Of course, I would go and get the cold halfway through my week off, wouldn’t I? Yes, another cold: I really know how to enjoy myself, you know, don’t anyone say I don’t. I’ve spent most of today in bed, most of yesterday in bed and, in short, I finished work on the 23rd feeling tired, run down and desperately in need of a break, and I’ll be starting back next week feeling exactly the same, only worse. Go, me!
Interestingly enough (and by "interestingly" I mean "this isn’t interesting at all, not even a little bit, but hell, there’s still a couple of hours to go before I can start drinking, so I’m going to tell you anyway”), this is the latest in a long line of New Year’s Eve colds, the most dramatic being the flu that arrived on December 28th, 1999, and cleared up on January 1st, 2000, so while everyone else was partying like it was, well, 1999, I was shivering in bed with a lemsip. God, I hate New Year. HATE IT. You know how everyone always goes on about how the Scots celebrate New Year’s Eve like nowhere else on earth, and it’s, like, the most amazing night of the whole entire year up here? Don’t believe it. We celebrate by watching Jools Holland’s Hogmanay Boredom Fest on TV, just like everyone else I know, and if there’s anything more miserable than watching other people partying, why, I don’t know what it is. At midnight we switch over to the "Live From Edinburgh Castle!" show, where a solitary piper plays a lonesome lament, then we all line up to slit our wrists. It never fails to make me more depressed than the rest of the year put together, and having the cold for New Year’s Eve? Well, that’s just the icing on the cake, isn’t it?
Actually, this New Year’s Eve is already looking a little bit more exciting than normal. So far most of the street parties have been cancelled due to foul weather: right now a hurricane force gale is blowing around the house in a very dramatic "it was a dark and stormy night" kind of way, and ten minutes ago our neighour’s fence blew right down and began a stately progress towards OUR garden, joined a few minutes later by the fence belonging to the house on the other side of it*. A few minutes ago, Terry caught our three wheelie bins making their way down the driveway, presumably off to some New Year’s Eve celebration for wheelie bins that will be BETTER THAN OUR CELEBRATION, probably. If the house is still standing when we get home tonight, colour me amazed.
Anyway, I was going to do an "Amber’s review of 2006" thing here, but I feel like crap, the lights keep flickering ominously, and those fences look like they’ll be joining us in the kitchen any minute now, so I totally can’t be bothered. (Also: that’s what the archives are there for.) Here, have a picture of my dog dressed as Yoda instead:
HAPPY NEW YEAR 
* ETA: Now our fence has joined them, too! How unexpectedly exciting!
So, yesterday Terry and I headed into Edinburgh to meet up with my Shiny colleague Erin and her fiance Dave for food and, of course, shopping. I so wish I’d thought to take a picture of the expressions on Terry and Dave’s faces as they watched Erin and I worship at the shrine of Chloe and Christian Louboutin (Harvey Nichols) – the poor souls were quite bemused by how very fascinating bags and shoes can be, and this is because men? Are mad.
Anyway, we had a lovely time, and now Erin and Dave are off to live in Australia. (They had planned to do this anyway, I should add: they didn’t just decided to move to the other side of the world after meeting me and Terry. Or I don’t think they did, anyway…) I, meanwhile, returned home, went to bed and prepared to sit back and enjoy Thursday, which was to be the first lie-in of the Christmas holidays. Not the word "was", here, however. This morning I did not get to sleep late. Why, I hear you ask, almost as if you care? Well, because this morning the postman woke us up at EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING with a COURT SUMMONS for me. Me!
Actually, it wasn’t a real court summons. I just said that because I’m all about the drama. It was a summons to appear in court, though – but as a juror. Damn. Remember way back in the summer when I got the letter saying that I’d one day be called for jury duty? And my lawyer (for yes, I have a lawyer. It’s in case I am bad) was all "Pshaw, you will totally not get called – they’re just jerkin’ ya!"?* Well I got called. I’m supposed to report for duty on January 22nd, and actually? I’m kind of crapping myself right about now. I mean, hello, self employed over here! Who will do my work while I am "sequestered"? (Answer: no one will. I just won’t get paid for weeks, and the house will be repossessed and we will have to live on the street in a cardboard box, and OMG I think I’m having a panic attack!)
Also: what if it turns out to be like the OJ trial, and we are totally stuck there for months, and I have to miss my wedding AND my honeymoon (not, you understand, that I will be able to have a honeymoon anyway if I have to do jury service – apparently most people serve for two weeks, which would mean a total of four weeks without work between January and April.) and the family of The Accused start stalking me and threatening me, and then they follow me home one night and kill me because I got their "boy" sent down? WHAT IF, people?
No, I just can’t stand it. I have already written a letter begging to be let off, and the letter, it is three pages long. That’s a LOT of begging, let me tell you. I feel kind of dirty now. Note: no one comment here saying, "Oh, but you could totally write a book about the whole fascinating experience, Amber, because you’re all about writing books!" There will be no book. Nuh-uh. (Although I am thinking of pitching my "JURY DUTY RUINED MY LIFE!" story to some of the women’s magazines. I bet they will totally buy it, and my career will be saved! Maybe the wedding mags would like to commission me for "JURY DUTY RUINED MY WEDDING!" too? Hmmmm…) No, there will be no book, and also: I’ve already experienced the whole court thing as a reporter. That was "fascinating" enough for me, and by "fascinating" I mean, "It was actually quite interesting, but it was mostly like waiting for a bus, only you’re waiting in a courtroom, and the bus is really, really late, and when it finally turns up it has criminals on board who look like they will probably spit on you if you make eye contact with them." Honestly, I’ll pass on that kind of "interesting", thanks all the same…
Also, while we’re on the subject, no one comment saying, "But you MUST do jury duty, it’s your civic duty!" either, because I just don’t buy it. The whole "tried by a jury of your peers" thing has one huge, fatal flaw as far as I’m concerned and that flaw is the assumption that your peers are all intelligent, reasonable people. Well, I’m here to tell you that’s not true, folks. I am neither reasonable or particularly intelligent, and actually? I don’t really like my peers – especially the ones that live in my street. (Yes, you with the car-stereo-used-as-a-boom-box, I am talking about you. Gee, hope you’re not up in court on the 22nd by any chance, are you?) I mean, if I ever had to appear in court and stepped into the dock only to see myself sitting in the jury box, I’d be VERY afraid. (Not least because that would mean I’d somehow managed to split myself into two separate entities.) And actually, I can think of DOZENS of my peers who should never sit on a jury. (Peers who are reading this right now: I’m talking about my other peers, not you. You would be great on a jury! Hey, are you doing anything at the end of January?) DOZENS. And I bet they wouldn’t want me standing in judgment of them, either especially if they’re the type of people who play loud music from their cars, because I hate that. I’d convict them for that right away. Even if it wasn’t the reason they were in court…
So, yes, that was my morning: frittered away writing a three page letter and whining unattractively to Terry. Things did get better in the afternoon, though, when I went to the sales and bought shoes which I can’t really afford. At least I’ll be wearing nice shoes when I’m sent down for contempt of court…
* Note: not what he actually said
Hello! For Christmas I got 2,325 spam emails – lookit!
You?
As well as the spam emails, I got lots of lovely clothes, lots of lovely smelly things for the bath, and lots of lovely money – yay! I will now shock you all to the core by revealing that I am mostly planning to spend said money on lots of lovely makeup for my wedding, because that’s what happens when you’re shallow and also: ugly.
I ate way, way more than a human being should reasonably try to eat, drank a lot of bubbly (and also: cocktails), and, in short, a good time was had by all. Now I’m deleting the spam, playing with the new spam filter that was an emergency purchase as soon as we got home this afternoon, and preparing to have a bath with all my new bath things. Love you, Christmas!
Also: my dad and I stupidly neglected to co-ordinate our gift buying this year, which resulted in us both buying my mum the new Bill Bryson book. Guess who just unpacked her overnight bag (we’ve been staying with my parents since Christmas Eve) and discovered that she’d brought both copies home with her? (Clue: it was me) Sorry, mum. Looks like you won’t be getting to relax with a good book tonight after all. On the plus side, though, I will totally enjoy my relaxing bath!
Today? Sucks. Doesn’t today just suck? Oh, it probably doesn’t suck for you, of course! No, you are probably having a lovely half day, all filled with the spirit and joy of Christmas. Lucky you! I, on the other hand? Well, I reckon I have a good eight hours work still ahead of me, as I struggle feebly to find fashion-news type things to write about on this most un-fashion-newsy of days. Go me!
Christmas presents: bought and wrapped, THANK GOD
House: like a total tip, a TIP I tell you
Work: unfinished, and, indeed, unstarted
Mojo: well and truly lost
In happier news, I decided to cheer myself up a little bit by ordering some £12 shoes from the ASOS sale. This is them:
Aren’t they pretty? Say they are petty…
*There is no particular reason for this title. I have not been riding in cars with boys, although I have, in fact, been watching boys riding in cars: Go Karts, to be specific. Last night was the first of the Days of John that we have planned for Terry’s brother (who arrived in town on Sunday night with his girlfriend), and it involved Terry, John and a bunch of their friends racing around a Go Kart circuit until their arms hurt and they couldn’t walk no more. Terry won. He was given a small trophy which he has displayed in pride of place in our living room, and he has not stopped talking about it since. He is talking about it now, in fact…
Getting John to the Go Karting involved a huge amount of subterfuge, which is something Terry and I are not very good at. “Come round for cocktails, John!” we said, little realising that John would become super-enthusiastic at the prospect of said cocktails, and would go out and buy ingredients for them, so we had to give him cocktails anyway (after the racing, natch) and then we were drunk. No more days of John until the weekend now: Saturday is the day of the ill-fated helicopter ride, and on Sunday we’re taking him for lunch at The Witchery , which is a v. swanky restaurant frequented by the stars, and OMG WHAT WILL I WEAR? (Also: John, if you happen to read this: I am talking about another John altogether. Not you. *Whistles*)
Other than that, nothing has happened except I have totally lost my “mojo” and can’t be bothered working any more now. I’m working right up until Friday afternoon, and Lord, but this has been the longest week EVER. Just to add to the fun, we have become aware that we may be getting a “surprise” visit from Terry’s brother George this Christmas, which means that every second of every day I’m like a coiled spring expecting him to arrive and find me in my dressing gown with knickers drying on the radiators. I wish it could be Christmas every day…
… and there’s reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last…
Every December I make it my mission to quote the Counting Crows’ Long December at least once. Sometimes I quote it twice, and last year? At least three times – and not just because I was particularly bad at titling my blog posts last year, either (although that was also the case). Last December was a particularly long one, filled, as it was with “the smell of hospitals in winter/ and the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters with no pearls”. Last year, though, was also the first time that the hope expressed in that song (which I can now hardly listen to, by the way), actually came true. This year actually was better than the last, and it’s all because of the events of December 15th, 2005: T-Day.
Today is the one year anniversary of Terry’s transplant. It’s the three year anniversary of our engagement. It’s Terry’s Name Day, in Greece. (It’s also the day Dylan and Sky got engaged in Neighbours, but honestly? I don’t think that’s going to last, personally.). A big, important day, then. A T-Day, if you will. This time last year, Terry was still in theatre (that’s the operating theatre, by the way – he wasn’t treading the boards), and I was still sitting in the reception of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, staring at that scuffed bit on the toe of my boot and hoping I wouldn’t throw up. (Note to self: get boots fixed, because, seriously, Amber, that’s been a YEAR now already…) I think I said everything I need to say about this on the six month anniversary of T-Day, and, really, there’s only so many ways you can say “God, I’m glad that’s over with!” But I am. Very, very glad – and I’m glad, too, that, rather than being the year of hospital visits that I thought it would be, this year has actually been very much like “normal” life, resumed.
Happy T-Day, Terry. Don’t order the steak when I take you to dinner tonight to celebrate…
Tagged kidney transplant
Well, I’m pleased to announce that the Christmas shopping is complete. Is not wrapped, obviously, and is not NICE, but is at least complete, which is, I think, probably the best that we can hope for here. I’ve somehow managed to make a particularly bad job of Christmas this year, and have once again bought a selection of gifts that no one will want*. I mean, it’s probably not going to be quite as bad as that one time when my dad bought my mum a kitchen-roll holder** for her birthday, but, y’know, almost.
So, this morning Terry and I hit the shops, and I walked around in a panic, pulling things randomly off shelves and then paying for them. Oh well, I’m sure Terry’s brother will love the pale pink negligee. Maybe he could use it to clean his motorbike or something? And it’s the thought that counts, no? NO?
Other Bah-Humbugy things you don’t need to know about me but I am going to tell you anyway:
1. I never send Christmas cards
I used to send them when I was at school, and when I worked in an office, but now? Not so much. Why? Dunno, really. I think I just don’t see the point. Or no, actually, scratch that, I thought of a better one: it’s because I am very busy and important and I totally don’t have time to sit and write my name on dozens of bits of cards, just so that people can go, “Oh, that’s nice,” and throw it in the bin in a week’s time. Also: I am lazy. If any of the neighbours send us a card I will normally scrawl our names on one too, and sneak it through their door under cover of darkness, but that’s mainly so they don’t knock down my fence no more. So, sorry, people I don’t send Christmas cards to! It doesn’t mean I don’t love you! Please don’t hate me.
2. We don’t own a Christmas tree
Nope, no tree here, move along please. DON’T TELL TERRY’S MUM WE DON’T HAVE ONE or she will buy us one. Why don’t we have a tree? Er, because we have no where to put one? And because if we put one up we’d have to also take it back down, and we’re too lazy for that? Ooh, no, I know! It’s because we don’t normally spend Christmas at home. Have I redeemed myself yet? Even a little bit?
3. I still haven’t bought gift tags for our presents
Number of years I have been forgetting to buy gift tags: 3
Things I have been using instead: coloured paper, cut up Christmas cards. (See, we do buy Christmas cards, we just don’t use them. Other than as gift tags.)
4. I used to make excuses to get out of the office Christmas party***
Actually, I’ll go one better: I used to LEAVE THE COUNTRY at the time of the office Christmas party. The Canary Islands are really nice at that time of year, you know.
So, yes, awful, isn’t it? In my defence, I’m actually really looking forward to the holidays. LOVE Christmas. HATE the rest of December. Stupid month. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have about fifty gifts to wrap…
* Except Rubin, obviously. We managed to find a rather camp looking dog bed which he will LOVE, I know it.
** It was a pretty fancy-pants kitchen roll holder, though. Really, I don’t know what all the fuss was about?
*** Except the ones the call centre I worked weekends in held. Those were the BOMB. In fact, if it wasn’t for a certain office Christmas party, Terry and I might not be together now!
Tagged christmas
So, had me a couple of days off. I’ve been ill, folks: ill with a horrible fluey thing that would take me in its grips, back off just enough to make me think I was OK, and then descend upon me once more. Gah. Because I am a hypochondriac, this has made for a pretty hellish time of it.
During my darkest moments, I tried to self-medicate with a pile of trashy chick-lit (and yes, OK, children’s books. Nothing like the Famous Five to make you feel better when you’re low. Amber’s top tip of the day.) designed to take my mind off my imminent death. What happened, though? Well, instead of the usual “girl meets boy/boy is BAD/girl meets other boy who is nice” plotlines, I somehow managed to choose, not one, but TWO books in which major characters developed brain tumours. As this is one of the hypochondriac’s most feared situations, and as I, myself, had a bit of a headache at the time, this wasn’t exactly the best reading matter I could have picked, and, you know, it really didn’t cheer me up AT ALL. The third book I read? Had a character who died of leukemia. No more books for me, then.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this (i.e. on Saturday, while the plague was still in its earliest stages), I had another wedding dress fitting, and this one, you will no doubt be pleased to know, did not leave me in tears. It’s always a good thing when your seamstress doesn’t insult your wedding dress too much during a fitting, I find, so this was the one good thing to come out of the weekend. The dress now fits me at the waist, but not in the length, so I’ll be back in January for more fun and games, in which I get to walk around in my underwear in front of someone I’ve met twice. What a great way to start the new year, no?
During the time I’ve been on my sickbed, and even although it’s December and therefore people should be too busy preparing for Santa to even think about commissioning tedious writing projects, my clients all chose this week to ask me for things. Difficult things. Time-consuming things. WHY? Why did they think, “Hey, the week before Christmas will be the best possible time to start a marketing campaign/revamp my website/start a new website?” Why can’t they just slob out and eat eat chocolate, like everyone else?
This additional workload, plus the fact that I’m now seriously behind with the existing workload, means that although I’m now back on my feet, I’ll probably soon be off them as the pressure of catching up with the backlog, plus simultaneously spending all my money on Christmas presents, catches up with me. Merry Christmas, one and all!
Other than that, I’ve been mostly lolling around on my bed like a rag doll for the past few days. You?
I don’t think I’ve ever told you about our International Man of Mystery Next Door, so I’ll tell you about him now. Lucky, lucky you! So, yes, we have an International Man of Mystery Next Door. We call him Nigel, because, well, that’s his name, and it’s a good name for Man of Mystery, don’t you think? The “next door” part of his title is actually a bit of a misnomer, though, because although Nigel owns the house next door to us, he doesn’t actually live there – hence the mystery. Actually, we haven’t seen Nigel for, ooooh, about eight months now. Maybe he is dead and bricked up inside the wall?
In that time, the house has remained empty, the grass has grown to shoulder height, the neighbourhood kids have had a fine old time “exploring” and I have entertained fantasies in which Terry and I knock through the wall between our houses, and make ourselves a four bedroom detached home for the price of our two bedroom semi. Seriously, no one would ever know, least of all Nigel, because Nigel? Is missing. He used to come to the house every few months, always arriving under cover of darkness, and leaving a few minutes later. Now Nigel doesn’t come to the house no more, but men who look like they’re maybe from the underworld come asking for him from time to time, and once time? The police came.
“Do you know where he is?” they asked Terry. “No, said Terry, “I don’t, sorry.” “Don’t you worry son,” said the police man. “We’ll find him all right.” They actually said “son”. They actually said, “We’ll find him,” as if we were all in a daytime soap and Nigel was On The Run. It was brilliant. Since then, though? Nothing. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, and I’ve just realised that you’re probably thinking I was building up to some dramatic revelation like, “Then this morning Rubin went out for a pee and totally dug up Nigel’s body!” or something, but I’m not. Sorry.
Why was I telling you this, again? Oh yes, the fence! The brown picket fence! Do you think it would be an overreaction for me to go round knocking on people’s doors, looking grim-faced and asking if they have themselves an alibi?
This morning, while cruising the web for fashiony things to write about, I stumbled across this, and you know, for a moment there. when I read the headline? I totally thought it was about me:
"Why, someone has clearly accused me of being a dumb model!" I thought. "And I? I have refuted that claim! Without even knowing I was doing it! Cooool." But, yeah, then I noticed that it wasn’t me at all. Damn. Still, for those of you that were wondering: I am no dumb model either, no way.
(This totally counts as an update, right?)
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