The Wedding: in my head

Aching to work in the West Wing

We spent this morning tucked up in bed, eating sausage sandwiches, watching this.

Two teeny tiny observations:

1. Check out Rahm's body language when he's interviewed in his office - he hates it so much he's practically falling sideways out of his chair.

2. I love Barry to a degree that borders on the unhealthy so criticism of him doesn't come easy BUT please, Mr President, could you start wearing a seatbelt when you go out to get burgers. What's the point of your big, fancy car being bullet proof and all that jazz if you don't? Just sayin'...

(Image: Antoine Sanfuentes/NBC News, via I heart you)

Found: front door

So The Boy and I decided to take a Saturday night constitutional  to pick up some fresh naan to go with dinner. Large parts of the stroll were taken up with admiration of front doors far superior to ours, dreaming of a day when we could afford to replace the foulio-ness our flat calls a door (I told you: this is a blog about what happens after the wedding. Much as I'd love to say we spend our free time swinging from chandeliers and discussing the metaphysicals, naan breads and doors is how we roll).

Anyway, rounding the corner about two streets from home, what should we find, but a door.

We found a door! In pretty good nick, being given away, propped sideways against someone's front fence. It even had the keys poking out of the lock.

And so came the dilemma. The thing was clearly a give away, but etiquette, surely, would say knock and check first. NO WAY, said The Boy. Too embarrassing. Can't do it. Let's wait for it to get dark and come back with the car. NO WAY, I said. What if they see - it'll be mortifying. 

So we waited for it to get dark and came back with the car. Back seat down, ready for our quick getaway.

'Cept we hadn't bargained on how huge doors really are. The effing boot wouldn't close. 'DRIVE SLOW', said The Boy, pulling it down as far it would go.' It's illegal to drive with the boot open,' (he's so law abiding, bless him). But at every pot hole, every corner, every speed bump, the bloody thing flew open and the poor Boy had to leap out, part-close it, then jump back in. After a while he gave up and ran along behind me, holding it down.

So now we have a new front door (well, it's lying in our hallway waiting to be resized, furnished and hung)...and I feel like it's stolen. Every time I look at it I feel a bit sick. Oh how I wish we'd knocked.

Now the argument's moved to paint finishes.

I say blue.

He says black.

What say you?

(Image via: Katy Elliott)

That Friday feeling

Life affirmed?

Thought so.  

Have a soul stirring one.

(via First Milk)

Dreaming of cake

I spent most of today trapped in a fug of life envy. A cafe, a book, a glowing review in OFM, and now I discover a heartily lovable blog too. Is there anything Rosie's done I'd not love to do? My day spent chasing up news on charity moustache growing contests really didn't cut it. So now I hate myself: for under achieving AND being a jealous bitch.

Ho, sigh, hum.

I'm off to watch the Jennifer Aniston E Special and eat marmite on toast. 

Wait: Rosie's probably already done that, too.

My Mistress's Sparrow is... nearly dead

I'm doing that thing where you eek out the last 100 or so pages of a book. I so don't want this book to end, but I've been reading it since our honeymoon which I guess is long enough (I know, I know but when you're a self-employed writer, reading for pleasure takes a tragic tumble down the priority list).

Anyway, I had to share because it's been an utter delight. I've never been a short story fan - ever. Till now. 

It's also reaffirmed my love of the hardback. 

My three fave discoveries, courtesy of Mr Euginedes, are Miranda July, Lorrie Moore and David Bezmozgis.

I'm off to investigate more by them.

Thanks Jeffrey... and to The Boy. You pick the bestest reads for me. 

Both of you.

Walter and Farouk

We watched The Visitor last night...

... and we both loved it.

Took me till this morning to figure out where I recognised Richard Jenkins from (god, I miss Six Feet, don't you?). I'm now obsessively researching  what happens when you're deported (basic gist: bad stuff) and working out whether deportees are ever likely to try and risk it again (please god, let them).

Farouk? I didn't like the name Tariq so I changed it to Farouk. Don't you ever do that?

Loving the name Walter though.