... read this I felt very grown up and very scared!
It's hard to write about Ian and I thesedays. We read each other's shit. We disagree on some things. I know he knows it's true and I know that this is okay to blog about because all our really really serious shit gets settled off camera.
It's been a learning experience, to say the very least. After one extreme disagreement, fuelled (as they do seem to be) by my strange tendancy to want to discuss things after spending quality time with premium beer (and the complicating not drunk/drunk rule), I sent him a message the next day. It said something akin to the following: To go from being apart for a year at a time for 3 years and then go to living with each other in close quarters is an enormous step, and to have arguments like this one is completely natural.
I truly truly believe this.
I have to share everything. Things that a stranger can't do, he can - he can finish the caramel chocloate digestives and I can't be really angry. I don't WANT to be angry about biscuits. That shit is inconsequential with him. But if I ain't dating you and you eat the last McVities prepare to die.
Tonight he's out with some friends, and I have stayed home. Because I wanted to. And I know he wasn't happy about it. But I know it'll pass because we love each other. That is incredibly empowering. We aren't petty. I sometimes fall into the petty zone and find that as soon as I think about how happy he makes me, biscuits and evenings out and all of the stupid other things are just so damn secondary.
His is the face I see every morning, and he's the one I think about every time I shop for dinner, buy a new top, make plans to do things.
The biggest change has been to go from being by myself to being with someone.
On the one hand, I'm going from completely independant to having to consider someone else at least 50% of the time.
And on the other hand, I'm going from being lonely to having someone who considers me at least 50% of the time.
And I don't do anything by half measures :)
oo Frikkin' Late
Today was my first experience of a breakdown in public transport. After hearing that the Northern line wasn't running (at least, not from a station near to me) I decided to hang on to my digsmate and go to Wimbledon and grab the overland to Waterloo, then catching the Northern line to Charing Cross, my station for work.
So it wasn't the greatest - the closure of my station meant that EVERYONE was trying to catch a bus to an open station - so Dale and I decided to walk to Wimbledon. It's a gorgeous day today, and in a way I'm so happy to have walked - I feel very pepped right now.
So after a reasonable overland train trip I arrived at Waterloo, which was SWAMPED. Everyone was late for work, so everyone was tense, and there were also delays on other lines.
Long story sort, I got to work half an hour late, which was fine, even good, considering.
I guess it's just a shock after having nothing but good experiences with public transport in London, to feel well and truly stuck for a little bit again.
That said, I have to give kudos to Oyster - I lost my Oyster card with my monthly travelcard booked onto it this week. I left it on the train. My bad.
I called, and Oyster told me they would replace my card in 3-4 working days, with the remaining credit of my monthly travelcard (about half a month) on the new card.
They sent me a new one in 2 days. In a spiffy little case. With no hassle.
They are even willing to refund me on the travel tickets I bought in the 2 days I was without the card.
These guys are no squirrel monkeys - they're fantastic. Helpful, friendly, efficient, good customer service, take the onus upon themselves to solve problems, a problem that my own carelessness caused. They must have a clear understanding of the annoyance of losing this precious little card - it affects you daily, and affects your ability to get to and from work.
Impressed, I am.
Maybe the creative juices weren't flowing as strongly as I thought. Or maybe the fact that I have been on extended deadline for the past three days is what has resulted in the lack of will (or time!) to write.
As I sit here, my boyfriend screams at the TV downstairs. It would seem, according to the ratio of 'YESSSSSS!' to 'aah, COME on', that Liverpool are winning.
As I was trying to watch earlier, I told him that I actually think I prefer cricket. He responded by telling me that my feet stink. Point taken.
I'm thinking that it's time I bought myself a digital camera, and am seriously looking at this one.
Or this one.
Do you know of any reason why this girl, and either one of these cameras, should not be joined to take photos from the London Eye? Speak now, and I shall perhaps listen, or perhaps ignore.
This expresses it all. And I don't care what he says, he is a master at blogging.
I want to write more now! Just from reading that! It will have to wait until lunch.
I read this with interest...
The influence of my very feminist Language and Gender lecturer from Linguistics 202 has resulted in me filling in every form as 'Ms' since my second year. I do this every time I fill in a form, and should there be only the Mrs or Miss options I insert my own Ms.
But the article raised a good question. As a single woman I don't feel that I have to advertise the fact, nor is it in anyone else's interest as to whether or not I am married. 'Miss' smacks of availibility, 'Mrs' of ownership. But when I get married one day, will I feel the same? Will I not want to be referred to as 'Mrs So-and-so' for the first time after my wedding? My feelings tell me, maybe I will. Maybe I will want to keep my last name too, or maybe I will take that of my husband's. Sadly, such a cumbersome moniker as mine does not lend itself to double-barrell-ing, so it's one or the other.
Maybe I don't know about it yet because it's not a reality yet.
Those who know me well, know that I have knee issues. This would be putting it mildly - let's just say, I was never meant to have knees. I was at the back of the queue when they were handing out knees. I got the leftovers. I have the knees of a 90-year-old pro American Football star quarterback. With bad knees.
Last night before going to sleep, I commented to Ian that my knee had felt a little funny during the day.
I woke up at 4am, unable to bend or straighten my leg out of the 45 degree angle I had slept in. Consultation with google has led me to believe that what I experienced this morning is Repetitive Strain Injury, which affects the tendons of the joint in question, which in my case is the Achilles Heel (anatomy-analogies gone wild here) of my knee problem.
Luckily, after a teary episode in which my consideration-embodied boyfriend helped me out, I fell asleep and this morning, it would seem that the RICE rule worked as promised and my knee has almost full range of mobility back again, if bent and unbent slowly. This has made it possible to go to work, take the stairs, and sit cross-legged, things I thought I wouldn't be able to do today in my panic-fueled state last night.
Small price to pay for sleeping with a bag of frozen peas on your leg.
Please, if any of you decide to become Nobel Prize winning doctors, consider focusing your efforts on developing an everlasting Titanium knee. Or one made out of the stuff they build the Space Shuttle from. You can call me Guinea Pig.
Ian might be bleak at me for stealing his thunder (on a day upon which he has no time to blog himself, due to a job interview), but as it turns out, the man was right (to a point ;P) to be listening to XFM all day long.
He has won tickets to see The Coral for tonight and is taking his girlfriend (but of course!) along with him. While I don't know the band well at all, I have hear their new single 'In the Morning' almost every day and any band that can put the lyric 'an alley cat chewing on dead meat' over happy sounding steelband pans wins my vote.
We'll see.
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