people about, but generally very few English. The contrasts between our fellow countrymen and their European neighbours is most pronounced around the pool. It's not unusual for the Spanish to go for a bit of a swim around breakfast time. I sit on the balcony with my cup of tea and hear the sound of morning europop floating up to me, punctuated by the odd splash and bursts of Spanish language merriment that I don't quite understand. It's all long gone by lunchtime. When the heat of the day is reaching its pinnacle, that's when the Brits turn up. They're brash and they're loud and they like to complain about the heat, but it doesn't stop them from having a good time. When the apartment shutters are drawn down everywhere else and the siesta hour falls upon the quiet Spanish hillside, they're swimming, diving and shouting for Britain.

The other day a family turned up and had a long, very loud lunchtime poolside discussion about the possible local availability of cheesestrings. Lounging in the shade, feet up and absorbed in a George Eliot novel, I indulged my snobbish side and reflected on just how far away my mind was from a place where cheesestrings are a delicacy. I'm taking advantage of the relaxed Spanish attitude to life and trying not to be too much of a typical Englishwoman abroad. Naturally there are some patterns of behaviour to which I have succumbed, of course. I have underestimated the strength of the Southern Spanish sun and burnt my forehead, shoulders and prominent nose lobster red. I have also begun to use the bidet in the bathroom as a convenient place to wash my feet and swimming costume after a trip to the beach, rather than using it for the purpose for which it was intended. Overall, though, I try and speak Spanish when absolutely necessary, rather than shouting in English to try and be understood, and I make attempts to assimilate culturally, such as watching “Los Simpsons” and “Bob Esponja” on the television. Sometimes I even (briefly) go topless on the beach.

The thing about the beach is that you can sometimes spot a group of English people from a mile away. Consider, if you will, leopards. In the wild their spots act as camouflage to prevent predators seeing them across the plains. Now consider leopard print fabric and in particular that staple garment of the Englishwoman of a certain age on holiday: the leopard print sarong. Marketed as a handy means of covering up undesirable body areas when in warmer climes, it's amazing how a camouflaging pattern becomes quite the opposite when in the wrong hands. The Englishman of a certain age who forms the other half of this matching pair fares little better. It seems as if he bought swimming garments when he was a teenager and kept them all his life, the result being that a very small Speedo is going into battle with a very large belly on the Spanish sand. The belly has the upper hand and the swimwear is attempting to launch a rearguard action, but is sadly on the verge of retreat. Then there are the younger generation, folks who find that work, etiquette and the plain monotony of life conspire to keep them quiet for fifty weeks of the year, so much so that in the remaining two weeks when they are on holiday they must compensate by shouting and bellowing as much as possible. It's as if each person has a noise quota which must be fulfilled.

I know I'm being dreadfully snobby, and probably bitter because I'm too old for youthful nuisances. I'm sure that the Spanish people on the beach all snigger to themselves when my white, flabby English bits emerge into the light of day for the first time in many years, too. I'm trying to move through Spain quietly, though, adopting more of a Latin air. If I glide serenely through the heat and make sure I steer clear of sarongs, or indeed cheesestrings, they may not point and laugh at me too much. Maybe I can be an Englishwoman abroad, but incognito.

Loving the Rock

I really feel as if I shouldn't like Gibraltar, but I do. It's kind of wrong, but I feel curiously at home there. My other half has a theory that I like it because it's a bit like Britain in the 70s, so I'm anticipating the point when the 80s finally hit and I can enjoy the hair, clothes and music all over again. He may be right, but it isn't surprising that I enjoy visiting the rock. The road signs in English start it all off when you cross the border. You could be anywhere in the U.K. Well, you are in the U.K., technically, and you can speak English freely and be understood, which feels like a cooling and soothing balm applied to the brain for those whose Spanish is as deficient as mine. The runway helps, too. After crossing the border you have to cross an active airport runway to get into the main town, which feels about as eccentrically English as you could possibly get.

In so many ways the rock is geared up to be an English playground in the sun. Tax free alcohol, abundant casinos, a marina full of extremely expensive looking yachts and pretty much guaranteed warm, sunny weather. What's not to like? Add to this the presence of a giant Morrison's, who have big signs enticing you to buy “the taste of home”, and you start to see why so many people cling with gusto to this little piece of the U.K jutting out from the southern end of Spain. Morrison's means I can have scones with butter and sip an Orange Ovaltine Options drink on our balcony in Santa Margarita, watching the blue sea and African mountains in the distance. Morrison's means I can still procure Quorn to eat in a land where they don't seem to understand vegetarianism. I'm a big fan of the Morrison's. In the heat of a Gibraltar afternoon there's a sense of unreality when you step into a generic English supermarket that could be anywhere, heading for the Quorn aisle.

Leave aside the modern convenience of meat substitutes and there's that aforementioned 70s vibe. It's there subtly in the architecture, though most of the tower blocks and offices sport a liberal use of concrete that gives away their 50s origin. It's more present in the host of small shops along main street, especially independent electrical retailers, named after people rather than big retail chains. Yes, there is a Marks and Spencer, but it hasn't had a makeover for some time and it looks traditional and old, like the St. Michael era shops of my childhood. Visiting museums and tourist attractions confronts you with signs and boards of printed information rather than interactive, whizzy computerised exhibits. A trip up to the top of the rock reveals a healthy and very un-twenty first century disregard for health and safety. There seem to be perilous staircases, tiny clifftop paths and abandoned bits of military building everywhere, few of them fenced of and all of them looking very inviting to anyone with a reckless streak. Actually one of the things that I liked most about the Rock itself was the sense of physical cold war structures and the mindset that went with them decaying all around. Faded “M.O.D. - Keep Out” signs and hefty security gates with big padlocks now swinging open, nobody guarding them and no secrets for them to protect any more. No more spies, only monkeys.

It would be very easy to surrender to this other world, removed from the everyday realities of bad English weather, unreliable public transport and the general petty woe of living in a place that isn't shiny, sunny and fun. I feel the temptation acutely because I'm here on holiday, so I'm in that fantasy fun and frolic-ful mindset from the start. The jolly retirees who were sat at the next table to us at lunch on the waterfront on Sunday were probably feeling the same way, lingering over their cocktails and forgetting the way the damp weather used to make their rheumatism flare up. Even if you're working on the rock, as my other half is, you slip into a routine where the bizarre, absurd and even the indulgent become normal. He gets up, he cycles into the U.K., he works, sometimes a monkey scampers by the window, he cycles back home to Spain and we go off to the beach for a quick dip in the Mediterranean before dinner. The hypnotic weather and the ever present sandy shoreline all too easily take a hold of you. Living a stones throw away from a thriving colony of barbary apes stops you taking anything too seriously and the knowledge that you live in a place of strategic military significance, even though the presence of the armed forces is currently dwindling, gives you a sense of security. Those bunkers are still deep within the Rock – the troops could be back in the blink of an eye. It's all good.

What, then, could be dangerous about liking Gibraltar too much? To confine oneself to this part of Europe because it allows you to relish in the comfort of the familiar is to abandon oneself to the attractiveness of escapism – to enter your fantasy land where the sun always shines and life is very easy. It might blind me to the pleasures of Spain, of which there are many. I could easily become short-sighted and cower in the Rock's familiar shadow rather than realising I am actually abroad and there is another culture out there waiting to be explored. Also, I am on holiday. I get to see Gibraltar in all its high season, pleasure palace glory. It's easy for me to forget that there is a world of daily reality underneath the shiny exterior, a world where problems exist and boredom takes hold in just the same ways as at home. Even if there are monkeys. A place so small and so resolutely separate from the Spain that lives beside it has its own attendant troubles, too. After a while I can see how the Rock might get a bit stifling. It is small and it is so very English. It has limits. So I'll appreciate Gibraltar as a linguistic haven, a place to have fun and drink reasonably priced gin and tonic and I'll not let the sun go to my head. I'll keep my feet on the ground and not get too carried away with heady holiday pleasures, or with getting lost on tracks up the Rock and pretending I'm a Russian spy on a mission. And if Gibraltar ever does enter the 80s, I might consider a permanent move.

The Train to Spain - Part Three

The metro system in Madrid was pretty easy to negotiate and we speedily crossed the city from Chamartin station to Atocha station. The announcements on the metro appeared to consist of a man and a lady performing a comedy double act, except instead of jokes they told you which other metro lines you could change onto at each stop. It was all done in a very chirpy tone, though. I'm sure that goes down well in the rush hour. Luckily it was Sunday and our fellow passengers were few.

If you're catching a train out into the wilds of Spain from Madrid, Atocha seems to be the place to do it from. It's a big station and well equipped with the usual stuff: restaurants, shops, large garden, aquatic curiosities. Yes, really. We went to dump our bags in the left luggage lockers and stumbled upon a hot house garden full of palms and misty humidity. It proved to be a relaxing place to sit when the heat of the day got too much and we'd seen all we wanted to see of the city outside. There was even a large pool of filled with fish and terrapins, who basked on rocks and posed for photographs like seasoned professionals working the tourist trade of weary travellers. We came to the conclusion that every station should have a few terrapins. Terrapins aside, Atocha also benefits from being well located for sightseeing and a quick walk from the station concourse gets you to many of Madrid's top attractions, including the Prado and Reina Sofia museums. We plumped for a quick tour of the city's botanical gardens, which had a particularly fine grove of olive trees and some very large insects. I never knew there were so many types of olives... apparently there are more types than just black, green and stuffed with pimentos, so there you go. It was good to commune with nature after such a long journey; far better than sitting squished in an aeroplane seat for hours waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off and the obese guy next to you to wake up so that you can stretch your legs, I imagine! A slow saunter through the park with an ice lolly, a cheese sandwich snack at a kerbside cafe and it was time to hit the tracks again.

A Spanish colleague of my beloved's had recommended paying extra for “Preferente” instead of “Turistico” class on the long distance trains in Spain. As far as we could make out this wasn't the super-swish, ultimate best first class, but it was better than standard. It was certainly well worth paying a bit extra for. Stepping onto the AVE train from the heat of a midday city platform the air conditioning immediately contributed to the feeling of luxury. The seats were spacious and clearly hadn't seen as much action as those on the Elipsos sleeper. They were adjustable, with welcome little footrests to soothe tired lower limbs. There were televisions up above that showed a film throughout the two and a half hour trip. We were given free, Spanish railway branded headphones that plugged into our seats if we wanted to listen to the audio track for this, but the scenery held my interest far more than “Bride Wars” did, I'm glad to say. Well, the scenery and the laser display board at the front of the carriage that kept flashing up how fast we were going and what the temperature was outside. 34 degrees celsius, 290 kilometres per hour, racing through the mountains. Amazing stuff. Outside we passed terrain that grew increasingly rocky and mountainous, here and there littered with half finished apartment blocks, their skeletal frames standing as poignant gravestones for the booming economic age now long gone. Inside we were constantly bombarded with consumables by friendly stewardesses. There were free drinks, including alcoholic options, moist towellettes and a three course lunch served at our seats. Sadly there was no choice for this and the main course was an extremely meaty combination of chicken pieces in sauce, accompanied by ravioli filled with meat of indeterminate origin. As a vegetarian I didn't partake of this, but I ate the starter, bread roll and dessert, and the husband-to-be revelled in the delights of eating lunch for two. We both decided that this was how train travel should be. The standard British commute will always fall short from this point on. We were clearly meant to travel this way. Some people just aren't cut out for standard class. All too soon we were pulling into Malaga station and we had to reluctantly leave our reclining seats in the land of milk, honey and moist towellettes.

Malaga train station was an appropriate extension of the wonders of the AVE train, with its bright, clean and modern look. Across the road, Malaga bus station was pretty much the opposite. We found confusion, queues and many lobster-like English speakers in all their holidaying splendour. When we eventually found the bus to La Linea it was quite a contrast to our previous means of travel. There were no lovely ladies to attend to our every whim. There was a gruff, balding, harassed looking Spanish driver and a pervading sense of damp. Unable to escape the moist odour and unwilling to move about too much in our seats lest we should sense a certain wetness about them too, we embarked upon a mini-odyssey around the Costa del Sol. Instead of waiting for the direct bus, we mistakenly boarded the one that left first. As such we passed through Torremolinos, Marbella and many other places that have replaced the likes of Margate and Brighton as the haunt of the average British family on vacation, before we arrived at our destination. There was some kind of fiesta in La Linea and the streets were lined with merry Spaniards when we showed up. Tired and intimidated, we waited fearfully at the taxi rank for our final carriage to Santa Margarita and the swinging bachelor pad of the man who will soon be my husband.

Finally setting foot in the apartment, I realised that there's as much pleasure in arriving as there is in travelling. That said, I wouldn't have travelled any other way. Taking the train to Spain meant that I saw much more of the country and experienced far more than I would have done if I'd have flown. It also meant far less stress for me, despite the challenges of the last leg of the trip by bus and all its attendant unpleasantness. It felt like a good thing to do together and when we arrived there was a certain sense of achievement. I suppose it's all to do with the long understood pleasure we humans gain from taking the road less travelled, the rocky path instead of the smooth one and the challenge instead of the easy option. Talking it over now that we've been here a few days, we both agree that we'd do the trip again. In fact we've been tentatively discussing where else we can go by rail in the future, which is as resounding a vote for train travel as you're ever likely to get. We made the trip to be together and now we have the ultimate prize – we are together again, and what's more, we got to share something pretty cool in the process of making that happen. Bring a little love back into your life... travel by train.

The Train to Spain - Part Two

We've been to Paris so many times over the past few years that it has a homely feel to it. I get on the Eurostar at Ashford International without the usual trepidation I feel when I travel, and when I disembark at Gare du Nord I know where I need to go. I know where the metro station is, where to buy a ticket and which lines and stations will get me closest to a decent lunch. The familiar is indeed comforting and thus revelling in it we spent a delightful afternoon in the French capital. The sleeper train to Spain departs from the Gare d'Austerlitz, which happens to be very close to the Rue Mouffetard and all the parts of Paris that we know extremely well. Once we'd had our fill of food and drink in a couple of our favourite cafes and stopped off to do a spot of shopping, we knew we could hang out in the Jardin des Plantes just across the street from the station until it was time to catch our onward train. Getting the mid-morning Eurostar from Ashford left us just enough time to enjoy a taste of Paris and a break from travelling before continuing onward.

Catching the Eurostar involves passing through barriers, checking in and getting your bags x-rayed in the same manner as if you were flying. The Elipsos from France to Spain has a lady standing on the platform who checks that you have a ticket and a disinterested train guard who confirms that you have a passport. That's it. After these briefest of formalities we wandered into the first class compartment that was to be our home for the next 13 hours. The décor was very green, with more than a hint of 70s British Rail about it, and the seats looked rather battered. Many a rotund businessman's behind had squeezed itself into them for the cross-continental jaunt and they had not coped well with the experience. The poor seats were not so tired as to be unable to perform their reclining function, however, and it was great fun to sit down and play with all the buttons to see what they did. There was plenty of room to stretch out and I had no-one sitting in the seat behind me so I could recline fully without guilt, but we'd ended up with two seats across the aisle from each other, rather than together, so any kind of romance or even conversation was a challenge. At this point it's probably best to mention that first class reclining seats are probably not the best option for travelling overnight across Europe by train. A couchette, with the seats that turn into a bed, would have been far better, but we couldn't afford the couchette for two. This train travel lark, whilst wonderful and civilised and all that, is quite expensive. The cheapest option would have been for us to book into a couchette for six, but these are either for male or female travellers. Mixed sex couchette-ing in the cheap seats is not allowed (the commoners must be controlled, presumably). It might have been acceptable for me to travel in the women's dorm and him in the men's back when we were students, but in our thirties I don't think we would have coped. We needed a little more refinement. We needed to be together. So first class seats were our only option.

There must have been about fifteen people in our carriage and it was a wonderful opportunity for people watching. My beloved's neighbour was a young man with dark hair and a floppy fringe who had brought an enormous bag of pastries on board. He scoffed the lot before donning headphones and dropping off into a deep slumber for most of the journey. Opposite him were two large Mexican gentlemen huddled up in coats, one of whom snored extremely loudly but had an incongruous peaceful look on his face while he did it. The other one got up and left on one occasion, only to be replaced by an equally large, elderly Mexican lady who talked constantly at her male companion, who I assumed by the dynamic between them to be her son. I had to look twice when she came in, as I thought she may have been the man returned in drag. It seemed perfectly logical to me that somebody might be a man in Paris but change into a woman for a new life in Spain. I shared my space with a tiny, bird-like, middle aged lady travelling with a large carrier bag. She didn't come all the way to Madrid, but alighted at a station in the middle of nowhere. I don't even think it had a platform, just a sign. There were a lot of places like that. I opened the twee little green curtain by my window, hoping to watch one country turn into another, but mainly it was dark. I still got very little sleep, though, because the train stopped often and I couldn't help but try to see where we were. I counted off a few stations going through France: Orleans, Poitiers, and others, but the actual point at which we crossed the border was lost on me. Next morning my restlessness was rewarded with dawn breaking across the plains, with parched rocks and scant vegetation glowing orange in the emerging light. A trip to the restaurant car for breakfast revealed vast picture windows and the mountainous outskirts of Madrid, me perched on a bar stool and the train perched above vertiginous gullies, slowly wending its way onward between precarious drops.

Breakfast showed that there was a world outside the train again, because for so many long hours our world had been the inside of the train. This had naturally involved adjustment. An adjustment of gait, predominantly, for moving about something that is in itself moving is actually very difficult. The Elipsos has been designed to travel long distances at moderate speeds and I wouldn't say it's been engineered to give a particularly smooth ride. We were in carriage 84, right at the back, and the trip to the restaurant car was a long one. I was buffeted on the way to the buffet and I still have the bruises to prove it. The movement when seated could be very soothing, though, and the husband-to-be commented that it had rocked him off to sleep. There were also the adjustments to routine and having to adapt to doing private things in a public environment. Getting up and going for a wee in the communal bathroom at the end of the carriage almost felt embarrassing, the openness of the coach at first feeling like a stage whenever I got up even though the actual bathroom was obviously behind closed doors. Thankfully the facilities were clean and spacious – so unlike train lavatories in the U.K. ! By the end of the trip I'd cleaned my teeth with the help of a bottle of Evian, had a bit of a wash with the assistance of some wet wipes and was merrily combing my hair, putting plasters on my heels and changing my socks without batting an eyelid. So much had been out of our control on the train. That's part of the beauty of it, in a way – you just sit back and go with the flow, but it's not all peaceful relaxation. The lights unceremoniously went out at around 9.20p.m., with no warning, provoking an odd generalised twilight groping for the reading lamp switches. Now, suddenly we were being placed at the helm of our own lives again. Pulling into Madrid's Chamartin station was a little disorientating, with the train being left behind and normal life resuming; normal life where the ground doesn't move and your personal space is your personal space. Bright sunshine and city life, getting on the metro and making terrible attempts to speak a language you don't really understand, as opposed to the dim light of the train and the embarrassed hush of humans thrown together and trying not to offend each other. Let loose in Madrid, all we had to do was find Atocha station and the train to Malaga.

The Train to Spain - Part One

I don't like to fly. There are various reasons for this, some related to my sheer pig-headedness, I must admit, but fear is fear whatever its root and if there is anything that I can do to avoid travelling by plane, I do it. Luckily I'm no international jet-setting businesswoman and I like to holiday pretty close to home. The presence of my beloved in Spain posed an obvious problem. He was a two and a half hour flight away and I wanted to be with him. He had a rather swish apartment that seemed perfect for two but lonely for one. I considered the obvious solution – the wonder of Xanax, the drug of choice for nervous plane passengers the world over, but it just didn't seem right. There was clearly a more appropriate way of dealing with this. I could feel the fear and fly there anyway, or I could take the train to Spain.

For somebody like me taking the train was clearly the best choice. I've always loved trains; not in a geeky, trainspotting, platform stalking, number noting way. It's just the way I've always got where I wanted to go. When I was growing up I lived with my mum, who didn't drive, so we had to use public transport. As long as I can remember I've been chronically car sick, too, so coaches and buses weren't an option. I'm ashamed to say that this affliction still persists into my thirties and with our wedding venue a forty minute drive away from home along winding country roads I'm hastily trying to get over it. Anyway, trains are how I travel. I feel comfortable on the train. I think getting the Eurostar to Paris is easy, so for me it's logical to add another few hours train journey to that and head for Andalusia.

Just think for a minute about what it means to travel by train. Not the hustle and bustle of the morning commute or the general unpleasantness of short journeys in Britain, squished up against your fellow passengers when you haven't even been properly introduced. Think of travelling long distances and watching the scenery unfold outside your window. There's a sense of surrender that goes hand in hand with train travel. Freed from the stresses of driving, letting someone else take control and allowing yourself to enter your own little world. You can work, you can read, you can plug in your iPod and just watch, letting everything just drift by you. It's true that most of this can be done on a plane too, but in the sky all you can see is clouds. Down on the ground the sides of the tracks are rich with viewing possibilities, a constantly changing landscape of other people's spaces and lives to dip into as you glide past. On a plane you are also assaulted with instructions: when this sign lights up you must put on your seat belt; don't smoke in the toilet; put the oxygen mask on now or you'll die. To my mind this doesn't make for a relaxed trip. On trains there is no safety dance and if anything bad happens you're not thirty thousand feet up in the air, which must surely be a plus.

Looking back through history we can see that there was a time when people travelled by train as a matter of course. When they took the grand tour of Europe, they did it by rail. They didn't whizz around at high speed. The journey mattered as much as the destination. I think that travelling by train is an infinitely civilised experience and something to be savoured. It's also something from our past as humans that it makes sense for us to rediscover now. When we're all concerned about our carbon footprints, surely it doesn't make sense for us to burn several tonnes of jet fuel to get somewhere as quickly as we possibly can. Just because flying is convenient, it doesn't make it right or pleasant. It's a mode of travel that we have at our disposal but we shouldn't always think of it as the first and only solution when we need to get somewhere. I'm a definite proponent of original solutions in all areas of life and I see no reason why that shouldn't apply to getting where I want to go.

An article in the Sunday Times travel section confirmed that it was indeed possible to reach the Southern parts of Spain by rail and it seemed like a sign. God bless the wonderful man who maintains the Seat 61 website and wrote about the wonders of that trip! My future husband and I made the decision that we wanted to be together and that since the plane clearly wasn't going to be an instrument in making this happen, we'd take the alternative route and use the train. Since togetherness was the objective and since I was somewhat nervous about undertaking a European rail odyssey alone, he decided to fly back to Britain and then make the journey to Spain with me. It would be an adventure. A final fling for us before we embarked upon the sensible constraints of married life, or perhaps the start of many happy vacations spent riding the rails. Either way, we were determined to go for it. Our journey would unfold thus: Eurostar from Ashford to Paris, lunch and a happy afternoon spent in the city of light, evening Elipsos sleeper train to Madrid, high speed AVE train from Madrid to Malaga, bus from Malaga to La Linea and taxi from La Linea to the apartment in Santa Margarita. A whole weekend of travelling, but so many sights to see and new things to experience. Overall it would be a journey quite different to just sitting back in an aeroplane seat and waiting to land... or in my case gripping the plane seat in terror and willing the aircraft to land as quickly but as safely as possible. It would be proper travelling.

Musical Interludes

Well, it's all systems go on the wedding front. Given that nobody has objected to our union, we need to get planning in earnest. However, since my intended is still overseas, I find myself with all kinds of decisions to ponder all alone. One of the things that preoccupies my mind most is the choice of music for the ceremony. Music is important to both of us. Neither of us can hold a tune, but we're regular Prom goers each summer, habitual overspenders on iTunes and periodic doughball munchers at the Pizza Express on Dean Street. He likes heavy metal, I like more "alternative" modern stuff and we both like classical and jazz. So out of all that, how do we choose a few key pieces that reflect our relationship? Adding in the audience factor complicates the issue even further. Pleasing an eclectic mix of thirty-something friends, a few kids and relatives of somewhat more mature years is far from simple and I would hate for them all to be bored, repulsed or confused while they watch us getting married. Well, they might be all of those things anyway, but I don't want the music choices to make things worse.

If I dwell on approachable classical pieces, I inevitably err towards the jolly, rousing numbers that everybody knows. So while I should be thinking of the romance of a Rachmaninov piano concerto, my brain alights on the William Tell Overture or "In the Hall of the Mountain King". Searching for a way to bridge the gap between the classical and the popular, I tentatively searched online for tasteful piano or string arrangements of modern songs. There is a part of me that would love to walk down the aisle to "Under the Bridge" by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, because we both like it, it's a good tune and it has a nice sentiment. As luck would have it, a string quartet recording of it does exist. Unfortunately it's on an album full of classically reimagined Chilli Peppers covers. Listening to samples of the others, I couldn't help thinking that the version of "Californication" came out rather better. Now clearly that's not appropriate for a wedding. When I appear in the full bridal get up, I don't want everyone dreaming of Californication. Herein lies a fundamental problem. For every song that is special to us or makes sense lyrically for a wedding, there is a matching one just around the corner that is entirely wrong. On the positive side, we have Blur's "To The End" or "Tender" (the latter particularly for the "get through it" refrain, since I fear being overwhelmed by emotion during the ceremony); "Gravity" by Embrace works ("It's been a long time coming... and I can't stop smiling...") as does "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls ("You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be and I don't want to go home right now...") and "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones. Negatively speaking, there are obvious faux pas - Elvis singing "Suspicious Minds", any of the myriad of versions of "D.I.V.O.R.C.E." and a personal favourite of mine: "Perfect Gentleman" by Wyclef Jean ("Just coz she dances go go, that don't make her a ho, no, call up my mama say I'm in love with a stripper, yo...") - but there are also more subtle dangers lurking. The mighty Kurt Elling, jazz behemoth, first recorded a beautiful version of "My Foolish Heart" to celebrate his own marriage. That's all very well, but the first line includes the words "...oh my heart, I'm reluctant to start, since we've been here before...", and the implication that my beloved and I may have tried and failed to marry previously, or may have married other people along the way, springs all to easily to mind.

As you can probably tell, I think far too deeply about these musical issues and my brain is apt to spin off at tangents with minimal provocation. So sometimes I dwell on the Irish heritage of my intended and think that it might be nice to make an entrance to a traditional tune from the emerald isle. The songs that I always think of, however, are "Whisky in the Jar" and the Irish rugby anthem "Ireland's Call". "Ireland's Call" is one of two songs that I find myself singing subconsciously in the shower with alarming regularity. The other one, as it happens, is "Rehab" - perhaps we could get our guests to join in a resounding chorus of "no, no, no" if we used that one in the ceremony! The husband to be is no stranger to the realm of the absurd and for his part often suggests Iron Maiden's "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" as a touching tribute to my mum, who will be giving me away.

Out of all this cavalcade of musical whimsy I aim to pick something that is not traditional but that equally isn't so achingly hip that nobody understands why I picked it. So I've pretty much discounted Mendellsohn and Florence and the Machine, and I'm left with everything in between. In trying to please everyone I have to stop myself descending into bland mediocrity, fighting any temptation to simply stick a pin in the Magic FM playlist and extract "Just the Way You Are" or "Groovy Kind of Love". This wedding business can be unbelievably intense. I think it's time to go and lie down in a darkened room with my iPod. Perhaps I shall find some instrumental interpretations of The Prodigy played on the panpipes. "Smack my b*tch up" on the panpipes, anyone? Somebody must have recorded that, surely?

Magic

Here's a little meditation for Father's Day. It's a little story that played out in the parking space across the street from where I live, visible from my kitchen window as I wash up and the scene of many dramas. You don't need a permit to park there and there are no time limits, which attracts a wide variety of drivers. Anyway...

A bloke enters my field of vision, wheeling a stroller with the kind of proud lilt that tells me he's the daddy to the cute toddler with bunches sitting in it. He stops beside a people carrier and for a brief moment he doesn't do anything. He and his little girl just look intently at the car, then at each other. Returning her gaze to the vehicle, she raises her hands before bringing them together in a dramatic, exaggerated clap. At exactly the same moment I hear the car alarm beep and the whirr and click of all its doors unlocking. The girl is shaking with laughter and looking extremely pleased with herself. She has the power to make the car obey. Just a clap and it will open. She might be small, but things will do her bidding and that makes her feel great.

How cool is that dad, to think of hiding the key fob behind his back and pressing the button at just the right moment to bring a bit of joy into something as mundane as getting into the car? He rocks. I hope he got something nice today.

An Official Time and Place

We went to the local register office last week, my fiance and I, walking across the park in glorious sunshine towards the meeting that finally made our impending marriage seem real. We had to meet a registrar and give notice of our intention to marry. So we, us, this thing that we want to celebrate and make permanent with a ceremony and cake, had to stand up before officialdom for the first time.
Ushered into an oppressively hot waiting room that was filled with advertisements for wedding photographers and funeral directors and a large pile of leaflets about swine flu, we prepared to take our first legal steps towards marriage. Ah, that curiously atmospheric mix of attempts to sell us stuff and give us government-endorsed advice certainly created a welcoming atmosphere.

The registrar explained that we would be interviewed separately, because it was "a kind of test." We needed to prove our identity and, I suppose, that we actually knew each other and weren't entering into some kind of marriage of convenience. My seemingly inbuilt fear of authority figures reappeared like an old friend and I was as nervous as if we were actually standing up and taking our vows there and then. Predictably I could not play it cool and halfway through the interview I thought I may have blown my chances of being granted official permission to marry by being unable to answer a question - I forgot my own phone number. Luckily I was allowed to ask my fiance for help on this one and I think the registrar did eventually give me a passing grade. I remembered who I was, when I was born, who my dad was and who I was supposed to be marrying. I signed a piece of paper to say that I wanted to get married. When I had left the little airless room containing the slightly careworn registrar, who typed labouriously and ponderously with two fingers, my beloved went in and did exactly the same thing. Our names should now be posted on the board outside the register office and the local public has two weeks to object to our being joined in wedlock. Assuming that they don't, then officially October 3rd 2009 will be our wedding day.

Up until now, the actual wedding has been an abstract concept, floating around in space. Now it has entered the realm of reality. To compound that feeling, a few days after giving notice of our marriage we received confirmation that two registrars had been booked to attend our ceremony. This came with further details of the legally binding vows that we will say and the order of proceedings on the wedding day. They were neatly printed out on an A4 sheet, resplendent in a flowery serif script and bedecked with the glorious beauty of Microsoft Word clip art. Hearts and doves abounded. This missive was clearly the work of a bored admin assistant on a quiet afternoon and I loved it all the more for that. The juxtaposition of the mundane with the momentous had a certain charm. It was as if our big day, one of the key turning points of our lives, was briefly breaking into dull, tedious, everyday life. For a few moments in October, normality for us will be suspended and we will be getting married, while for others things will be just carrying on as normal. I like that. That makes me smile.

Being Apart

Do two lovers really miss the tranquility of solitude? I'm not usually given to questioning the wisdom of Paul Weller's lyrics, but I only ask because it's awfully quiet around here without my husband-to-be. Perhaps too quiet. After much agonising he decided to accept a three month contract doing something technical for a gambling company in Gibraltar. Within days of saying yes to the post he'd flown around 1080 miles to the other side of Europe and left me here. So I'm living alone for the first time in around a decade.

The changes have been quite dramatic, as one would expect. There's less washing and ironing piling up and the flat seems to be maintaining a higher level of tidiness than usual. I have also received a number of invitations to dinner from friends and neighbours. This amuses me greatly as we never received even half as many invitations as a couple! Actually, I think I should start inviting other people over to eat as I'm finding it difficult to scale back portion sizes. I made enough rice for two the other night, but ate it anyway. If I carry on like this I shall be enormous August.

Together my absent love and I have discovered the wonders of Skype, which enables me to see if he is looking tired or suffering from sore hayfever eyes from the comfort of the kitchen while I'm cooking my gargantuan feasts for one. The laptop lets me make a fuss of him from afar and he gets the dubious pleasure of seeing my ugly mug every night. I'm trying to choose a variety of locations around the flat to host our chats, changing the props and backdrops for each video call so that he doesn't get bored. He likes to play with extreme close up shots. So far a carton of orange juice (because the Spanish for juice is "zuma" or something similar, and that's a funny word), some sparkling mineral water (because it had gas in it, and that was apparently funny too) and a jumbo sized heel blister (because he wore the wrong socks with the wrong shoes) have loomed up at me from my screen. I get the feeling that our chats will soon be stage-managed, epic productions on the scale of "Lawrence of Arabia".

I'm not really totally alone, of course. Thanks to his mad panic trying to find some scales to check that his hold baggage wasn't over the weight limit the night before he flew out, everyone in our building knows that he's gone and I'm still here. Apparently the chap downstairs knows Gibraltar well as he used to live there. His dad used to be an air traffic controller there, which is nice. Neighbours, friends and the internet don't necessarily make this whole process a lot easier, though. I think this is by far the hardest thing we've ever done as a couple. He's only a wee fella, but it's amazing how much space there is around here when he's gone. Still, three months is nothing. He'll be popping back and forth - in fact he should be here later tonight as we're off to see the registrar and complete our legal preliminaries for marriage on Tuesday. Then come October we'll be married and he'll be mine forever. I shall try my best never to let him go again, but I suspect he'll have other ideas. He's full of surprises. He may take a new contract with a yurt manufacturer in Outer Mongolia, or something similar. Or maybe I could get my own back and become a seasonal sheep shearer on Mull. His unpredictable nature can cause a lot of grief, but it's one of the reasons I love him. It doesn't do to make life too predictable, does it?

Anyone for Tennis?

I've been dipping in and out of the coverage of the French Open tennis. I like a bit of tennis, actually. There's a strong mental aspect to it - kind of like a duel without the pistols.

As you probably know the home of the French Open is the Stade Roland Garros, situated in the outer environs of Paris. I'm sad to say I've never visited it. The funny thing is, though, that this prestigious grand slam tournament venue is actually situated (according to one of my Parisian guidebooks) on Avenue Gordon-Bennett. 2 Avenue Gordon-Bennett, to be precise.

Makes me chuckle just thinking about it.

Curtain Up

Last week I finally hung the new curtains in our living room. We bought a curtain pole and some finials which match the pattern on our fireplace soon after we moved into the flat. For a year and a half they sat, propped up against the wall, their only useful moments being when we cooked sausages and a long pole was needed to silence the smoke alarm. In an optimistic fit of New Year resolve we bought some curtain fabric in the January sales and since then I have been trying to make curtains out of it. At times it has felt like going into battle with the voluptuous quantities of fabric and liner.

The saleswoman in the John Lewis fabric department was very excited about my desire to make the curtains myself. "Ooh, you're young," she said. "You'll always make your own curtains in the future after doing this." I think I was seduced because she called me young, so I set about the task with great vigour. I decided that I wanted curtains that dropped from above the window right to the floor. I wanted a dramatic, opulent look in the room. Also, there was a lumpy bulge in the wall beneath the window that I wanted to cover up. All this meant that the curtains would be significantly bigger than me. They had the upper hand size wise. Wrangling around seven metres of fabric proved to be a significant challenge. Most awkwardly I had to move a lot of the furniture out of the living room in order to provide the only space big enough to cut the fabric and lay out the curtains side by side to match the pattern repeats between them. For those readers keen to eradicate bingo wings and improve upper body strength I recommend curtain making. My poor muscles had never ached so much. Coupled with the pain of sore, pricked and bleeding hands from all the pinning and tacking I had to do, I was in pretty bad shape throughout the process.

It wasn't just me that was feeling the physical strain of the task in hand either. My ancient, secondhand Singer Stylist sewing machine had not been used for some time before it was pressed into curtain making service. Actually I had been keeping it in the living room as a kind of symbolic act since we moved in, trying to show visitors that I was somehow in the process of properly dressing the window in that room. The last thing I sewed, come to think of it, was a draught excluder for a bedroom in our old rented cottage. I bought a load of cheap pink cotton and made it in the shape of a penis. I still have it - I use it to frighten some of our more delicate friends with. Anyway, after making that I carefully cleaned the machine and oiled it before putting it away. This meant that when I got it going again for the curtains it emitted gentle puffs of smoke for a while, presumably as the old oil burned off the newly heated up motor. The smoke stopped after a couple of sewing sessions, but the strong smell of sewing machine oil persisted. There was a certain heady atmosphere pervading the flat whenever I sewed. Luckily the machine held up for the entire project and still seems to be going strong.

Overall it took me four months of spare-time sewing to finish the curtains. I received some very helpful advice from the lady in John Lewis, looked up how to do some things on the internet and worked out the rest myself. I probably could have finished the job more quickly, but frankly there were some times when I just didn't want to look at the damn curtains, let alone sew them. A fine example of this would be when I had to sew on and unpick the heading tape over and over because I couldn't get the thread tension right on the machine. Now, though, they look fantastic. I even made three matching cushion covers out of the same fabric to go with them, and I get the pleasure of telling everybody that I made them. The living room looks great and I reckon that, despite all the effort it took, I would definitely make curtains again. It was worth it. I became even more proud of my soft furnishings when I happened upon an episode of "Kirstie's Homemade Home" on Channel 4 the other day. Kirstie Allsop was going into raptures because she'd made a cushion all by herself, then she promptly turned around and commissioned a professional curtain maker to finish the job and dress all the windows in her fancy holiday home. Having made my own curtains I felt extremely superior. I've earned my home furnishing spurs the hard way... and I didn't feel the need to make a t.v. show about it, so there.

He's a lumberjack and he's okay

My other half and I have been together for eleven years now and I'm starting to worry that my barometer of normal behaviour has become alarmingly skewed. For example, I suspect that in other relationships, "darling, let's spend an hour tidying up the garden," doesn't rapidly turn into "let's embark on some amateur tree surgery and minor deforestation." Unfortunately I'd be lying if I said I was surprised when the husband-to-be decided that simple weeding was boring and started chopping things down.

We've been slowly working on our garden since we moved into the flat. Regular mowing and the creation of a rose bed have improved it, but any efforts were spoiled by the presence of a steep bank on the south side that was very overgrown. Holly, brambles, several mature trees (not subject to any Tree Protection Orders according to all the surveys and searches we had done) and a whole lot of ivy sprawled across it. It was unsightly, but worse it provided the ideal home for spiders of possibly the most evil looking species. In late summer it seemed as if the trees were raining arachnids, all with plump bodies and robust looking legs, some of them visibly hairy. I was keen to get the bank cleared before the weather warmed up this year and the spiders regrouped, so we set about it with gusto. We filled our two council-approved garden waste bins with ivy and we'd barely made a dent, but pulling the stuff up was curiously therapeutic. You grab a bit, give it a yank and metres of tendril start coming loose. Roots pop, snap and ping out of the ground and you just have to keep pulling, following the intricate snake in its death dance around the garden. After a while, though, while I was ripping up ivy, my man was starting to look wistfully up at the trees and stroke his beard.

He determined that he required a bow saw and possibly an axe, having established that I wouldn't let him have a chain saw unless he went on the appropriate safety course. We stopped off at Homebase on our way back from depositing a car boot full of ivy at the local dump. By this point the gardening and subsequent dumping had taken its toll on my beloved. His jeans were ripped and he'd covered himself in mud. A muddy stain spread from his crotch down to where the knee of his trousers should have been, but where instead a frayed remnant of denim flapped in the breeze. He looked like one half of a bad Bros tribute act fallen on hard times. People were staring. To make matters worse, Homebase only sold puny pruning tools, so it was back in the car and off to B&Q. It turns out that B&Q is the place to shop if you fancy a bit of weekend lumberjacking... or possibly a little light murder. They actually sell something called a "handy axe". Handy? Lip balm in your desk drawer is "handy". I've not yet felt the need to carry an axe within reach just in case I need it. Anyway, they also had a wide range of saws, so we left suitably equipped.

He started with some small branches which were close to the ground, preferring to denude the tree trunks of their limbs with the saw before reducing the branches to manageable chunks with the axe, which was indeed proving to be very handy. I lurked fearfully on the sidelines, phone in hand, ready to deal with any emergencies (thankfully there were none). There was a slightly manic glint in his eye as he moved on to the large pine tree, periodically looking over at me and shouting gleefully, "this is so much fun!" He managed to bring down quite a large overhanging branch without any damage to himself or the shed and with a mixture of awe and relief I cast my apprehensions aside, wielding the axe (handy) to help chop it up. As we loaded up our second wheelbarrow full of branches to take to the car, we realised that all of the choppings weren't going to fit in the boot to be taken to the dump. It was also starting to rain, the dump was shutting in an hour and somehow we'd forgotten to have lunch. It was probably time to stop for the day.

Instead of an overgrown mess along one side of our garden we now have a large pile of wood and some increasingly nervous looking trees. The saw and the axe were out again last weekend and they may soon be joined by a brazier. He thinks that it will be more satisfying to burn the wood and maybe use it to cook things rather than letting the council dispose of it for us. So soon I shall get to add pyromania to forestry on my list of things that young engaged couples get up to at the weekends. Such is normality, I guess.

Bin There, Done That

It sits in the kitchen like a benign, emasculated dalek. It boasts that no finger, however greasy, can mark its satin steel finish. It opens its gaping black jaw quietly, slowly, yet efficiently at the prompting of a single, light tap on the head, receiving our waste in the most dignified manner possible. It is our new fifty litre Brabantia touch bin; it is a rubbish-god to be worshipped reverently and appeased with frequent offerings.

The husband-to-be touched many bins before electing to buy this one. He delivered an eloquent oration about the superiority of that particular brand whilst raising lids in John Lewis. "Feel the action," he cried. We're not used to having bins with an action. Our green plastic swing bin came from Woolies and was bought because it matched the kitchen where we were living at the time. Ten years and two homes later and it didn't match anything any more. It had also developed a large crack in the lid (due, we think, to the over-zealous disposal of a nephew's nappy - this is what growing old does to you). It clearly needed replacing. Thus into our lives came the Brabantia.

Much to future hubby's excitement, the bin brought with it three free bin liners. As robust and well designed as the rubbish receiver itself, they were his dream bin bag. Since moving to a flat with communal refuse collection facilities I'd come to realise that even perfectly personable professionals can be of the type who view bin bags as an optional lifestyle choice. Consequently the building's wheely bin swims with a primordial soup of flat-dweller's detritus. I still await the emergence of new species with interest, but not wishing to contribute to the evolutionary process I developed a habit of double bagging our rubbish. Future hubby saw this as sub-optimal, but Sainsbury's swing bin liners just weren't strong enough to prevent leakage if used in a single layer. The Brabantia liners, though, were man enough to go into battle solo.

As our free samples began to run out, we searched the shops in vain for replacements. Nowhere seemed to stock the correct brand. The husband-to-be refused to entertain the possibility of buying any other kind. The allure of tough plastic bags with a brand name written all over them proved too much for him to forsake - these bags obviously being the male equivalent of the Hermes Birkin. Buying direct from the manufacturer would have meant a costly outlay in Euros. A quick internet search revealed a company with a very reasonable price per bag. The downside was that we had to buy in bulk.

So it was that, shortly after the garbage dalek took root, Parcelforce delivered what was clearly meant to be a trade-sized case of bin liners to our door. One hundred and twenty bin liners to be precise, neatly packaged in tens. We use, on average, one liner per week. Thus we had purchased over two years worth of liners with the single click of a mouse. The future has truly arrived. I managed to stow a year's supply under the sink before putting the rest in storage, lest our flat should be further taken over by the cult of the bin. Ah, the bin. Still it sits in the kitchen, clad internally with its designer lining, silently waiting for the rubbish, waiting for someone to touch it and bring it to life, while beneath the sink the liners wait in their ordered ranks - a silver monolith and its plastic baggy children.

Hitting the Slopes

For my first attempt at posting a photo to my blog, I present to you (hopefully, if this has worked) an image of me snowboarding. Yes, me. I'm the one flailing wildly. The other dude on the slopes was my instructor. I spent a lot of time during my lesson thinking I was probably old enough to be his mother!

I'm not the kind of person who does such crazy things as snowboarding usually, but my loving husband-to-be booked me a surprise lesson for my birthday. I had an amazing time and surprisingly actually managed to stay upright most of the time. The picture shows my first solo descent of the slope. I wouldn't say I was a natural snowboarder, but I did get a big kick out of trying something new. Perhaps I'm an adrenalin junkie at heart after all. Or perhaps this is the start of a mid-life crisis? I'll keep you posted. Next stop the alps... maybe.

Building a Reputation

So Barack Obama finally took office yesterday after a campaign and electoral process that received far more media coverage in the United Kingdom than any other I can remember. I have become hooked on James Naughtie's stateside dispatches for the Today programme, with his dulcet scottish tones enlightening us about the mood of the American people in these historic times. There's a little something that doesn't quite sit right on this side of the pond, however. It's a little thing and I've tried to escape it, but I can't quite forget that stirring speech Obama gave on the campaign trail where he repeated that natty slogan "Yes we can!"
An erudite political communicator he may be, but the new President borrowed a phrase made famous by Bob the Builder. Forget Joe the Plumber - it looks like Obama thinks he can fix it for us all.

Good for him for taking a positive attitude, but in these almost drunkenly optimistic times I am reminded of my mother's view of the slightly rotund chap in the yellow hat who has conversations with his tools (that would be Bob, not Barack, just to make things clear). Mother is now sixty five and works in a school for kids with special needs. She's a patient teaching assistant who thinks the world of the kids she works with and really wants the best for them. However, after a messy divorce and several other hard knocks in life she doesn't really tend towards being a glass half full person. Bob, with his assured attitude, is just not sensible. So when her class starts up with a resounding chorus of "Bob the Builder, can we fix it?" She doesn't reply Obama-style with a forthright "Yes we can!" Can we fix it mother? "Well, we hope so," she says.
So President Obama, we all hope so too.

Noel

Way back in September 2008 my future husband and I had a rather long and somewhat talkative lunch. Somewhere in between a couple of lattes and some paninis we decided to go away for Christmas that year. There was really only one place that both of us wanted to go - Paris, the City of Light and the location for some of our most happy memories from the past two years. So we decided to go. We returned to our computers and tried to ease our way back into working by reading the BBC News... only to find that the channel tunnel had just caught fire and the way to Paris looked like it might be blocked for quite some time. Ever the optimists, we booked the cheap Eurostar tickets anyway. Luckily the fire didn't cause too much disruption and so it came to pass that on Christmas morning we woke up in a rather classy apartment on Rue Vaneau in the 7th Arrondissement. It had a fireplace, a beautiful stone floor and (in the second en-suite bedroom) my mother, a Parisian virgin (remarkable after sixty-five years and one failed marriage, I know, but there you are).

Truthfully I have found the meaning of Christmas to be hard to grasp in recent years. When I was a child it was easy to pin down - it meant presents and staying at my grandparents' house. Growing older I found it to be an occasion marked by overindulgence in food and drink. When I first moved in with my boyfriend it became an opportunity to show off, with me attempting to be the perfect domestic goddess. I remember being so excited about inviting people over to our house. And then I remember discovering, over the course of the following few weeks that everybody else had actually had a crap time while I, in my Nigella Lawson style whirlwind, had been completely oblivious to the fact. Each passing yuletide since then has seen my bitter resentment grow and though I am ashamed to admit it, Christmas has become a time of duty and obligation, endured or at best tolerated.

As a household we had become stuck in a Christmas rut, with the dark sense of foreboding commencing sometime near the end of summer and persisting until the New Year has been rung in. We needed to do something different and Paris provided a breath of fresh air. The presence of mother opened the door to full days spent doing unashamedly touristy things, like a Seine river cruise, as opposed to hours of eating and vegetating. There was not a turkey, Queen's speech or Doctor Who Special in sight. The cobwebs were well and truly blown off the tinsel.

Paris doesn't just grind to a halt in the way that provincial England does on Christmas Day. Shops open in the morning to enable people to buy fresh food, just like any other day. The first thing we did on Christmas morning was visit the bakery to buy bread and an enormous, baroquely decorated, very expensive yule log. Traditional local festive fare, apparently, and very nice it was too. Actually it pretty much single handedly sustained my mother, who didn't adapt well to the rest of the continental cuisine, for the rest of our visit. We had a long conversation in French about the weather with the lady in the bakery. It was strangely satisfying. Walking along Rue Cler, a street famous for its small, exclusive food shops, later on in the morning we were confronted with an array of fresh oysters, meat, vegetables and the attendant throng of Parisians eager to buy them. The Eiffel Tower wasn't shut for the holidays either, so we took a trip to the top for what must have been the best view I've ever experienced on Christmas Day. It certainly beat the sight of mother asleep in a chair or the fiance trying on his Christmas jumpers.

The fact that the Metro was running made popping out in the evening simple. There didn't even seem to be any sort of reduced service on Christmas Day; the only difference was that there were less people traveling and it was easier than usual to get a seat. We rounded off our Christmas by attending a free concert of piano music and seasonal readings at St. Sulpice church. Curiously, we found ourselves sitting close to some Americans who had been drawn to the church because of its connection to the "Da Vinci Code". I have no idea what this was all about, never having read the book myself, but there was a kind of comfort in knowing that somebody else understood as little of the readings as we did. Delivered in sonorous, guttural French by a large man with an equally large beard, the texts were certainly atmospheric even if they were also incomprehensible.

Maybe Christmas will always be incomprehensible to me, too. This year it meant five days of lunchtime wine and being in the heart of a city that I love, sharing it with people that I love. It meant doing rather than dozing. It was different. It was good. So maybe this year it will be good if it turns out to be something different again. If Christmas retains that elusive quality by continually keeping me guessing and constantly reinventing itself (or more accurately being reinvented by me and those I spend it with) then I might perhaps come around to liking it again.