A Proper Conversation

I've been under the weather for two days and since Steven's been at work, have been in a very, very quiet place for a full 36 hours.  It's been very nice.  

I'm so tired.  This job is more than I thought it would be and though I can't say I don't enjoy it, it's absolutely exhausting.  Getting up at five is hard, but getting home, perhaps not consequently, but subsequently for certain, at 6 or 7 is just hard.  

I found this and thought, unfortunately, it describes me.  

You’re always in a rush, or else you’re too exhausted 

to have a proper conversation. 

Soon enough, the long hours, the traveling, the 

broken sleep have all crept into your being and 

become part of you, so everyone can see it, in your 

posture, your gaze, the way you move and talk.

Quote was written by Kazuo Ishiguro in Never Let Me Go, 

courtesy of That Kind of Woman

So much so that I plan the weekends on the way into work on a Monday, thinking about the way I can spend Saturday in the city watching the seasons change into a brisk, chilly version of London, or how I have to spend Sunday walking down the isles of the supermarket, falling ever more so out of love with food shopping.  Though it saddens me to wish the days away, the weeks away, the terms away, it is what the prevailing thoughts have become.  

I've finally spent some time listening to Justin Vernor's newest band project, Volcano Choir.  I'm absolutely loving the serenity and quiet of Alaskans.  I just imagine him up in Alaska, quietly observing inhabitants, smoking, wearing a baseball cap, drinking freezing cold beer from a can.  There's something so liberating about a life of making music, isn't there?  Gosh, I wish I could do it. 

Steven and I are hosting Thanksgiving dinner here this weekend.  We got a beautiful new table to seat everyone (the adults anyway) and I'm really excited (even in my headachy state) to put on the first dinner party in what seems a hundred years. Better rest up.

Snowstorms in September

Image via Love in a Disaster Zone

Those are some fly shoes!

I had the most delightful afternoon and evening with Kathleen yesterday.  We met up at Starbucks, have both adapted to autumn in England, as we both were drinking Chai Tea Lattes, and caught up for a bit.  

From there, we wandered down King's Road, where I've never really been before, save that dinner at the crab shack last January, and had some grub at the Sloane Street Food Market.  The Whole Foods-like store called Partridges sponsors the event, as Kat told me, and vendors sell all sorts of amazing things (like the raspberry tart I spilled on one of my student's classwork books.  Oops).  We opted (perhaps naturally and typically) for the burger: great choice.  

Afterwards, we did some shopping, I picked up these babies (which totally are two different colours, I can see it now)

for only £24.  Steal. 

We ended the night with quite an interesting conversation over ciders at the Nag's Head Pub in Belgravia (where Laura and I went in April).  It was a lively little place on a Saturday night, quite fitting for how happy we were to see one another.

A lively train ride home (drunken man talking to himself, spilling beer all over the place) and it was off to bed (by about 11) for me.  I'm a party animal, I tell you.  Just look at those shoes!

I'm planning for next week now, ensuring that I'm ready to be observed by all in the department.  I'm SO nervous for this, I can't tell you, but hey, this is part of the job.  Can I pull it off?  I sure do hope so.

I hope you're having an outstanding (note the lingo, in the hopes it applies to me this week!) weekend, filled with friends and reconnecting, resting, and enjoying your time off.  xx

Open Concept Kitchen

Image courtesy of If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door

I have three Big Tasks to get done today (I don't like that running is now considered "a task" instead of "an outlet") and I'd rather just blog and watch re-runs of Sex and the City.  Such is life.  

Today marks a year since Steven and my first date, so I'm cooking Gordon Ramsay's Shepherd's Pie for dinner.  I better get those Tasks out of the way so there's plenty of time for celebration.

Happy Sunday, everyone xxx

Strange Ballerina

Awesome gif courtesy of Ethel and Bev 

Sweet baby Jesus, this made me smile.

I hope everyone's back to school week was a success.  It's party time over there in Brighton...I'm liking this new gig.

What a coat rack!

Amazing image courtesy of fctory.tumblr.com

Remnants from the cottage...

I think in a previous life I was a gangster, hence my holding up gang signs all over the place.  Alas, here we are, living the life up in Parry Sound.  Ahhh...twas a great summer.

xxx

Remnants from the game...

Mark was kind enough to send me these pictures he'd taken at the Jays' game this summer.  Brings back lovely memories.  So, on this eve of the return to work, we're celebrating friends and good times.  Roll on back-to-school!

Digging

It's challenging to break away from the things you know, to take a chance and dig into something that may not be novel only to you, but also to your family and peers.  Seamus Heaney passed away this week, a noted Irish poet, and in the spirit of appreciating the Emerald Isle, here's a poem that beautifully illustrates the beauty and delicacy of working with one's hands and the unabashed celebration of doing what you were made to do, even if it doesn't really fit.

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Poem courtesy of Poetry Foundation

Perfect little spaces

Perfect coffee and music station

Image courtesy of Wit + Delight

Perfect, romantic bedroom

Image courtesy of Murray Mitchell


Perfect open, white dining room

Image courtesy of Wit + Delight