Jubilee Frenzee

Fig. 1

It was the Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate's birthday recently. Off galavanting in Dusseldorf, I could not be there, so I've been trying to make up for it with the provision of treats. 

Happily, this doubles as an opportunity to cram the Pad with Jubilee baubles. I've been cultivating a bit of a habit. This means that if I see something with the Queen's face or a Union Jack on, or (even better) some combination of the two, I buy it. Anyone in the UK at the moment will recognise that, with three weeks until Flotilla Day, this could lead to personal financial catastrophe. Shops are rammed with the stuff.

Fig. 2

And it started so well. Union Jack-flavoured Body Wash [Fig. 2] and Jubilee Marmite [Fig. 3] are - I'm sure you'll agree - perfectly useful items. Not to mention that there's a recession on: it's our duty to spend ourselves to safety. But how much shortbread can a small household of two realistically consume? Even if it does come in a tin with Grenadier Guards [Fig. 1] emblazoned upon it.


BOF, as you might expect, is very much on board with the flag-fest. He's spent the past three weeks trying to instigate compulsory bunting on his desk at work, to no avail. It's almost as if his colleagues are becoming hostile to the whole event.


Such domestic support makes my themed oniomania even harder to restrain. It's also vicarious. We don't need to actually own the tat to take pleasure in it. Much better to force it on other people.

Fig. 3

It goes like this:

BOF: Do you know I saw the most amazing Union Jack luggage the other day.

KITC: You should probably get it.

BOF: Yes! No. I'm saving for school fees.

KITC: (downcast) OK.

BOF: Is there anyone we know with a birthday coming up?

KITC: No.

BOF: My mum could probably do with some more Union Jack crockery - let's get that.

KITC: And we'll need another Grenadier Guard tin to put it in. 

BOF: Good thinking.

It was as I found myself, all Jubilee-Special-Carrie-Mathison, being gently removed from the picnic section in Waitrose by a concerned BOF, grasping for 'Royal' Moet as I passed, that I realised it's becoming a problem. There is just not enough money in the world or space in the Pad for this.

But then - it'll all be over in 22 days. Bring on the bunting.

BOF and the Most Efficient Holiday

Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate had a week off recently. He used it wisely, as a springboard for money-saving initiatives. I'm not sure if this is normal. Back at university, whole weeks could slip by without the achievement of a single task. Now that we're grownups, every hour not spent in useful activity is an hour wasted. 

Case in point: last year, my friend Sam (Surprisingly A Mother) had a baby. On the first day of maternity leave from her cut-throat shiny-happy job, she tweeted: 'So much free time! What shall I do with myself?'

Being green is sexy

Oh Sam. How can this be? Was it so long ago that we were students applauding ourselves each time we produced a sentence? We spent whole weeks in Topshop; hours on Facebook; days walking to and from the library in a nonchalant fashion. Not to mention all that time playing quiz machine. The very act of tweeting bespeaks an unhealthily efficient attitude to social media. 

To return to BOF, now investigating insulation. The first step was the acquisition of meters. As I understand it, the council provides such things for free on request. Apparently, our saving on electricity may amount to almost a whole pound per month. The downside is that the cold water no longer runs. How very green.

But Project Efficiency did not end here. Next came the world's most thorough washing-up episode. Pans, spoons, unused tea-pots: nothing was forgotten. It was great. BOF even took the thin vases in hand (fret not money-saving mavens, the retail orgy* that produced them took place in IKEA). They are impossible to clean: but he did have a good go at getting a sponge stuck inside one with a wooden spoon.

I should take some responsibility for the money-saving madness. I performed a devious act a few weeks back. I discovered the bargain that is Sainsbury's own brand tea. 

'Bring back the PG' begs BOF

27p! Eighty tea bags! Surely they couldn't be twelve times worse than your average PG Tip? 

They are. The tangy taste of dust puts a real downer on your day. What I want to do is bin them. But we've renounced waste, so we muscle through. 


BOF thinks I haven't noticed that he has been surreptitiously buying new tea and adding it to the top of the 27p box. One day, we will stumble across our Basics Tea again, decomposed to compost at the bottom of the cupboard, a small tea tree growing from it. 

We shall use it for a window box! The greenest of city activities. Equilibrium restored.

*That will play havoc with my keyword search. I've already had 'horny cockroach' bring someone to the Kate in the Countryside homepage this week. What a disappointment that must have been.

Pimlico Social Scene

Much as we worry that Pimlico is the new Clapham, Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate and I are still overexcited each time we learn of a new local university chum. Boris-Biking back from Tesco the other day (we're branching out from Sains), I nearly ran over an old friend crossing the road. 

'Whoopsy!' I cried (too jovially) - 'Gosh good to see you, old chap! It's like Cambridge all over again isn't it?' Passing youths eyed me pityingly until I, embarrassed, veered into the path of an oncoming zimmerframe. Not an edifying sight.

Another burger? Anyone?

One great thing about the influx of old university friends is that the Pimlico Social Scene is expanding into an (almost) real scene. When sunshine broke through the other day, we were summoned to an optimistic barbecue down the road. It wasn't long until the barbecue plans were canned - occasional bursts of smoke have no impact on raw burgers - but happily the meat feast continued in the kitchen. There, the quantities consumed would have made Henry VIII feel a bit awkward.

Yum

One of the girls (a hottie from Netball Crew no less) had brought 'Banana Ketchup' back from her hols. She enthused about it until people dared try it. Some were kind ('just the sort of thing I bet would taste perfect on a sunny beach'); some less so ('It looks like snot').


Holiday ketchup soon came in useful later however. Then, rendered incapacitated by meat we could only slob about flicking it at one another. 

'Let's play charades!' suggested one inexplicably lively [perhaps vegetarian?] member of the group.


I wasn't too enthused by this plan - I hate games I never win - but it soon fell out of favour. The table was held hostage to something else...

'I have a fact,' Bilbo (one of our hosts) proclaimed. 'I shall tell it. Ahem. More than ten people a year are killed by vending machines.'

There was a silence, which Bilbo took for approval.

'Also - wait for it - the world's oldest piece of chewing gum is over 9000 years old!'


Few could have guessed that the dissemination of choice facts would prove so contentious. Suddenly others were fighting for the floor. Avid Tweeting Medic (ATM) spoke first: 'I've got one! I've got one it's: Seven lions are ... no wait - that's wrong. Seven tigers are... Hang on.'

ATM's girlfriend tried helpfully to cover the hiatus: 'I've got one!'
ATM: 'No you don't.'
'Yes I do.'
'No you don't.' By this point he had discreetly found randomfactgenerator.net on his iPhone under the table. 'HA! Right - I've got one: The average female IQ is marginally higher than the male IQ.' 


Pause. 


'That's not a very good fact!' observed Bilbo delightedly. 'An American urologist once bought Napoleon's penis for $40,000.'


'I've got a fact about Banana Ketchup!' ventured another. And the evening descended into chaos.

Now this may come as a surprise to you...

New Pimlico Residents

There is nothing of note happening in the world apart from the Snow. So that is what this week's Kate in the Countryside is about. No punchline, no fictional dog adoption - just snowy struggles from the incapacitated capital. 


Everyone knows that the London Underground doesn't run in the snow. So as I clambered through the blizzard to a birthday party in Borough last night, full taxis passed with gay abandon. Snow can make a mockery of even the most sensible of heeled boots, so my ability to walk had taken a hit. At last an empty taxi advances into view, its light gleeful in the dark. I flag it down. 

'Hello! Bermondsey Square please?' 

'I'm not taking you to Bermondsey Square love! It's only a few yards down that way.'

I should have argued, I know that now.  His was the only empty cab for miles around. I was lost half a mile from my goal and didn't even know it. But I was weakened by snow.

'OK, thanks! Great! Thanks for your help!' The window closed before I reached 'thanks'. Who needs snow in their cab anyway?

I strode on, sustained by thoughts of snowball fights and hot drinks and cursing my lack of iPhone map. Moments from my destination, I fell splat against a bin. I almost managed to laugh.

Bonus seat padding

The morning brought another travelling conundrum. This I resourcefully solved by Boris Bike. Cycling through slush and cliché from Vauxhall to Pimlico, I was so excited by the charm of the moment that I found myself waving to complete strangers. 


Boris has obligingly stationed a bike rack right outside the front door of the Pad. So smug was my face as I replaced the bike, I almost expected someone to pelt me with snow. Mr Shop in the corner shop downstairs is not happy with the new bikes - 'What are they for anyway? Who uses them? Tourists! They'll just get themselves killed' - but Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate and I are delighted. Frankly, what could be more fun than riding without a helmet over black ice on a clunky bike that - let's face it - can't really change direction?

I raced in through the front door to share the story of my biking triumph with BOF. The Pad is a winter wonderland. The Christmas lights are still up - snow makes them less festively needy, we reason. There is also an ailing poinsettia on the windowsill, which BOF bought in a fit of festive enthusiasm. It commenced dying barely had it left Sains, but now that we're ready for it to die, it is thrusting back to life.

Outside in Pimlico the snow clears. And the deer go home.

Bofles and the Pad

And then young Bofles came to stay. Now, the arrival of any Pad guest is always cause for excitement. When he is the sofa-inhabiting, university-attending younger brother of my Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate himself, the enthusiasm reaches fever pitch. In anticipation, BOF bought the whole of Big Sains' fruit and veg section and plotted extravagant breakfasts to feed up young (six foot) Bofles. Then lights out at nine every night the week before and we were ready.

Bofles is a tremendous house guest. He maintained that the sofa was comfy: 'Oh thanks Kate, it's just the right size - no really! Ideal!' and had politely managed to secure work experience at a firm two minutes walk away. Though he was disappointed not to have the opportunity for a truly working-world commute. 

Last night, I arrived home just before midnight, after a friend's gig in Putney, to the sight of a coat fleeing down the corridor. 

'BOF?' I asked, confused. 

No answer. 

'Bofles? Hello?' Bofles' head poked out from the sitting room. 

'Ah hello Kate. Thank God you're here: I'm looking for my coat. Need someone to help me find it.'

'Your coat?'

'Yes. This is getting ridiculous! Nowhere to be seen. Have you been stealing it??'

(He is wearing it.)

'You're wearing it.'

'aHA!' Delight. Flees the room.

Bofles: let's see these shoes then

BOF appears at the sound of clattering. He is wearing new shoes.

'Oh hello Kate. Chaps - have you seen my new shoes?'

Distracted, Bofles straightens up from the mire of duvet and sheet he's wrestling.

'Shoes?'

'Yes. Look - they're new!'

'Hang on.' Bofles bends double to better assess the shoes. A pause. He sways.

'I'm terribly sorry, BOF, I can't seem to see them.'

We exchange confused looks and start giggling.
'Are you OK Bofles?'
In full drunken flight, Bofles' sentences collide and become oddly stunted. He's mad keen for us to leave but has a lot to say and can't reconcile these two things: 'Of course. Absolutely much fine. Been out at a birthday party - lovely time. Look here it's late, should really be in bed. Not very responsible. Being up this time.'

We continue to giggle, more and more like parents being embarrassing about drinking. Desperate to prove we aren't square, we start competing in stories about our own drunken exploits.

Unbreakable. The very thing

Bofles (in sudden realisation): 'Are you laughing at me? [Hurt] You are!'
BOF (conciliatory): 'What can I get you Bofles? Toast? Satsuma? Bagel? Er - apple? Water? [Holds out glass, which Bofles flails at.] Water in shatterproof mug?'

Suddenly and politely furious, Bofles leaps from the sofa ['It's true it is too small!'] and flees to the bathroom to vom.

We look at each other. Lairy behaviour in the Pad is this? At last! We must have him over again soon.

So this is January

Resolutions are the latest Pad fad. As January Fever sweeps the nation and its trendsetters, my Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate - though peppering discussions with resolution chat - remains curiously resolution-free. But then, 2011 was a big year of resolve for BOF. He deserves a year off. And frankly he doesn't need any more resolution-based knowledge. Everyone knows that all New Year's Resolutions are useful for is making conversation in January. Come February, the idea of resolve is long gone. No one cares.

In fact, BOF is the only person I know whose resolutions have ever succeeded. Last year he gave up smoking. Fully. It was such a success that it's almost an anti-climax: he now has to begin sentences with the phrase 'As a non-smoker...' and 'The other day when I was not smoking,' to remind others of his achievement. I think there have also been other resolutions involving sports, which might explain the Bikram addiction - though I'm not sure it justifies it.

My own resolutions are not so strenuous. The first was To Give Up Swearing. Now, this may be hard for readers of a child-friendly blog like Kate in the Countryside to believe, but in real life I am a bit of a potty-mouth. Old ladies faint. Rebellious teenagers give me looks on the Tube that say 'Blimey, that's a bit much'. 

KITC?

I'd like to take a moment here to blame my parents. Ever since I first learnt those words that have no place in a blog with its sights on Radio 4 serialisation, any approach towards swearing was met by Daddy Mason and Mother Dearest with horror:

KITC (drops pan): Oh balls.

DM (gasps): Kate Mason!

And so forth.

Anyway, the upshot of this has been that any opportunity to showcase the hilarious aptness and virile fortitude of a swearword, I seize with glee. This is true in workplace, street or Pad. BOF finds me offensive, a fact I find faintly amusing. His pained look makes me feel as though I'm home with the Rents.

So when I announced my plan to give up swearing this year he was supportive and - er - belligerently optimistic. For my failure I have only myself to blame. The enthusiasm with which I discuss swearing (two weeks into January) may have implied that I am not as committed as I'd hoped. And yes, on the second day - blessed relief - I dropped the S-bomb.

Over supper last night I explain to BOF the necessity of trimming the limits of my ambition so that I come up with an achievable and self-improving resolution, but BOF The Resolution Inquisitor is not in agreement.

'No!' he pronounces, with manic fervour, 'Kate! You have to give up completely! That's how it works. Or it's a slippery slope. [Here he charades 'slippery'] NO HALF MEASURES. None! Impossible! No "Oh I'll just have one cigarette now - that'll be nice I don't really need one": next thing you know you've smoked four packs and eaten a cigar.' Breathing deeply he finally puts his knife down. Verdi's Requiem starts inexplicably playing in the background.

So we're going for one swear a day. Don't want to overtax myself.

The Hunt for the Christmas Tree

To keep the festive spirit going strong into the new year (and Christmas Tree Death Day), Kate in the Countryside brings you a happy tale of Christmas Tree hunting in urban sprawl. 

BOF and I have been excited about acquiring our tree since last Christmas. Back then, pre-Pad, it seemed a little bold to acquire a festive shrub when we had nowhere to house it. So I spent my time wandering the snowy streets of London gazing jealously at window dressing to a soundtrack of James Blunt through frostbitten homeless ears.

This year all has changed. Firstly, no snow. Secondly, I am housed. Thirdly, I am in the process of becoming a grown up. Symptoms of this include (but are not limited to): negotiating rent with landlord; fixing internet so it no longer dies every time BOF and I youtube a song; wrapping presents in advance of Christmas day. And achieving The Christmas Tree before Christmas.

Friendly Giant
looked nothing like this

So, on the day allotted Tree Day, defying torrential rain, BOF and I met to hunt a Tree. This could not wait. Never mind that, post walk from work, I was already as drowned as a rat at swimming class. On the Titanic.

Rousing ourselves with carols, we scurried to Battersea Park to find (thanks Twitter) a charmingly ramshackle tree operation in the car park. Staffed by two men in kilts, one of whom was jumper-less and giant, the shop looked like an example of amateur entrepreneurship from a worthy Battersea resident. The tree chaperone was more rained on than I, this Friendly Giant, and looked positively gleeful. Only a true tree enthusiast could muster that much cheer in the face of such soggy adversity.

Poor BOF didn't know what he was getting himself into on the tree decision.

KITC: 'I want this one.'

Other Tree Man (OTM): 'That one is 52 pounds.'

KITC: 'What?? (teary) But I love it! And we can't afford that much. It's Christmas! How about … ten pounds?

OTM: This isn't really a bartering situation. We're a franchise.

BOF: Fifty-two pounds you say? Fine! Good! OK. Actually that is a lot why don't we find another tree? Maybe a shorter one? They might be cheaper you know.

KITC (lip wobbling): NO! I want this tree. It's the best tree by far. Can't you tell it's the best BOF?

BOF: We could get a littler one and put it on the table? Maybe?

OTM (gently - concerned I may be a child): OK how about I throw in some holly? And a stand?

Tree! Also Wellies. 

Finally everything was organised to our (my) satisfaction. A marginally smaller tree at a deeply superior price was purchased. And dead holly into the bargain! I was delighted. 

I carried the holly, BOF carried the tree. As we passed other soggy folk on the bridge I called 'Merry Christmas' to them all with levels of cheer that bordered on the hysterical. It was bloody brilliant. 

But, dear readers, next year I resolve to get the bigger one.

NB. It should be recorded that BOF carried the tree by himself all the way to the Pimlico Pad. From Battersea. Fan-mail should be directed to his agent (KITC in this instance) by postcard. Or in comment form below. Or Twitter (@kvlmason). Thanks.

For Late Adopters

Late adopters of Kate in the Countryside have observed that - for the uninitiated - such an acronym-dense landscape can sometimes be tricky to navigate. 

It is for them, and for those whose knowledge of Kate in the Countryside is not as exhaustive as they might hope, that the crib sheet below came to pass. Diligent members of the readership would be advised to print out what follows and keep it in a handy place for reference. Perhaps an opportunity to familiarise oneself with laminating machine? 

Laminated items do keep better.
Just a suggestion

Kate in the Countryside began a year ago after the demise of my Carefree University Life at Cambridge. Returning from a month at the Edinburgh Festival, I found myself unemployed in The Countryside living with MD (Mother Dearest - of whom more later). The curious folk I found there proved an excellent source of solace and fascination. So the blog was born. When someone generously gave me a job months later, the blog travelled with me to London, where I found that the oddballs of Oundle were no stranger than those of Pimlico who now populate these pages.

KITC: Acronym of the name of This Blog. Also represents Kate the character at moments of dramatic importance.

Kate in the Countryside: name of This Blog. A misnomer (as is often observed) since I am no longer domiciled in The Countryside. Knowledge for the in-crowd, that. Like Magdalene being pronounced Maudlin. 

Pimlico: where Kate in the Countryside now lives with flatmate and co-star, BOF.

BOF: Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate. Formerly Belligerently Optimistic Future-Flatmate. This sobriquet refers to a sad time a year ago when we were both yet to be homed. But BOF's unflagging - if occasionally a little manic - optimism eventually secured us The Pad. A place with no graffitied doors and good-looking neighbours thrown in.

Pretty Neighbour (PN): Apple of BOF's eye. Attempts to seduce her / convince her to come over have as yet gone unrewarded. Though we did meet her once. Recently waking up to the fact that she may not be interested in boys. Bit galling, hence KITC's silence on the subject in recent months.

Spinning: one of London's gifts to the blog. I find myself being shouted and sworn at on a bike in a small room at the local gym with more regularity than I imagined possible. Run by...

The Shouter: Australian Spinning Trainer Man. He shouts. Suspect he may be in league with PG, who first introduced me to the local Pimlico hang outs and Spinning class.

PG: Pimlico Guru. Collaborator in Spinning sessions. Resident of Pimlico. Advisor in all things local. Word on the grapevine is that she may be leaving the gym. Updates impending.

Tactful Friend (TF): Non-Pimlico resident and regular facilitator of Nights Out. I have recently realised that such evenings always lead to encounters with London's Gits, for which this blog is very grateful.

Dogface: My dog. Interestingly, this is his real name.

Mother Dearest (MD): Mother of KITC. Teacher. Resident of Oundle. Recent adopter of Twitter. Follow her in real life (@msoundle) for the full metafictional KITC experience.

DM: Daddy Mason. Not to be confused with MD, DM lives in the Bahamas where he keeps swimming pigs. This may or may not be true.

Mysterious L: Most significant external contributor to KITC. True identity a mystery. Some say she exists only within the confines of the KITC world. 

The Bog Controller

For those here in anticipation of an update on the BOF and Pretty Neighbour saga, do not fret. There have been developments. But until they can be revealed in full, please distract yourself with today's trip to the pictures:

My ambient cellist friend Pegson (for details of former adventures see here) is a media darling, so evenings spent with him always seem to contain people who introduce themselves as being 'in the arts'. What can this mean? They seem sure it is impressive. Connected to something that occasionally produces 'art'. I digress.

For this week's jaunt, we (Pal, Pegson and I) ambled to the launch of a worthy new venture which was celebrated with the screening of a very non-worthy (though hilarious) new film.

Afterwards, there was a drinks thing on. Pegson and Pal said 'no let's not, it'll be dry,' but I, attired in BOF's cloak of belligerence, argued that we really should go rather than dashing in for the free film and sodding off. It was at a members club somewhere about. It was packed. Also it was for charity so there was no free booze. The signs should have been obvious.

In we went - Pegson and Pal mumbling aggressively to one another behind me. Secretly I was also keen because the club was near and I was bursting for the loo.

'You can't go up here.'

This I announced before negotiating the crowds to the most likely area for a loo-venue. There, by a flight of stairs, stood a tall surly waiter-ish man dressed in black.

'Excuse me, where would I find the loo?' I asked him, politely.

Chap: 'You can't go up here.'

KitC: 'That's fine, I just want to go to the loo.'

Chap: 'Up here is members only.'

KitC: 'OK great. Where's the bathroom please?'

Chap (getting hostile): Look. You can't go up here, it's for members.'

KitC (desperate now): I don't want to! I just want to find a loo!

Chap: Well you can't, you...

Happily, at this point, another similarly attired gent arrived, looking surly too, but slightly more helpful.

KitC (relieved): Oh hi. Excuse me, where's the loo?

Chap 2: ¿Que? [OK, that's made up. But it was something similarly blank. He continued:] I only just start work here.

At last, I found the lavatory. Unisex. Isn't that everyone's favourite loo genre? It lends itself so well to the inevitable moment when that man in the queue before you decides that your loo is the loo for him. In this case the chap after me was so emphatic in his belief that my locked loo was in fact free, that he managed to push the door open, while I was in there in flagrante.

I returned to Pal and Pegson. 'That's it. We've got to leave. Now.'

The gits (delighted at being proven right) insisted we stay. Lesson learned.

Celebration in the Pad (Pretty Neighbour Part 2)

This episode sees Kate and BOF ensconced in the flat of Pretty Neighbour (PN), having established that Dan (‘the competition’) is not of boyfriend persuasion, and that he has moved out. We have learned Other Neighbour's name (Daisy) but PN's remains elusive.

Prepare yourself for a display of miraculous cunning.

Suddenly, PN's front door opens. 'Daisy's home,' PN explains. ‘Daisy! Hey! Kate and BOF came over because their water's not working next door! And look [running tap] - nothing here either!'

'Oh no! I was going to have a bath. Thanks so much for letting us know guys,' Daisy says, little suspecting our ulterior motive. (Probably.) ‘Good day hun? [to PN].'

['Hun'? Oh great. What good was that to us? (Unless 'Hun' is her name - in which case very good. But it seemed unlikely.)]

We chatted in their kitchen for ten minutes, outstaying our welcome, telling endless stories that included one another's names in the hope that we would spark something similar from them. Yet still nothing.

Fearful prospect: a Residents Meeting

It was getting to the point when I thought we’d actually have to go to one of those residents meetings to resolve the Nameless Flatmate Issue, when I had a brainwave.

‘Hey, do you want to see our Pad? Now we’ve had the tour here I mean.'

PN (ever enthusiastic): 'Yeah! that'd be great.'

We traipsed next door to find Bofles and Max a little neglected, discussing water mains like old folk.

'Bofles, Max - meet our neighbours!'

'Hi, I'm Daisy.'

'Tallulah.'

I will leave you to imagine the feelings of delight and achievement this moment produced. Not only did PN’s name imply exactly the sort of fragile drama school type that BOF so loves, but Tallulah's introduction also meant we wouldn’t have to brave a residents meeting. It was as much as we could do to keep our highfiving imagined.

And there was better to come. Soon we were all discussing the building’s problem with damp and 'our local' like characters from Eastenders.

The parting triumph was BOF's alone. ‘Guys, I'm so sorry we couldn't offer you tea,' he remarked gallantly. 'Perhaps another day, when the water's back on? Perhaps next weekend?'

'A deal,' Tallulah and Daisy agreed. 'Also if you know of anyone looking for a place to live - we've got a spare room now Dan’s left.'

‘Max is!’ I volunteered excitedly, thinking it might be a little transparent to suggest BOF.

'Er' (Max)

'OK, great well speak to you soon.'

And they left.

You know that scene in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant the hopeless-bookshop-owner leaves his friends' house with Julia Roberts the film star character and his friends all celebrate? It was like that.

Bofles looked on perplexed and Max, fearful of being pimped out to two women he didn't know (no matter how pretty), fled.

Pretty Neighbour Returns (Part 1)

A mere trifling tea stash

You'd have thought that a week containing a ferry ride, driving lessons and a visit from the briefly-employed brother of BOF, Bofles, would be the highlight of Kate in the Countryside for months to come. No longer.

It was about half past ten the other night when we discovered, on seeking tea, that - though we had nearly fourteen different kinds of tea - we were lacking in tap water. There was none. It dribbled noncommittally from the cold tap before expiring.

Google tells me this is mould.
I've seen worse

Other than Bofles, Max, a BOF school-friend, was round for supper. Max has recently returned from India so we had invited him over to inspect our palatial dwelling. A combination of circumstances meant that Max had been greeted by a lack of loo roll, some gently moulding flowers in the sitting room and an overflowing bin in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was something like domestic cleanliness Cluedo. 


Though I think Max initially believed our claims that we were entertaining him like this to make sure the culture shock wasn't too great, by the time the water ran out he was clearly wishing himself back in Bengal. 

Decisive action was needed. BOF and I looked blankly at each other while Bofles nipped between bathroom and kitchen, trying taps and exclaiming his amazement when the result from each was the same. 

'You know what you guys should do,' Max offered helpfully, 'you should go and see if they've got water next door.'

BOF and I looked at each other, excitement replacing angst.

Regular readers of Kate in the Countryside may remember our feeble attempts to learn Pretty Neighbour's name when we first moved in months ago and, more importantly, the attempts to forge romance between Pretty Neighbour and BOF. Here, at last, was both the pretext and the moment. 


We were out of the Pad in seconds [stopping only to check BOF's hair]. 

Tentatively we knocked. No answer. Bit louder. No answer. Then 'One minute!' from within - the cheery tones recognisable even through the door. BOF looked as though he would flee. But then she was there! Pretty Neighbour herself.

Silence. 

'Er.'

(This was harder than expected. We hadn't even got to the point where BOF used this nocturnal visit as a springboard into a date.)

'Hi. There's no water coming out of our taps. We came to see if you had any! You can have some sugar in exchange!' We joked feebly.

'Oh no, poor you! Let's check. Do come in - Daisy's out tonight. [Yes!] And Dan's moved out.'

'Oh yes we wondered why we hadn't seen him about for a while,' we lied. [Thinking, 'Dan? A thwarted love interest?'] 'So where's he living now?'

'Well, Dan's moved in with his boyfriend.'

Dan, so long feared Pretty Neighbour's boyfriend, was emphatically cut from the picture. One obstacle down. All that  remained was to learn her name. And to commit her to that date.

To be continued....

Going Solo

Kindred Spirit

I don't much like flying alone. At least if you travel with someone else you can be certain that though you might end up sitting next to a bore or a snorer, you will be forewarned - you chose them. 

And, while I'm aware that travelling takes organisation and time management, I can't seem to achieve either unless there's some unlucky soul about (say BOF) to hassle me, or else start practising Bikram yoga poses with a freneticity that hints we're about to miss something again. 

So when on Saturday I was heading to the Land of the Swimming Pigs to visit Daddy Mason, I checked with BOF how much time I should leave for getting to the airport. 'Leave at half 6' was his response. I made it out the door just after 8, and spent the journey to Heathrow fretting that I'd miss my flight. It wasn't so much DM's rage when I failed to arrive at the other end that troubled me, rather the thought of BOF's weary disappointment when I returned to the Pad flightless.

Travel-sized toiletries:
what successful holidays are made of.

Another potential hazard is packing. Every time I pack I decide that this time will be when I really get it right. To this end, I'd bought a magazine containing 'THE' guide to the perfect capsule wardrobe. I then squandered precious packing time fretting that I didn't have any travel-sized perfume bottles or own a kaftan. 

Terminal 5 is very shiny and very distracting. I steamed through security with efficiency born of the fact that I was quite late. Then congratulated myself with a large latte from Pret. Large. It was much too big. I'm not in Friends. The resulting jitters made it difficult to carry my hand luggage or find my passport. 

Ever nervy about boarding planes after a recent flight marred by baby-vomit, I slinked on to find I was (astonishingly) seated beside a non-obese, sane-looking American woman. We even chatted as I sat down. 

This soon prompted internal disquiet. (Was I being too friendly? Would she tell her friends later about the mad girl on the plane who wouldn't shut up?) After take-off, I fell silent. More concerns. (Was I now being too standoffish?) 

It was at this point that I accidentally threw my drink over her [white] jeans. 

She squawked awkwardly and we didn't speak for the rest of the trip. This was something of a relief.

Fancy being Kate in the Countryside's chaperone? Get in touch.