Plan Bee

I haven't blogged for a while, have I? I haven't been especially busy, and I have the broadband back so that's not it. I think I've lost a bit of the old inspiration. I do wonder whether being happy is making me boring, I spend too much time looking in recipe books dreaming of baking bread, or finding an impressive use for beans. I feel houseproud and domestic, smug and contented, with my boyfriend, daughter, and new home.

It's not a bad thing for me at all if the blogging slows or stops. For over a year I would spend a little part of the day thinking 'could I blog about that?' 'Or maybe that?' It was a kind of challenge for me - and I think I got quite good at it. I'd usually find something in my day to write about, but maybe now I need a little rest from that? Maybe it became a bit too easy. Maybe I took the every day writing obsession too far? Where's the challenge if I can rattle off a post? Where's the fun if you're thinking - 'must update!' There's no point to it if it feels like a chore, there's no pleasure if you start to become a blogging hack. The sort of stuff I've been writing lately is starting to bore me, I'm getting tired of hearing myself go on, I'm not so interested in talking about myself, in endless 'me, me, me' posts. I do still want to write, I just want it to be different. I wondered what to do, and thought if plain old reality is getting dull, why don't I make stuff up?

We'll see.

I couldn't decide what stickers to make this week. I usually have a weekly theme for the on the magic Up escalator at Oxford Circus. Amy suggested, 'make stickers beginning with some letter.' That's because I did this once before, and she enjoyed helping me. Last time it was 'S' - for Steve.

I dismissed her idea at first. But yesterday we were heading home I was thinking about my new place. The house number is 22B. Amy and I sometimes laugh about the fact that there are lots of number 22's on my road. The 22 houses don't look any different from the rest of the houses on the street, but the numbering goes funny. It's 20, 22, 22A, 22B, 22C, 22D, 24, 26. I told Amy that our 22 was special because our road name begins with 'B' too. It was raining, so I thought of my boyfriend who likes the rain - and always remembers to carry a brolly. I thought too of the rain on my recent trip to Brighton with friends Pete B and Stevie B. I thought about my favourite stickers I'd made, balloons beside the Up escalator - at Tooting Bec not Broadway.

I thought about my house and how it was starting to get sorted out, with BT Broadband now and beds built. I thought about being busy, and feeling blessed to have time and money and friends to help with things. I thought about work giving me a chance to blog in Barcelona. I thought about butterfly stickers, and how hard it used to seem to imagine making stickers that were beautiful.

I remembered an advert Steve liked about bouncing balls and sticking a sticker when I a tube poster version of these. I remembered a recent conversation with him about silly horoscope stuff, and laughing that Libra's 'Balance' seemed to suit Steve so well. I'm thinking now of Bank Holiday trips, and how the blue fish at the aquarium was my favourite, and how we all laughed because the clown fish wasn't like Nemo as it was too brown. I thought of the first letter stickers I stuck - 'S' for Steve's first name, and realised that his surname starts with a 'B'. I thought of the first stickers I stuck on the Up escalator at Oxford Circus, I stuck them for no real reason, when blogging felt like the best thing in the world. I stuck sticker bees.

So today I stuck a bee again on the magic Up escalator at Oxford Circus. It might have looked the same as the first bee I stuck many months ago, but to me it's quite different. It's my special Plan Bee. For a new start. For being happy.

As I came home today I thought what should I blog? Should I blog at all? I thought about being broke, and bank trips in my break, and blubbing last night over something silly, and I realised I'd forgot to buy beer, and I felt busy, and in a bad mood. And I saw the estate agent's sign that's still outside the front door of my house. I thought, 'Bollocks! Do I have to nag them to remove that?' Bastards. And I looked at the sign for a moment, and smiled and then I sat down to write this post, there's a few bad things in my life right now, but mostly life is brilliant.

Where's the magic..?

I went to see a heavy-handed documentary film with Steve last night, 'Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Price'. Walmart is really bad. The problem is that most big companies are really bad. Steve knows all this because he stood for the Green Party, in the 2001 election. Cardiff Central. He got 661 votes. I'm proud of him!

He's lost his passion for politics these days, and seems to have come to the conclusion that there are so many big bad companies about that it's impossible to do very much about it at all.

The Walmart documentary made me think about Tooting Bec. Perhaps part of the Tooting Bec magic is that there is no supermarket or big-chain shops at all? There are no big businesses for about a 15 minute walk either side of the tube station. I think big companies may have anti-magic powers. I'm not completely sure... I know Steve believes in the special power of Waitrose muffins.

There are plenty of shabby small businesses at Tooting Bec. Lots of curry houses, a second hand shop, some drycleaners, and an excellent stationers shop - with a shopkeeper who'll do you a good deal on bubblewrap.

There are about 20 near identical 'corner shops' too. There are so many corner shops that there aren't enough corners to go around, these shops are forced to operate on the very-straight main road. It amazes me that all these corner shops thrive. Each has a 6 cans of Stella for £5 offer, milk, bread, and other basic provisions at much more than supermarket prices. In each you can buy toilet paper, Whiskas cat food, washing powder and toothpaste. In none can you buy brioches, tortellini or cayenne pepper. CostCutter is the biggest shop. This means it has more choice of toilet paper, cat food, and washing powder brands.

Steve asked me if there was a cafe where he could buy a coffee before going home. There's no Starbucks or Costa Coffee at Tooting Bec. I don't think there is anywhere where you can sit down and have a nice cup of coffee at breakfast time. I sympathise with Steve's desire for a coffee shop coffee, and maybe a nice danish?

Tooting Bec's failure worried me.

I haven't noticed any tube station magic for a while. The nearest I've come to seeing magic lately was when I saw the Tooting Bec tiger man. I saw him at Leicester Square tube station on Monday teatime.

I took Amy to the National Art Gallery after school. Actually that is kind of magic! To be admiring amazing art just 30 minutes after school finishes... Perhaps that's the magic of Tooting Bec tube? After the art gallery we saw the tiger man at Leicester Square. He had his big Tiger photo strapped to his chest, and a sign displaying the number of tigers left in the wild. I can't remember how many he said it was? 4020 I think.

He must have discovered the wonders of the Northern Line too - to find his way to the West End. Of course I put money in his collection tin. I last saw this special tiger man at Tooting Bec tube station, shortly after I'd blogged about the Green Party's commitment to 'Taming Local Tigers'.

All that's on my old blog, not linking there, sorry....

But perhaps that's interesting? Perhaps that's magic? Now I'm dating a former Green Party candidate and seeing tiger men at Leicester Square? I travelled to Leicester Square yesterday, for our first ever cinema trip. When I asked Steve out, in a very vague way, in my 3rd ever email I mentioned going to the cinema. Now 3 months later we've been to the cinema at last... To see a film that makes me think about Tooting Bec.

I've been thinking about where I was this time last year. June is my splitting up with long-term partner anniversary.

I've also been thinking a lot about my stickers...

I feel like my stickers might need to change. I wondered about butterflies and daisies..? But I think that's pushing things.

But, yes.. Stickers. Magic. Where does it go now I'm almost-nearly very happy?

So there isn't a coffee shop at Tooting Bec, but I still love the place and believe in it's magic.

I also told Steve that I didn't want to buy anything made in China by poorly treated workers. I know it's hard to avoid, but I'd like to try. I know there are catalogues full of organic cotton, ethically correct, clothes.

And I'd like to set up a practical charity, called 'The Practical Charity' maybe? I'd like to counteract the McDonalds effect by setting up friendly vege-burger shops with £1.99 tofu burger kids meals. And you get a wooden toy with it? Ok, maybe the wooden toy's going too far... A plastic toy, but it's made by handicapped people?

Hmm, not sure but perhaps the next stage of the magic is an attempt to change the world?

I think not. Probably the next stage of the magic is just dreaming about all of this. I dream about lots of things...

But isn't it better to believe in good stuff, and dream, and try just sometimes, even if it's just in a little way?

Maybe someone will see one of my stickers one day and smile? If that's the only good thing I can do to change the world it's not bad. It's much better than anything Walmart, or McDonalds or any company that treats it's workers like shit, ever did.

Tooting Bec shopkeepers often smile when I buy stuff, and I know it could be because they're glad I chose them and not a 'corner shop' competitor two doors down the road, but it's still nice that they make you feel welcome. People don't do that in big shops very often. I know a shopkeeper's smile is just a tiny little thing, but it is a very nice tiny thing...

'Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope...'

I can't believe something Steve in an email today has got me Googling political stuff...

I wonder what happens if you google Tooting Bec magic?

It led me here.

To the green of magic trees...

I need to find those trees. And I might pop to Asda on the way back, I need some brioche and tortellini...

BT still smell of poo (but I don't really care)

I thought I'd get my internet set up today, instead some BT engineers came, plugged in their router and laptop and demonstrated that the internet worked perfectly for them. They wouldn't look at my internet set up, or consider why it wouldn't work for me. That was a different department.

I was left to self-diagnose my broadband problem. After spending £6 on a new DSL cable that made no difference to my no-green-light problem, I decided the router had to be faulty. It took me 45 minutes on the phone to India to persuade the help desk people of the same conclusion. I now have to wait 3-6 days to get my new router.

I miss the internet, but this is only a minor stress. I don't really care. Life is good. I feel as happy as I've ever been. This makes for dull blog posts I'm afraid. Things do still keep going wrong, I could write about the going-wrong stuff? I know I would have written about these in the past, but these days I don't feel as bothered by anything. When I get stressed or upset I simply talk to Steve, or else send him a sorry-for-myself text or email. He says reassuring stuff and always has the magic words to make me feel better. We soon end up laughing about Ikea ice cream, or Waitrose muffins, or any of our many other secret code words for being happy and in love.

Yes, my head has turned to mush, and my blog has become blog-mush too. And I don't particularly want to find a cure. Long live mush! I just wish everyone had mush in their lives. I like mush! I do realise how lucky I am.

I wrote a long blog post about Saturday at work, and how PokerStars should operate on some kind of communist system as my colleagues sometimes do a better job than I do. I might still post this, not sure... Steve thinks I might get a pay cut if I do..! I don't think I care, it was a mushy 'I love PokerStars' post. It's true. I do love PokerStars, I can't help it, any more than I can help my ginger writer boyfriend head-mush.

I was also going to write about my Ikea bed, and the way Ikea have the perfect number of silly names like 'Fardte' and 'Snotte' to make the shopping experience fun, yet not silly enough to distract you from your serious decisions. Their designers are very clever, don't you think?

And I feel like I should probably write something about Steve meeting Amy. This happened on our 2 month anniversary Ikea trip, and I cooked blue cheese pasta afterwards. The meal, and the meeting were uncomplicated, I wasn't even stressed by the thought that I'd never cooked for Steve before. Why was I worried? I liked when Amy said, 'Why are you smiling, Mum?' Then turned to Steve and said, 'He smiles all the time too.'

So, yes... there's stuff I would have been desperate to blog about in the past, but I have 25 minutes before I have to pick Amy up from school, and I have ideas for my new screenplay that I need to write down...

Mush-blog life is dull today. Perhaps it's because entertaining writing is about conflict? Perhaps happiness is doomed to make dull reading?

I don't know. And I don't care. I'm too busy being happy to debate all of this... Sorry readers. Maybe I'll get miserable or broken hearted and write a better post tomorrow?

Hello and a very warm welcome from Barcelona...

Forty-six teams from around the world fought it out in online qualifiers, playing in their pyjamas at breakfast time in Brazil against opponents eating late night pizza in New Zealand. Now eight teams meet in the Spanish sunshine, and...

I don't know. Just the sort of thing I might need to write. Just practising... I need to practise...

I’ve been reading lots about Iceland! I know Iceland are through to the finals. I’ll learn who the other teams will be on Saturday.

It’s England vs Wales for a place in Barcelona. I kind of hope Wales win, because don’t proper poker reported types have to be impartial? If I write, ‘Go England! Yay! England spanked those Ice-people with a sweet two-outer...’ I guess that’s not going to go down too well?

It is exciting though! People from Iceland, and maybe Poland too, are going to be relying on me for news reports, following their country, dreaming that it will be their team that holds aloft the prized poker World Cup!

If you’re not excited about this then you surely must be dead? Or from a country that’s not playing? Or not much interested in poker?

There must be someone left still who might want to read my reports from Barcelona?

I think it's very exciting! And if you're not interested in this most prestigious poker event then you're probably going to have to stop reading my blog until the end of June. I think you do secretly want to develop an interest in the Icelandic poker scene - don't you?

It's ok, I don't have a 'hits counter', I'll happily talk to myself, makes no difference to me.

I’m not sure how much of my new Icelandic knowledge I’m actually going to use in the tournament coverage, but I do think it’s good to be prepared. I may just slip it into a hand story that 'the Great Geysir' in South West Iceland can spew a jet of water 200 feet into the air.

Or that there are twice as many sheep in Iceland as people?

That they have 13 Santa Clauses at Christmas?

To be honest I'm sitting here wondering how I'm going to write this thing without mentioning geysers. Most poker blogging seems to be 'x had this hand, the flop was y, and z won.' I can do geyser stuff, it's the xyz I might find tricky. I have a tendency to forget whether y comes after x. And I might get confused about whether it's x, y, or q at the end there? I might be expected to know how many chips q won in that hand too? That's numbers and letters at once! Can I just talk about the geysers, please?

Don't worry, I'm not really terrified. I just need to concentrate, and work hard, and write lots of notes, and tell Steve that he's far too big a distraction, so, no, he can't come too.

I decided that I could either spend the next few weeks being scared silly about this serious poker writing experience, or else be productively worried in finding out all about the teams and countries I'm going to follow.

So I decided I’m going to write to Bjork. Wouldn’t it be great if she sent a message of support to the Icelandic poker heroes?

I had an Iceland team poker joke planned too, but then I realised that US readers won’t have seen those ‘My Mum went to Iceland’ TV ads. I do like that frozen food store... It’s so true - Mum’s really are heroes. They heroically shop at Iceland in order to serve up oven chips and micro-sausages, because their heroically not bothered about spending ages cooking real and nutritious food for their sprogs. Good on them! I’m a hero too... I have better stuff to do with my time than peel carrots and chop garlic...

Like try to borrow the camera off Marketing Conrad..? I need to get used to it before this tournament, otherwise I might have a whole nation hating me because the only photo of their victorious team had arms cut off, and blurry faces with red eyes... I haven’t researched Polish culture yet, but it could be that all limbs have to be showing? I know some countries are funny about specific body parts. Like in Greece if you wave it's rude..? Or is it Spain with pointing fingers? I know some counties are funny about photos too. Is it Nicaragua where if you take a picture they think it captures your soul? Or Afghanistan and it breaks your heart? Anyway, the point is that if I research the culture and history of the teams I'm following I might be able to use this in a hand story too.

Yes, like...

Polish Helga and Icelandic Eric consider a flop of A 5 3. Helga bets out - Iclandic Eric re-raises. Helga calls, and so they see the turn. It's a 2. Erik points and laughs derisively at this card. Helga glares at Erik's culturally insulting finger (she has a Spanish background.) Helga goes all-in, perhaps on tilt? Erik calls, and turns over 33 for a set. Helga smiles as she shows her Ace 4 and the straight! Erik is openly weeping now, a torrent of tears resembling a geyser from his Icelandic homeland.

I take a photo of Helga's moment of victory - just as the river is dealt. Another 5! Helga's heart is broken! Erik has the full house and Helga sobs and slumps into her chair, as if my camera-click stole her very soul, as fabled in Nicaraguan legend... The river card has left Helga a mere poker ghost, as the Polish nation mourns the cruelty of that fateful final card... Erik joyfully lifts the cup, as Bjork steps forward to congratulate him. She'd received my email and been excited to see her nation's success.

As Bjork croons 'Human Behaviour' Conrad tells me that I'll never blog for PokerStars again.

Yes, could write stuff like that. I'm also getting some tips from other poker writers I know, everything from make up chip counts, to write in Word because it has grammar and spell check, and write bland, but fast, to impress marketing people.... And I have a long list of other ideas to help me become a proper poker journo by mid-June. I need to read every poker blog I can, that's top of the list. Because I don't really think you're supposed to mention geysers..? I did promise Simon from Greece I'd use the word 'frock' somewhere on the Barcelona blog. Maybe the story about the time I displayed the word 'Frock' in the lobby of our software, when there were 20,000 players online? Maybe not...

Anyway, the important thing is that I try my very best with this. I really don't want to let anyone down, or, much more importantly, look like an idiot. I still don't know if PokerStars know what they're doing. I guess we'll find out in June.

Shit! (But in a nice way)

Please note that I didn't use the word 'fuck' as a subject heading. This is because I'm being a proper writer today, you know the sort that writes mainstream stuff for lots of people to read, you know on proper webpages and stuff. Eeeeeek! Nearly said 'fuck' again. Must try to tone down the 'fucks'.

Aaargh!

Maybe 'aargh' isn't proper-writer-english either?

Aaargh! I don't know...

I've just been told I'm going to Barcelona to write the PokerStars blog for the World Cup of Poker. Barcelona! Fuck... Writing the official blog! No swearing allowed! Fuck! All on my own...! In June. Not long... Aaargh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

I have a few weeks to sort the fuck/aargh/crappy writing problem, and to practise counting chips, and taking photos, and whatever-the-fuck-else proper poker bloggers do. I'll have to ask the boyfriend, it's his job.

Don't worry! It will be fun! Of course it's a big responsibility. Yes, but most importantly it will be fun. I think if you write like you're having fun it makes a fun read? So that's the gameplan. Fuck accurrate chipcounts and proper poker shit like that. Yes. Some kind of special stickers might be needed to help with this..? I'll have to think. Yes. Need magic.

No I don't. I just need to write sensibly about poker. I can do that. And still have fun too!

It's a big resposibility, of course. It's a huge responsbility..! Yet it might also be happy, silly (magic) fun. Yes fuck it is! Do you think PokerStars know what the fuck they're doing?

BT smell of poo

BT's broadband DVD makes it look so simple. A calming voice guides you through each stage of the installation process. There are animations to watch, and boxes to check. It's devised for people like my Mum, who know a computer is beige and has a plug. It's reassuringly based on colour-coded cables with matching slots, joining these together is described in simple language. 'Have you found the grey wire?' Yes/No? 'Ok, look for the grey wire in the brown box. Here's a diagram to show you where the grey wire is located in the brown box.'

Did you find the grey wire now?'' Good. Now look at the grey wire, it has 2 ends, can you see the two ends?'

'When you plug the grey wire into the grey hole the green light comes on.'

No it fucking doesn't!

'Please don't worry if the light doesn't come on, we can deal with this just a little later...'

Yeah, 12 days later!

I've got no internet until some BT technician can come to my house to sort out my phone line on the 22nd. And in case you're wondering, yes I did try both ends of the grey wire. Every BT broadband helpdesk fucker asked me to try both ends of the grey fucking wire. 'No 'fuckings' from those fuckers though, they were ever so polite. The apologies for keeping me on hold while they looked up the grey wire manual ('The grey wire has 2 ends? Ah, I'll ask...') went on almost as long as the tadadeddahdedompdedahdah music while I waited on numerous bored helpers. You know it's bad when they put you on hold to 'locate your case file'. I imagine my BT broadband case file will be a full, fat, file of information, yet still all members of BT staff neglected to add the important note, 'She tried swapping ends with the grey wire.'
It's a DSL cable you fuckers! The colour is irrelevant and both ends are exactly the same!

I bet BT switch batteries around to see if that works when their battery powered broadband machinery fails. No wonder the broadband connection to my house is screwy, maybe the technician will show up, dig up the road to find the cable, and then try swapping ends?

With no internet at home I've felt less inclined to blog. This has been excellent for the progress of the sceenplay I’ve started writing. I haven't been so excited about a screenplay idea since... Well, since the last one. No, but seriously it's good. Very good. In fact I think it's going to be brilliant. Great ending. Good beginning. I'm working on the middle, but there are bits I really like a lot.

I'm at that overly-optimistic stage. The trick is to keep writing when I'm 90% done and it's starting to bore me, and the next idea is enticing me with the thought that it's the best thing I've ever come up with...

No, but seriously, this screenplay is good. So with broadband problems and screenwriting love affairs I can't promise many blog updates. Probably just every lunch hour when I sit in Soho Square...

So if I had been blogging over the last few days I wonder what would I have blogged about? It feels like a lot's happened. Lots of ups and downs, and some downs and ups, but I've ended firmly up despite the downs. Thanks Steve.

And now I want to settle into my new house and be happy. I think that will be easy with someone nice to tell me the downs are very temporary.

Downs? Yes... I can't really talk about the GW, but the GW thing was bad. Steve gave me a pound to buy the GW. He said his Granddad did that whenever he had verucas. How very silly! But silly is very good. How can he even make me smile about the GW? I'll keep the pound somewhere special.

And there was Amy's bed. The removal men had to dismantle this to get it out of her room. When we came to build it last Friday we couldn't find the screws. The removal man had given Alex the Ex these screws. He thought these were for a bed that he was throwing out, so the screws ended up in the bin too.

Amy loves that high up bed, with its lilac tent-den underneath it. I spent 2 days in the week I left Alex building that bed, building it as if determined to prove some independent-woman point. I had blisters on my fingers, and cried when it defeated me. My brother visited a few days later, he built it for me, with blisters of his own, and I even heard a few muffled sobs.

So now I have that bed again, in pieces and with no screws. We tried to fix it on Friday, but it beat us then. Steve says he'll buy the right screws tomorrow. I don't feel worried about independence or blisters now, seeing Steve even a 'bed building' date will be fine. He mended Amy's bike, and we laughed about his manliness, and my insistence on calling pliers 'grabbers'. It can be fun dealing with a chore with someone eager to laugh about everything.

I have been an independent DIY superwoman at the weekend already. Amy wanted her bedroom blue. I said 'yes' so we spent Sunday afternoon decorating her bedroom. I spent most of it feeling crappy and mulling on the Steve-Amy dilemma, and wondering if I would be nuts to dump him.

The bedroom got painted. The painting was tricky, and of course it would have been easier if Amy hadn't been involved, but the room looked great in the end. I didn't dump anyone.

Amy's only comment about Steve was that he looked like xxx. And she laughed about him wanting to be a cowboy. I'd mentioned that he wanted to buy cowboy boots, and somehow she'd turned him into a ginger John Wayne in her head. I didn't put her right. I kind of agree with her. I notice a boyish enthusiasm in Steve sometimes, I think he has a 'playing cowboys' side to him, but thankfully he doesn't do serious gunfighting meanness. I still haven't found him the right sort of cowboy cactus as a housewarming present. I hope he gets his boots soon.

We're going to take Amy-Steve meetings cautiously now. I don't know when they'll meet again right now. I still find the idea of it difficult. My Mum never had a boyfriend after my Dad died. I think that was because of me and my brothers. If you put your children first it's easy to lose yourself in their welfare, to convince yourself you're doing the best thing by putting yourself last. I don't ever mind putting myself last for Amy, she's worth it. But Steve's here now, and I can't change that.

If I'd thought it through I might at least have been practical about whom I dated. One of my single mum friends had exactly the right idea when she joined an online dating site, smartly ticking the boxes for 'older man' and 'kids of his own'. I didn't think it through, and so somehow I've fallen in love with a 29 year old, who when asked what he knew about kids said, 'Well, I used to be one once.' Maybe he's young enough that his childhood memories aren't so far away..?

I care about Amy so much that it makes me a little crazy. I have lots of questions buzzing around about how it works when you love someone and also love your child? I have to keep telling myself that people make it work, but I don't have experience of it, and so I wonder 'how?'

Even something as simple as hugs. How do hugs work in these situations? I hug Amy lots, Steve too. Then I imagine being in the same room as both of them, and wanting to hug someone. How can I hug either? For now it seems easier to keep them in seperate rooms, and avoid complicated issues like hugs. They're both getting lots of hugs right now, and so am I. So that's good.

I do know it's not a long term solution. Steve, as usual, is being patient and kind about it all.

We'll have been dating two months on Sunday. And almost exactly a month before that we began emailing each other. Hundreds of intense email essays now fill up my inbox. I can't delete them.

I've decided my second favourite animal is a red squirrel. But that's another blog post...

Amy asked for a book about Jesus in the library today. She has a fascination with God stuff at the moment that I try neither to encourage nor discourage.

She would rather go to the National Gallery than the playground at a weekend, which suits me just fine. But she worried me the other day by a request to study Jesus pictures at the art gallery. Usually we look for dogs or friendly animals in the pictures, or else print out a tour and carefully give each picture a rating out of 10. Amy likes Jesus, and that's ok. I suppose... I went to Sunday school every week until my teens. Right, yes. Jesus, why not? I borrowed a book of children’s bible stories for her, I was happy that the one she chose at bedtime tonight was 'Jonah and the whale.'

I was happy because the very first story I ever tried to tell, in tiny scribbled handwriting in a little, lined, notebook, was a novel I decided to call, 'The Unwilling Prophet'. I was taken with the Jonah story and I'd decided to retell the bible story of Jonah. I wondered whether Amy would love the Jonah story in the same way I had?

'That was boring!' she declared. 'What did the whale have to do with anything?'

You know, she had a point. I never did finish my first attempt at a novel about that unwilling prophet. Instead I started writing episodes of the Professionals, with the emphasis on Doyle...

And now I write rambling blog posts, and overlong emails, and I'm a slave to my blogger.com and Hotmail bookmarks. I'm not sure why I was inspired by the story of Jonah so very long ago? I think I wanted to run away from stuff just like Jonah did. I think I still do, but there's never any escape, as Jonah found out. This week BT are the whale who've swallowed me up. On Monday they'll spit me out... Only I find the writing gods (or demons) can't be avoided, not even now. I'm finishing this up, and putting it on floppy disk to publish on another PC that has a grey wire in the right hole, and a green light that works as it's supposed to.

FA Cup Final

Steve and I discussed the 'meeting Amy' thing last night. I asked him which of us was likely to be the most nervous about it. We weren't sure, but we both agreed that Amy was likely to be the only one not fazed at all by meeting 'Mum's new friend'. I asked Steve, 'on a scale of 1-10 how scared are you?' He said 15.

I told him I was a 15 too. Even though this annoyingly reminded me of my Granddad with his 110%'s for every slight effort. 110% and also 15 out of 10 simply aren't possible - but even knowing this was no defence against the ultra-scariness of boyfriend-daughter meetings.

I wanted to watch the FA Cup Final with Steve, and not Amy. Amy hates football, so if I watched with her the likelihood would be that she'd spend the whole match demanding to watch the Rugrats, or else asking for help with her drawing. I decided to ask a friend to look after her at 3pm on Saturday, so that I could watch the match in peace. The friend lived in Bermondsey, not perfect planning, but Amy was happy with the idea of seeing 2 old friends. So I met Steve to watch the match at 'The Old Kings Head' pub, in London bridge.

I don't know what to say about the game. I was so nervous. We scored early on, a lovely gift of an own goal, but I refused to be happy. I told Steve that I'd only relax if we scored 3 goals. Then 2 nil up, and Steve was counting on his West Ham karma bet coming good. I wasn't. I told him again that I wouldn't be happy until West Ham scored 3 goals. And of course Liverpool scored, and then equalised, and then West Ham were ahead again. At 3-2 I felt happy. I believed in West Ham karma, whether Steve's magic, or my own prediction that '3 goals and I could relax'. For a while I felt sure that West Ham would win, that this would be a good day... Until Liverpool equalised. Yeah, yeah, good goal etc. etc... I don't want to talk about the rest of it. It's probably best to just write 'aargh' or else 'fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck'.

Yeah, I was gutted. Fucking gutted. To lose on penalties is cruel of course. To be ahead on goals for the majority of the game, and to lose on penalties.... Fucking shite fucking aargh fuck grrr aargh fuck shite-wad fuck bastard.

So, I was upset after the game. As anyone would be who really cares about their team, and wants them to win, and thinks they may win. And they don't. Fucking penalties. Don't start me off with the fucking fuck fuck fucking penalties thing again...

Steve made the mistake of mentioning the past. My West Ham fan history is very much tied up with my Ex, and the best West Ham fan site on the net, and oh, other stuff I feel like I've lost, that still hurts a bit. I was upset that I'd lost hmm, stuff, and of course that we'd lost the FA Cup. I hadn't enjoyed a minute of the match of course, how can any match be enjoyable when so much is at stake? And I was watching it with Steve, not Alex. I wanted to be watching it with Steve, but it was just different. Steve pointed out that I didn't seem to be enjoying the football...

So yeah, stressful, sad afternoon. I was about 15 out of 10 on a tense scale all day. So after the match I'm not sure how it came about but Steve met Amy. In hindsight not the best timing. Amy looked cute in blue jeans and a blue tie-die T-shirt that made her eyes look even bluer than usual. Yes, she looked pretty that day. I'm sure Steve noticed that. As we travelled home Amy was happy, she gabbled engagingly and giggled a lot, I'm sure Steve noticed that too. Amy is a perfect 5 year old I think. I love her 110%, no fuck that 110000000000000000% on Grandpa's nonsense percentage scale. And I know that people do do the boyfriend/girlfriend thing when there is some other person's kid around, but I've never had to even think about that before. I don't know how that works.

It's not like Steve has ever had anything to do with kids before. So he's supposed to see me doing my Mum 11000000000000% in love with her kid thing, when he can't feel the same? He's supposed to take a back seat to my daughter, because I love him just about 10100000000000% but she needs me more than him? He's not supposed to be irritated by the fact that kids are work, and stress, and fucking annoying a large percentage of the time? So perhaps I'm being silly, and overreacting just a tad, but yesterday was an emotional day you know?

And though the first Amy-Steve meet thing went fine on the surface, and as far as those two were concerned. For me it was like another Cup final, a big occasion, just a little too soon after the last. So I decided the score was something like Amy 0, Steve 0, Jo 15 out of fucking 10. It ended up with Steve pouring a freshly made cup of tea down the sink to head home smartish, and me getting Amy to bed, then finishing off the fun I'd started with some Stella at the pub earlier.

So yeah, it was a bad day on Saturday. And I think only West Ham fans will be nodding along sympathetically and saying, 'Well after that match I'm surprised you didn't decide to take to Steve and Amy with your kitchen knife.' Pointing out that any jury of Hammer's fans would likely let me off.

So West Ham lost, and I turned into psycho-bitch, but it's because football matters - and I think for once I'll let myself off and just say fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking penalties. Like your fucking dreams they fucking fade and die, and all that crap.

Cornish Pasties in July

It's sunny, and I'm dreaming of spending summer lunch hours idly tip-tapping away on my laptop in Soho Square. Sitting in the sun, writing, and people watching, and enjoying a Pret avocado salad wrap, has to be the perfect way to spend a happy hour in this busy little patch of green just off Oxford Street.

I forgot my laptop today, so in my lunch break I window shopped on Tottenham Court Road. I didn't buy anything, but I considered orange lampshades for the kitchen, and I nearly bought a £25 spotty wooden snake.

I noticed an ad for the West Cornwall Bakehouse in the Metro this morning - yesterday morning too, come to think of it. They're offering free drinks if you buy a pie at the moment. I passed a new branch of this shop on Oxford Street today and thought about this. I also saw a branch of the Cornish Pasty Bakehouse just across the road. Six months ago you didn't see these pasty shops anywhere, yet now it seems that you can buy a lardy lump of pastry stodge on every London street.

Six months ago it was November. A hot lump of pastry with a tasty filling would have been a welcome lunch to eat on a chilly day. But who would buy a hot pie to eat in a lunch hour in July? No wonder the pasty places are desperate with their Metro freebies.

One of the pasty shops had an ad in the window, 'New lighter pastry' this sign claimed.

'Good try', I thought. I wonder if next month they may lay claim to 'Lighter pastry with New Summer-cool Filling?'

Crusty starch is simply not summer food. Eating a lump of hot pastry in the sun feels as alien as consuming roast chestnuts and mulled wine on the beach.

The pasty companies have thoughtlessly expanded, as if they hadn't contemplated that they're a seasonal product.

You never find hot chestnut sellers in Covent Garden making the same mistake. They take a healthy profit on their burnt bags of nuts around Christmas, then relocate to the beach in the summer hols to man some ice cream van or hot dog stall. Hot dogs you can eat in the sunshine. No pastry. It's the pastry.

Even if the Cornish shops tried, 'New improved, light, thin as air, summer fresh, extra crisp crust, pastry' it still wouldn't do it for me.

It's still pastry. It's lard. Stodge. Pies are greasy winter fare. Pastry something Dickens characters eat around open fires, with crumbs in their whiskers, wiping greasy hands on fat waist-coated bellies.

They could take away the pastry for summer? Then you'd get hot meat in a bag. It might be tasty. Unfortunately I think the grease would soak through, and you'd end up with soggy see-through-bag-break catastrophes. They'd be sued. Dry cleaning bills.

The best bet for Cornish Pasty summer success is to convert the pastry into bread, turn those hot fillings into something cold and salady?

Then you have a sandwich. Avocado salad wrap anyone?

I like to eat avocado salad wrap in the sun. Sharing the little patch of green with London crowds, sharing the idea that green and sunshine means freedom. Ignoring the crowds, the one-footed pigeons, the Pret-overpricing, the Oxford Street noise. Ignoring the idea that you have to be back at your desk soon, so this isn't freedom at all...

But I go one better than avocado wrap. I know the best thing to enjoy in the London sun is a virtual pasty, made of thin air, made from nothing but words in your head. Light and free as can be, summer happy, lost amongst the crowds of that green. Tip-tap-typing on a laptop, people-watching, dreaming, on a sunny Summer lunch break in Soho square.

Moving

The move to my new place went well enough, just the usual stresses to make it a shitty day, but that day is over now. And I have a house. A house with boxes, and too much furniture, and a poker table that I don't really want. But it's a good house, and it will get better when I can find my way to my mattress-bed on the floor without needing to climb over a pile of bin bags. And better yet when I get to Ikea and get a real bed.

I spent my moving day dwelling on the mess I'd made of the night before with Steve. I'd kicked him. Several times, quite hard. It was a free bar at the PokerStars media event. I made use of this. I also snubbed the current WSOP champion when introduced, well, he was standing next to this comedian I like...

Anyway, the kicking and the drinking, and the wanting to dump someone I'm crazy about, was all a bit mad. It happens sometimes, mainly when I drink. I hit self-destruct because I feel like crap. But it's a temporary thing, and I'm not going to drink so much anymore. I've decided I can't drink when I'm around Steve, because he's my touch paper when alcohol is my head-fuck demon fuel. It's only because I love him so much! Does that make any sense? No, not really, but I know that it's that. Even if I don't know why I mess up and hurt him sometimes.

He had his heart set on getting cowboy boots and Rolling Stone magazine on his day off yesterday, but that didn't happen. Yesterday was a funny day for many reasons. Anyone want a poker table?

Just got back from my lunch hour. I set out to buy an extension lead and a sink draining rack, instead I bought a copy of Rolling Stone and a vegetarian cook book.

My new kitchen is roomy and light, with a happy cactus on the window sill, and I'm going to learn how to cook.

I was going to write something about ex's and my unwanted poker table but I can't be bothered, because I'm grinning too much. I just got an email from Steve, and everything's alright. No it's not, it's far better than alright, because it was the best email ever and my bofriend is the funniest, best and nicest bloke in all the world. Who always says the right thing to make me feel better, always, absolutely, all the time. Cowboy boots and even kicks don't matter. Life is good. And I have the feeling it might get better...

Writerly types

Gutshot and PokerStars are two of the nicest companies I know. I don't have much knowledge of the world of work, so maybe all companies are this nice? Until I started working at PokerStars a few years ago I spent my time trying to avoid a proper job. Now I have a proper job and I work for a fantastic company - and I love it! Why did I ever think I wouldn't?

Boyfriend Steve is just as comitted to his work for Gutshot as I am to mine at PokerStars, but he works far harder than I do. He lives on caffeine, never stops, he's barely slept this week. This upsets me. I hate that he works so hard that it can't be good for him. I hate that his crazy-for-work attitude means that he can't expect to produce his best work. I hate that too much work and not enough sleep makes him miserable sometimes, although he tries to hide that from me.

I hate the way his work negatively effects him, but I can cope with any effects it has on our relationship. I can deal with the fact that he gets work calls every time we meet. I'm used to the idea that he has a 7 day a week 365 day a year 'button pushing' habit because he has to update the Gutshot site at 10am every day. I understand that he has to work evenings, although it's frustrating when it happens on an Amy-free night. But it bothers me when I feel he's got so used to working he's forgotten how to relax. I worry when I think he doesn't know what to do with his free time.

I understand it completely though - I was an obsessive would-be writer for a while. I did this for several years, it was my best plan in my 'attempt to avoid proper work'. Being a writer means there's always something to do. When my shift ends I get to go home and forget work, for Steve that's impossible. Being a writer is a 24 hour job. When you're not writing you're thinking about writing, when you're not thinking about writing you're thinking you ought to be writing, or else you're thinking that you ought to be thinking about writing...

Steve loves his job, and I know he wants to be the best that he can be. He cares about work, and that means something. His work is important to him, and so it's important to me. His job is important, and he's good at it! I love him more because he cares about it. And I love writing as much as he does. I love him because he cares about writing as much as I do. Writing-curse or not, I wouldn't have him any other way.

We are a funny couple, we sit in front of the TV and don't have a clue what to do. Neither of us ever watches TV when we're not together. I spend my free time blogging, or else writing my screenplay. Steve doesn't do 'free time' at all, his time is spent writing, polishing articles, and meeting poker players to write about them.

I've noticed other odd things go on when two writerly types get together. Sometimes there are silences. I'm sure there are silences between any couple in the early months. But it's our attitude to these silience that I always note. I don't know what other couples do - we always comment on the silence. Our conversation might go something like this -

'Oh, it's one of those funny silences.'

'Don't worry about the funny silences.'

'Do you worry about the funny silences?'

'Oh yes, when there's a funny silence I think 'this is a funny silence'.'

'Me too. I think 'what should I say when there's a funny silence'?'

'Yeah, I think 'Should I mention the funny silence?''

We do this a lot, talking about thinking about talking. I think that's what has to happen when you get two sensitive writerly types together. And I'm happy with it, I'm happy with him. Even though he has this crazy-for-work problem.

I feel like we're trying to teach each other basic life stuff. Maybe we need a crash course in 'being a couple'? Lesson 1 - Watching TV.

We're helping each other to actually live, instead of just writing about living. We're both experts in writing about living, but we need to learn to live without writing. That's the challenge.

Did I start by telling you how nice our respective companies are? Well, Steve's boss has just done something great..! He's told Steve to take it easy for a few days, and I'm so glad and grateful. I know it would be a close run race in the 'Great Bosses' award between Mark at PokerStars and Derek at Gutshot. I think Mark would win - but only just. Mark's wise, and very funny, and he has a great beard! Derek is wise and very funny too, but I've never seen him with a beard...

I'm seeing Steve later, I hope he's enjoying his day off. If there's a funny silence I'll be sure to tell him I've been writing about talking about thinking about talking.

Butterflies and moths

I forgot to tell you what Amy said yesterday when I asked her the 'Are you a butterfly or a moth?' question. She smiled a big smile and said, 'A butterfly, of course!'

Today she got up late, and was upset as she usually is when she knows I'll see her for just a brief hug before I need to rush to work. I asked, 'Are you a butterfly or a moth today?' She said, 'Today I'm a cocoon.'

Random thoughts on moving and moths...

This is what blogs are all about, taking a moment to have a sit down and share a thought or two about my busy day. I'm taking a break from packing all my possessions into boxes (well mostly bin bags) and I think I should make a nice cup of tea (I make bad tea, I'll have a lager) and perhaps enjoy a biscuit..? (Crisps better.)

Amy crept into my bed at 6am this morning and woke me up with a question, 'Are you a moth or a butterfly today?' It was a strange question. I felt like I must have been asleep for the start of the conversation, and then I wondered if she read my blog? I said 'moth' of course, but even as I said it I felt strangely 'butterfly'. She can put me in butterfly mood with such whimsy at the start of a new day.

I have to get rid of two fridge-freezers before I move to my new place on Wednesday. It's not easy to find a home for slightly shabby working-order fridge freezers. In the end I rang the council, and it was quick and easy for the 'refuge services department' to lose them. They said they'll take them away in the morning for free. I like to think they'll be useful and someone will need them, perhaps the council keep a list of poor people who need shabby but serviceable fridge freezers? I think I might be kidding myself, it's like when you take an elderly unwanted pet to the RSPCA, telling yourself he'll find a nice new home... My fridge freezers will probably have 10 days in a concrete pen, then it's humane euthanasia.

Something sad and strange happened today, but perhaps I was too busy to let it effect me? I was on my way to Balham, to buy a bed at the Balham Bed Center, and as I waited for a tube at Tooting Bec station I saw a man replacing the platform posters. I hoped he was just replacing one poster, or maybe a few. It was an unusual time of the month to change posters. He looked happy in his work, he was a grey haired old chap, carrying a brush and a large bag. I saw him approach my poster, and he stopped and looked at it and it's 5 spotty animal stickers for a minute. Then he took hold of one poster edge and slowly ripped the poster from the wall. I saw him rip off the chunk containing my poor upside-down monkey. It hurt to see that, but just for a moment, and then I felt ok. I wish I wasn't so busy right now so I could replace the animals sooner.

I bought a mattress from the Bed Centre, I'll get the bed frame later. At Balham tube station I stuck a large 'lift the flap' sticker. I was very happy with this. Perhaps I would have been more upset about my animal sticker's loss if I hadn't had this lift-the-flap rubbish sticker in my bag?

Then I discovered a magic stationery shop at Tooting Bec. I've been to this shop twice before, and each time I go I'm amazed by the place. The shopkeeper was standing outside as I approached and held the door open for me. He discussed my bubblewrap needs in a joky, helpful way. I took his advice and went for the smaller bubblewrap packs at £4.50 for 12 feet. But he could see that I was worried that this wouldn't be enough. 'I'd feel awful if you had to come back for more,' he said. I'd bought two but he gave me a third pack for nothing. He asked where I was moving to, and I explained, and told him how much I liked Tooting Bec. He smiled and said, 'Tooting Bec is great! It's beautiful here!' I could see that he understood Tooting Bec magic too. I'll go back to his shop. You would hardly notice this shop if you passed by, it's so dull on the outside, the faded sign almost indecipherable, and the clocks and calculators in the window look like they've been there for decades... But inside the place sells everything you need, and the cheerful shopkeeper lives to make people happy. Every time I go there I decide that it's my favourite shop in the whole wide world, but oddly then I soon forget it again. What strange magic.

I had a productive day, I did the things I needed to, I packed most of my things, and I also took my landlady's cactus to my new house. I'm stealing this cactus because it's special. It looks wonderful on my new kitchen windowsill. I think it's going to like it there.

I'm at work tomorrow, so it's important that I packed today. Tomorrow night I don't want to come home to pack, as after work there's a PokerStars '3 World Champions' media event. Most of my office friends will be going and enjoying the chance to play with World Series of Poker champions, Moneymaker, Raymer and Hachem. I'm looking forward to the evening a lot, and excited by the prospect of meeting these poker stars... Or perhaps I'm excited because Steve will be there? I really want to meet the 6th place finisher in the European Series of Poker Pot Limit Hold'em £150 Hold'em event!

Ok, back to packing. If I do it all now it means I can stay in bed late Wednesday morning...

The Up escalator at Tooting Bec

I know many stories about the escalators at Tooting Bec tube station. Significant things happen at those escalators; if they didn't I doubt I would believe in Tooting Bec tube station magic. The escalators are the key to the magic.

I'm moving to my new home on Wednesday. I feel stressed and busy. I'm working Tuesday, and I'm out on Tuesday evening too, so today and Monday are vital 'getting things done' days. I have lots of important 'getting things done' things to do. I need to meet sofa upholsterers to get rid of moth-eaten sofas, I need to talk to house-clearance people about losing blue fridge-freezers, I have ladders to find, and lofts to fill when I can get to them, I have TVs to carry so Sky TV installers can install Sky, I also need to get boxes so I can finally begin packing two houses-worth of stuff.

I also still need to buy a bed. Steve and I didn't get to Ikea on Friday night as he got held up at work - a need to schmooze with Andy Black. I was lucky he managed to escape with a compromise deal of drinks but no dinner. So I got to see Steve later than planned on Friday. We didn't do Ikea ice cream, instead we stayed in with greasy pizza, and watched a colleague/new friend play poker on TV. We were in bed by 11pm.

So I went to Ikea today with Amy. I eventually found the bed section, rebelliously ignoring the trolley one-way system. I found a bed I liked and so I went to the warehouse to collect it. I'd thought that once you'd chosen your bed it would simply be a matter of collecting a flatpack box with the correct silly Swedish bed name on it. But no! My bed was in 4 boxes with silly Swedish names written on them - and each box was located in a different aisle in the warehouse.

I needed to buy a mattress too, a double mattress. Ikea claim they keep their prices low by getting their customers to do some of the work. I respect this idea, I took my own tray back in the cafe, and considered that my bean salad was only £1.99. But surely special tools and lifting equipment are needed to manoeuvre a double bed mattress onto a checkout counter? A double mattress is no bean salad!

I tried my best to get the double mattress onto the not-big-enough-trolley, but I had two boxes of bed there already and it wouldn't balance on top of these. So then I struggled to get the mattress back on the shelf, and decided to come back for it later. Then I went to get the third heavy box of my bed in aisle 73 section 13. I finally found the section of the store where the third section of my bed frame should be - but it was empty. There were no 140cm Hemnes Headboard/Footboards where the 140cm Hemnes Headboard/Footboards should be! It turned out that the bed had been in stock when I'd checked, but the solitary 140cm Hemnes Headboard/Footboard they'd had in-store had been taken by another customer. It was a two week wait until the next delivery.

I was forced to put back the boxes I'd loaded onto my trolley already. These I dumped in a random aisle, on a random shelf. Someone may well get a surprise when they assemble their new coffee table.... But those boxes were heavy, and annoying, and I didn't want them any more. Also I felt like saying 'poop' to Ikea's crappy warehouse system! I came home bedless and more stressed about moving things-to-do than before. I spent a wasted afternoon in Croyden, I don't fully understand the Wimbledon tram system, and I didn't even get to try the ice cream that Steve recommended.

I did buy some useful things at least. I bought 2 big blue storage boxes for Amy's toys. At the checkout I packed several things I'd bought into a big blue box.

Close to the top of the Up escalator at Tooting Bec I looked for my travel card. I balanced the Ikea box on my knee, as I reached into my pocket... I dropped the big box and all the Ikea goodies spilled out, and went rolling down the escalator. The big blue storage boxes both banged and crashed their way down, clattering all the way to the bottom. The other stuff bounced around on the escalator as I tried to walk down the Up escalator to pick it all up. There was a picture frame, a table cloth, a night-light for Amy, a cat place mat, some lightshades... Walking down the Up escalator wasn't a very good plan. In the end I stopped trying to pick everything up, just let the escalator carry me and my belongings upward.

At the top of the escalator everything rolled off and then it was very easy to pick it all up. A few kind people helped me. A young man arrived carrying the boxes he'd found at the bottom of the escalator. 'At least it wasn't you falling down there!' he said.

I put everything back in the boxes, and nothing was broken,I headed home. It had felt like quite a trauma, but then it wasn't.

I think the escalator was trying to tell me something.

Disabled pigeons & too many houses

I always notice deformed pigeons. A surprising number of London pigeons are lacking in toes, in extreme cases even feet. I can't seem to stop myself checking out the feet of each and every pigeon that I pass. I know it's an unhealthy and depressing obsession, but sometimes I think the pigeons might notice my footwards glance and know someone cares. Usually the birds are hopping around just fine with only half a foot, but sometimes I see a poor pigeon that's limping badly and wish there was something I could do to help.

I've thought about setting up a charity. I'd probably call it something simple like 'the Disabled Pigeons Society'. I understand the Queen owns racing pigeons, perhaps if I asked her she might lend her support? If so I could call it 'The Royal Society for the Protection of Pigeons Feet.'

I don't really know how to help the pigeons with poorly feet, but if I had money from a charity I would visit a vet and ask. I could also spend money on research, like finding out if there's any point making prosthetic pigeon limbs? Send me some money and I'm sure I'll decide how to spend it. Maybe I could even feed the one-legged pigeons something nutritious? Or spend the money researching healthy and tasty stuff for pigeons to eat in these circumstances.

While I was considering ideas for fundraising ventures I was struck by the idea that I have two houses at the moment. I'm only actually using one of them, until my undecided moving date sometime next week. I always look at pigeons that I pass in the street, yet I regularly look away from homeless people. Right now I have the chance to offer a home to someone in need, and considered whether I should do this? I decided, 'no'. I might need my new home as a venue for a 'Pigeon Aid' charity fundraising concert. I wonder whether the Queen would attend, and does Bob Geldof like pigeons?

Ikea

Well, Steve was 6th in his tournament. £600 isn't bad... But he's suitably disappointed. Only rubbish poker players are satisfied with 6th, so I like his attitude. I didn't know how he'd react to this result to be honest, there's still a lot I don't know about him. I'm enjoying finding things out. One thing I don't get about him is why he plays Ace Nine that way?

He's coming over soon, and we're going to bounce around on beds and eat ice cream. We're going to Ikea, I need a new bed. Steve says they have very good ice cream, but I don't believe him... Then we'll come back here and bounce around on beds some more.

A big day

I got the keys to my new house today. A big, old, tatty house with a friendly feel. I'm worried my friends will look around and only notice the tattiness.

There are blue bells in the garden, but nowhere to put a lawn mower.
There's an interesting deep triangular windowsill in one bedroom, but the bedroom doors are ugly mahogany veneer.
The kitchen is big, but there's nowhere to put a dishwasher or tumble dryer.
I really like the place, but at the same time I'm thinking, 'Eek, what have I done?'

I was supposed to be moving in today so I took the day off work. Instead I'll move 'some day next week.' I'm sharing a removal van with my ex, but a delay in the sale of his house means he can't move anywhere yet.

He's going to move into my old place temporarily, whilst I'm taking most of his place's furniture. It's a strange moving muddle, and right now I just want to be in my new place. No I don't. Isn't it a bit tatty?

I should be packing things in boxes, but the boxes haven't come.

And I'm supposed to be going to Ikea to buy a bed tonight, but this probably won't happen... And I don't care. It won't happen for a very good reason!

Boyfriend Steve was bought into the £150 Pot Limit Hold'em event by his work, to play the second event of the grandly titled 'European Series of Poker.' He made the final table, which means he's playing today at 2pm. Right now in fact! With the chance to win a £4080 first prize! You can buy a lot at Ikea for that.

I was going to sort out my cupboards this afternoon, pile things into box size piles on the floor. Instead I can't help sitting at my computer hitting 'refresh' too much on the tournament update page.

I want him to win. He's the best. I want all the best things in the world to happen to him. Winning £4k in a poker tournament is the least that he deserves.

He sent me an email before he played, telling me he had some boxes I could use, and 'Pillow cases are good for lugging stuff too.' He's the best. Did I tell you that yet? I want him to win.

The crazed and naive...

I'd hoped to play poker tonight, a satellite at the Gutshot card club. I find myself feeling friendly towards everything Gutshot these days, boyfriend Steve, works there and it's clear how much he cares about this company. He works too hard, wants to do well. I see that he feels just as proud and keen about everything Gutshot as I do about my company PokerStars. There's been quite a turnaround for both of us, Steve started out feeling a little negatively about PokerStars, I had my doubts about Gutshot. Now he's a comitted PokerStars fan, and I feel nothing but goodwill for all things Gutshot. Of course our companies are rivals in many ways, but we don't need to consider this bigger picture, we're simply happy to learn the names of each other's colleagues, and share minor office gossip. If our companies are at war we're soldiers who met in no mans land to share smokes and family photos! Not that it would be much of a battle - PokerStars is a big fish, Gutshot smallfry. And I always find myself rooting for the underdog, so yes, I like Gutshot...

I couldn't play tonight because au pair Tash was back late and couldn't babysit. Of course I miss my poker fix, but I know that Steve's working there tonight, and at the moment I look for every excuse to see him. I saw him just last night and there are always many long emails between our meetings, but nothing beats seeing him for real, and holding his hand, and kissing him too.

West Ham are on TV, so at least I can watch my team instead of playing poker. Steve always puts a bet on West Ham, it's a 'karma' thing apparently. There's a romantic magic for him in this. I don't get that magic, but I like the idea that he risks a silly £3 or £4 with thoughts of me.

He doesn't believe in the same kind of magic as me (well, who does?) but I like that he goodnaturedly respects all magical silliness.

I've had such a happy, love-struck day today, and I got to thinking about the thing that bothers me most about our relationship. The only thing really, but it does feel like a big thing. He's 29 I'm 36. It's not so much the years difference in our age that bothers me, that he'll be 33 when I'm 40. It's more that I feel I have different experiences, expectations, responsibilities. I have a daughter, yet he doesn't know kids. He hasn't met Amy, that whole thing's scary for both of us... And I wasn't really considering dealing with baby stuff ever again, and of course we're not at the 'considering babies' stage yet! But I'm aware that if we get there I won't have long to make a big decision.

So I enjoy my relationship with Steve right now without ever letting myself consider that it's more than just a 'fling'. I'm completely crazy about him of course, but I always try to see it from the outside. I've been in love before and it's ended, sometimes suddenly. I've done the 'dreaming of a happily ever after future' thing many times too, but it hasn't happened yet... So this time I'm not letting myself get carried away. Perhaps I've learned my lesson? I see the looks in my friend's eyes when I talk about him, I tell them how he's wonderful, but they're barely paying attention! I hope they'll make more effort when I've a broken heart or heartbreakers's guilt to deal with. They think they don't need to remember his name, he's just my 29 year old toy boy, it can't last long.

I see their point of view, it's unlikely enough that two people can live happily ever after together in the best of circumstances; but a 36 year old single mum and a 29 year old workaholic? It would take a miracle for any happily ever after magic to work with all we have to deal with; someone else's kid, an age difference, late night poker hours for him, 5am rises for me, he doesn't drink, and I *ahem* do! But most importantly how do we get past the lovestruck, foolish, blindness we have towards all these many problems?

Then today I remembered seeing a wriggling snake being carried down Tooting Bec Road. I thought about how happy it had made me feel to find a snake sticker in my bag, to stick this on a tube poster on the way to my date with Steve. I find myself seeing magic everywhere, in the most unlikely of places. So why can't I find magic in my unlikely relationship with Steve? Why can't my friends get to know his name and realise that I'm as crazy about him as I am about Tooting Bec tube station. I think maybe love works best for the crazed and naive.

Tooting Bec Sticker Sign

I think Stickers are magic, and so is Tooting Bec tube station. It's a little known fact that 'Tooting Bec' tube station was called 'Trinity Road' until 1936. No one knows the reason for this change.

Today at Elephant and Castle I saw magic evidence of stickering and tube station mysteries combined... Can you see that the platform sign here has been stickered over and replaced with the words Tooting Bec? Magic.

Fake sick and paper noodles

Just some pictures I took of stuff me and Amy made together. It's good to be creative with kids.

Tooting Bec Stone

There is an old standing stone on Tooting Bec Common, no one seems to know much about it at all. It's surrounded by old iron railings, which make it seem all the more untouchable and important. Amy believes it to be magic. (I do too, but I can't tell I believe standing stones have special powers or you'll think I'm some sort of freaky, hippy-dippy, New-Ager.)

Here's a picture I took of the Tooting Bec stone. And also Amy's attempt to recreate the stone experience at home in paper and dinosaur dominoes.