NS September 30th, 2007

The past week has been very hard on me, physically. I’ve been lugging boxes, scrubbing various surfaces, reaching for high shelves, stripping wallpaper, sanding and filling walls and making numerous trips to Homebase. I’m usually on my feet for the majority of the time I am awake, only sitting down to eat or grab a few minutes online. I also went horse-back riding yesterday for the first time in about five years, for an hour-long hack through Richmond Park. The ride started at 8am so I had to be up at 6, before the sun had even come up. I didn’t get to bed until 12.30 the following morning. Every night, when I collapse into bed, I feel more tired than I did the previous day and feel as if the work will never end.

Moving is hard.

As you can imagine, my muscles are very sore. From my neck down through my sanding-weary arms, through my inner thighs down to my calves, and throughout my entire back, I ache.  I’m covered in bruises, scratches and paint chips. My hair is matted, I haven’t worn makeup in days and I’m fishing odd socks out of random boxes every day and getting dressed in the spare room because I still don’t have a blind or curtain up in my room.

Moving is ugly.

I want to curl up and be done with it, but we still have a way to go. Sigh. Don’t get me wrong, I love our new house. But right now? Being a homeowner sucks.

• Home and Hearth , I Bitch Therefore I Am
• Comments(2)

NS September 24th, 2007

We bought a house on Friday. I was handed the keys at 4.04pm, put the key in the door at 5.25pm and am now officially, truly, indisputably a homeowner. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what have I done? I have a mortgage now. I have a garden, with a shed. I have flower beds. I have a loft (attic). I have stairs. I have two working fireplaces. I also now have twenty million keys. Here’s the proof.

Friday, 4.03pm. Key ownership: 1

Friday, 4.04pm. Key ownership: 20,900,202

I spent Saturday giving the place a once-over with a sponge and spray bottle of diluted bleach while Noble Husband and his father collected the van we hired to move all of our shit and loaded it up with said shit. I helped unload it then the guys went off to get a sofa and armchair from an ad we saw on Gumtree (the UK equivalent of Craig’s List) while I raced back to the in-laws’ house to look after the kiddo, whom my mother-in-law had been looking after.

The next day was spent packing up the van with the rest of our stuff and then dropping it off at the new house, returning the van and then taking the car to Ikea to purchase some god-awful flat packed furniture from the world’s favourite Swedish retailer. I was an Ikea virgin so was not fully prepared for the horror that is the Ikea Experience. The endless search for a parking space, the throngs of dirty, sweaty bargain shoppers, the vastness of the store, the idiocy of the staff, the queues for the rather unappetising-looking food, the wonky trolleys, the ‘out of stock’ signs on half of the items we wanted…I wanted to tie a venetian blind around my neck and jump from the nearest Sveltka bedroom set within two minutes of entering this hell hole.

I marched through there with pursed lips, determined to be the first person to ever get through Ikea, unscathed and without eating any of the food, within 1.5 hours. We made it by the skin of our teeth, thanks to my military-like shopping precision and no-nonsense attitude. The card says they’re out of stock? Screw it, we’ll have it delivered. No, we are not going to see what else is here that we might like. If it’s not on the pre-approved list, don’t go near it or you will get sucked into the Ikea vortex, which is stronger than any force known to bargain-mad mankind. It’s a known fact that if you spend too much time in that store that you start asking the fruit sellers at the market if the apples and oranges come with assembly instructions and your brain begins to bleed out of your ears and you start looking at Volvos with a glint of lust in your eye.

I may never be able to listen to Abba again.

• Home and Hearth
• Comments(11)

NS September 20th, 2007

We all know that there are legions of misogynists in this world: men who want women to cover up but then take it all off; be their whores in the bedroom but saints in the kitchen; bear and raise their children but then take away the necessary tools for them to do so; have a successful career but not earn more than them or neglect domestic duties; and keep themselves in perfect physical condition but not exert too much time, energy or money doing so.

The double standards are astounding.

That these men (especially ones who claim to be modern and liberal) can’t see how frustrating, fruitless and fucking sexist their demands on women are is irritating, certainly. But what really bothers me, more than ignorant comments like Bill Maher’s about breastfeeding in public being akin to masturbation (skip to 3 minutes from the end), are the women who subscribe to these beliefs as well. Every time I open a paper or read a news story online and get outraged by how sexist and hateful it is, it is often a woman who has written it. And even if the author wasn’t a woman, or if the story was positive about some issue relating to women, the ireful comments and letters to the editor often come from other women, other mothers, who you’d think would be a bit more sympathetic.

The amount of times I’ve read an article on breastfeeding in public and women have replied saying things like “Well, I breastfed but I always did it in the privacy of my home or in the bathroom at a restaurant. Men love breasts and think of them sexually so why taunt them?” makes me want to scream. Do they not see the stupidity and sexism in that statement? Do they really think that sitting in a dirty, nasty public toilet, feeling propelled to be hidden away from view while doing something so natural, innocent and inherently female so as not to upset the menfolk and tutting prudes is not in the least bit wrong? It makes me want to tear my hair out.

It’s not silly ignoramuses like Bill Maher who upset me though (mainly because I don’t expect that much from him anyway, I guess), it’s the people who have been brainwashed into being ashamed of their own anatomy that piss me off the most. These are most likely the same women who buy douche and ‘feminine sprays’ to get rid of that not-so-fresh feeling and who refuse to receive oral sex because “it’s gross.” They are also the ladies who lambaste young rape victims for dressing provocatively, teenage mothers for spreading their legs and mothers who struggle to cope with their children as pathetic. Rarely are the men in these scenarios mentioned and the blame is placed squarely on the female’s shoulders.

I have no doubt that it is this same group of self-haters who are the ones demonising Kate McCann in the press for dressing too stylishly, smiling occasionally and generally not being the archetypal grieving, manic mother sobbing into the microphone as she clutches a hankie and her husband’s arm. The thinly veiled attempts at boosting their own self-esteems through insults and vitriolic comments are faintly humourous in their transparency, if nothing else. Every time Britney gains a few pounds or someone at their office puts in long hours while the kids go to daycare, they can feel better about themselves because they would never do that. It’s almost comical to see the wheels of indignation turning in their little heads as they construct a defense against the women who dare challenge the status quo.
Put down the douche, ladies. Your vagina does not need a mint. What you need is the ability to empathise with other women and recognise that just because things have been done a certain way for a set period of time does not mean that those who want equality and harmony are attention-seeking. Don’t we have enough battles to fight without turning on each other?

• Feminist Fury , I Bitch Therefore I Am
• Comments(4)

NS September 17th, 2007

So I went out and bought 15 magazines yesterday, as part of my market research. Studying demographics, types of articles and the masthead to see which sections are written by staff and which are written by freelancers. I love that taking three carrier bags full of glossies to Starbucks and having two cups of coffee in as many hours while flicking page after page was ‘working’. I could get used to this.

I’ve even saved the receipt in case, one day, I can write it off as a business expense. I also hope to write this fabulous desk chair off to expenses, as part of my home office setup. If you think it doesn’t look particularly special or comfortable, you would be wrong. Wronger than wrong. The wrongest. It’s simple and comfortable and the frame allows for a bit of bounce (I like to fidget when I’m thinking) but not so much that it would hurt my back or be annoying. I hate those leather chairs on wheels but I also hate rigid-backed wooden chairs or folding chairs because they’re just not comfy when one’ is going to be sitting on it for hours at a time, day in and day out.

My husband might think I’m crazy for spending over a hundred quid on a chair but my ass will thank me some day. Hell, it’s getting big enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if it had developed enough verbal skills and a cognitive brain that it managed to send me a thank you card in the post. Perhaps it would read: “Dear Person Who Feeds Me Kit-Kats And Buys Me Comfortable Chairs — thank you. You have provided extra padding for my comfort as of late and I truly appreciate it. All of my other ass friends are jealous, particularly the ones attached to Kate Moss and Nicole Ritchie. All the best, Your Fat Ass.

• Banal Breakdown , Career
• Comments(3)

NS September 13th, 2007

I’ve officially stopped writing for Londonist now. As much as that saddens me, it’s actually a positive thing. It was a fantastic experience and I met a lot of cool, talented people, but it was time to move on. I have to focus my energies and creativity on paid work now. Still, it’s the end of an era for me and I will sorely miss it. If you live in London, you really should subscribe to the site, it’s an essential if you want to know what’s going on in the capital. Huge thanks to my editors, Matt and Hazel, for giving me the chance and opening my eyes to new opportunities.

I spent today going through my massive 2008 Writer’s Market book (thank you, Jen!), inking crooked stars next to the names of publications I would like to or think I could write for. I filled two A5 pages with an A-Z list and now just have to match up my story ideas with the magazines and start sending queries. It’s all very nerve wracking but it’s mainly exciting. I am really doing this. I am officially launching a freelance journalism career.

Wow. I never thought I’d say that. It’s been my dream since I was about 12, to write, and here I am doing it every day (nearly) and loving it and possibly soon getting paid for it. It still astounds me. I don’t want to think about what a blabbering, over-enthused mess I will be when I sell my first big story.

I’ve already started buying stock in waterproof mascara.

• Career
• Comments(3)