Wheeling, prizes and simple

1. The view from my new desk is not great. But today I get to watch seagulls wheeling and circling over the motorway. I don't know why they're doing it and I normally can't stand seagulls (great, scary things with beady eyes) but today they look magical. Like the sparrows over the dilapidated West Pier in Brighon.



2. Our mini team buy lottery tickets for this week's Euromillions. We talk at length about what we'll do when we win. How we'll split the prize and what we'll spend it on first. It's nice to fantasise even though we know the odds of winning are about 1 in 76 million. It keeps our spirits up.

3. A piece of work I have been dreading turns out to be simpler than I thought it would. I talk it through with a senior colleague and he suggests that there's no point trying to do it anything other than the most simple way. This approach just seems really sensible. Why complicate things?

Blue leather goodies

The word cerulean always reminds me of an episode of the X Files where it was an unusual enough word to be used as some kind of mind control trigger thing. Okay. I admit it. I can't really remember what the episode was about. Not completely. But the word cerulean has stuck with me. Maybe because I had never heard it before then. Or maybe because it is such a wonderful word. It curls around the tongue enticing you to say it a few times.

Well, this season the delightful Smythson have introduced a range of cerulean blue leather goods to their collection. This is their camera case (perfect as a mini make up case to keep your lippy, hair clips, compact etc in) and their beautiful make up brush roll.

I love the crocodile effect blue and the details like the quilted lining and leather zip pull. At £105 and £260 respectively they are a little pricey but Smythson quality has a royal warrant so can't be half bad.

For times when the purse strings are a little bit tighter I rather like this Brit heart shaped patent leather key ring from Aspinals
The same style as the Brit tote but a little bit more affordable at £25. It's just a lovely thing to have in your handbag with the keys to your cute car or your gorgeous pied-a-terre attached. A chic and tasteful gift for St Valentine's Day perhaps?

Journeys

The weekend whirrs round ever quicker and here I am again at Sunday night.

The weekend has been marred by a few difficult journeys. Getting to the M4 on Friday was made ever so difficult when police closed the A329(M) (which leads from Reading to the M4). Not sure why it was closed but traffic was backed up, stationary and sweating, for a fair few miles before dispersing through Winnersh and Woodley in search of roads that were moving. Our 30 minute trip became an hour then more as we tried to escape the morass of vehicles all desperately trying to get away or home or just somewhere else. When we finally made it to the M4 it was quiet and smooth and officially okay again.

Then tonight trying to get out of London along the South Circular at the precise same time as rather a lot of other people. It seemed that we headed towards it through patches of treacle - free for a moment and then stuck again. Stop start go brake wait drive. When we finally get home, an hour longer than the hopeful Google directions suggested, the rain had stopped allowing us to unload in the dry. Inside the flat is warm and welcoming. The kettle goes on.

And finally the realisation that just because something once worked and was good doesn't mean it always will and that maybe once it's broken it can't be fixed. An eternal optimist I ignored the signs, chalking them up to pessimism and coincidence. But no. I was wrong. A few awkward seconds, a moment's flare and I know that I should have accepted it sooner. Oh well. Life goes on, just differently. The balance shifts and I carry on.

Real real real fake real fake

A very recent post by the lovely Esmerelda has caught my eye this week... In it she talks about the cost of designer bags and of (sorry for ruining the punchline) getting a fake bag as a gift.

Now, I know I like my designer bags (and you probably know I do, too). And I know that I am as much of a label snob as the next girl (except maybe Posh Spice seeing as I have more sense than money. Of course, winning the Euromillions lottery on Friday will put that all to rights. I am counting on you all to cross your fingers for me. And toes). However I don't think I have ever, not never, paid full price for a top notch designer bag.

I know that to some people spending £200 (that's about $450) sounds obscene. But to me I know that I will treasure that £200 bag and it will last me forever (to be fair not many of my bags get used for more than a week a year so they should). But this is about my limit for a quality bag. I have a few exceptions...this APC satchel was posted on Wee Birdy's blog today when in fact I have had mine for almost 6 months and I have already had so much use out of it that it was worth every penny of the price (in my opinion it's a true classic). Mind you, I thought when I bought it that it was from the previous season. And when I visited the APC store in Paris last October (dahling!) they didn't even blink at me. (But then I am hardly a chic 5ft6 and size 10 so not exactly in their target market). Anyway I digress.

When I see a bag I really want I tend to wait. Wait and watch. I check out all the places I can buy said bag. And I wait for sales. Watch eBay. Look out for special offers at department stores and boutiques. Somewhere here or there that I can get a discount or something extra free. Look out for it at duty free (Oh, Heathrow Terminal 5!) and so on.

A few weeks ago I treated myself to a bag by Janet Collin. It's unlikely that most people will have heard of her, but she used to design for Mulberry (which I know you will have heard of).
Anyway, I had never heard of her myself, but I spotted this rather nice little item on Cocosa. Have you heard of Cocosa*? It's the perfect place for an expensive impulse buy on the UK interweb. Lots of designer items (with perhaps the word "designer" applied rather loosely, as they have a lot of designers on there I have never heard off) reduced by a fair old chunk, available for 48 hours and often sold out in minutes. Like this little puppy:


Nice, eh? Well this cutie cost me (and I don't normally share this) a measly £150. It was sold out within about 2 minutes of the Cocosa sale opening. And it's oh so practical. And chic!

When I took it out of the packaging at work my (male) colleagues knew not to ask me how much it had cost but to ask how much I had saved. About £300 I responded. They were a little bit shocked. But I think they thought that meant that the after-sale cost of the bag would be significantly more than £300. But oh no, not for me. There are bargains to be found.

Of course, this still sounds like a lot of cash. I know. But I am no WAG. I just enjoy having something beautiful hanging off my arm (other than Mr Manbag, who is surprisingly cheap). And I always, always, choose something that is classic. I shy away from fashion items, resist the silly bright colours (except for the odd red bag. My weakness!), the applique patterns, tassels and the shiny riveted hardware. I like to think that my bags will outlive me, like well chosen children (Madonna knows her onions on this). Some leather and brass and a nice drawstring dustbag. And feet. A good bag has feet to stop the bottom getting ruined. Are you listening Orla Kiely?

I even have, (shock! Horror!) a few fakes. High quality fakes bought on holiday in Turkey. I know this is a TERRIBLE SIN and that it detracts from the value of the designer item blah blah blah. But I don't think I will ever buy myself a genuine Hermes Birkin. And I like the Mulberry Elgin but not enough to spend three or four hundred pounds on one. So I am not above lowering myself in order to get hold of a style I like. And when in Spain over Christmas I could have been sorely tempted by some of the fake bags the hawkers were selling, had they not all been fashion centric designs.


I must confess, though, that I have never told my mother how much some of my bags have cost me. Even my fake bags. I think she would probably have a heart attack. And I will admit that that makes me feel just a little bit ashamed of myself. Just a little bit dirty inside.

*If you would like an invite to Cocosa leave a comment and I will send you one forthwith.

Power pointless

Tomorrow is a sort of review day in my team. We have pulled together some spreadsheets and some slides (don't you just love Power Point? Ironic name really because it has no power and it's both completely pointless and never short enough to get to the point), we shall all come dressed just that bit smarter and we shall all be in the office that tiny bit earlier than normal.

Such is the nature of modern office jobs and modern office politics that I don't expect any important decisions to be made on the back of these shining slides. I expect we shall spend a couple of hours telling senior people how much great stuff we're doing and if we're allowed to do this other great stuff how brilliant it will be. And then we will return to the bat cave to drink tea, eat biscuits (we're especially great at this) and moan how nothing happens as a result of these reviews. That's just the way it goes.

Best of all we get to do it all over again next month.

What happens after dark

There's a club on the street where I live. You wouldn't necessarily know that it's there. It's tucked away down a short alleyway, the front door hidden from view. If you passed it at any time other than, say, midnight on a Friday or Saturday you wouldn't see it at all. Like a secret doorway to another world.

On one of those Fridays or Saturdays, though, you might see a queue of people, shivering in the cold waiting to be frisked by the friendly bouncers. Making jokes about being felt up by the large black men in their puffa jackets (or not, if you're a lady). Waiting to pay their fiver for entry and a large drink. Perhaps picking a chocolate from the tin by the door on the way to the dance floor.

It's a friendly sort of place. The music is pretty old school - when we end up there it always seems to be 80's night (the UK's longest running 80's night, in fact) where grown ups come to dance, away from the teenagers in short skirts and tight tops. Here you find a largely 30-something crowd getting over-excited when Sweet Child of Mine or Take on Me comes through the speakers. We don't want cool music. We want music that makes us happy and reminds us of when we were young and untroubled by mortgages and wrinkles. The warm blanket of nostalgia. Comforting and cosy. And that's what we get here.

The feeling is definitely different to other clubs. There's banter and camaraderie as we all sing along to all the lyrics, smiling and nodding and punching the air with our fists in unison. And it doesn't feel predatory. It feels like everyone is just out for a laugh and a bloody good dance.

We even dance on the stage, packed together like sardines, buffeted and swayed by the people passing by to and from the bar and the unfeasibly disgusting loos. We're pushed and pulled but it doesn't matter because it's our night for dancing and we're having a great time, thanks, even if they have played Tainted Love twice - once when the dance floor was empty and once when it was full.

Then at five minutes to two we leave. Head out before the lights come on and everyone is revealed, sticky and red and sweaty from the heat and the dancing. We walk out into the cold night air and enjoy how fresh it is and how young we feel. A couple of hundred yards later, stumbling through the cold chattering about who danced and who pulled and who drank the most and we're home. Satisfied for another few months.

How biscuits can change the world

It's been a good week. In our secret batcave* we have invested heavily in snack products. This is a good thing.

Our office building is on a an industrial estate near a motorway and a train track. It's not as unlovely as the one the brilliant Mr London Street works on but it isn't exactly the Lake District. Not that I fancy the Lake District much. Too much mud, countryside and not enough shopping. And probably more ramblers in waterproof clothing than is strictly necessary. I digress. The biggest problem with our office building, despite the ace view over the lake (with kites and herons and swans, oh my!) is the lack of shopping facilities (a theme I have embraced, can you see?). So if you get hungry outside of the canteen hours you are ON YOUR OWN. Plus the prices in the canteen make me wince a little. Maybe it's because I know how much a chocolate bar/can of coke/piece of fruit costs in the real world. Maybe it's because of my poor, working class upbringing (violins please!).

Anyway. We decided to go to local shopping mecca Sainsbury's to fill one of those ugly orange carrier bags with nice things to eat for considerably less cost than the same goods from the canteen. Not that you can get clementines and high quality granola bars and coconut biscuits from our canteen. And that means that we have a cupboard full of tasty stuff. Plus some healthy items for good measure, though unfortunately that kind of stuff mostly tastes of dry. And needs some nice hummus or some cream cheese to dip it in.

And today we spent the whole day being unpolitically correct. This included the person on our project who represents HR calling another team member a retard because he couldn't figure out how to get in to a net of clementines (which weren't opened. But he hadn't figured).

Perhaps it's a bit early to say that this has been a good week, after all I could have a shit Friday (though one that involves a pub lunch can't be all bad). But the presence of a packet of ginger biscuits, some fruit tea bags (which one of my colleagues has only just found out do not contain tea. She is very happy about this because she hates tea and had always been left out of the hot drink round. Now she can have a cranberry and something infusion when I make an Earl Grey) and some of those Ryvita "crisps" that actually use more energy to eat than they contain seems to have created something of a party atmosphere in the batcave. Rock and roll, as they say.

*The office that my project team has secured away in a corner of the building where no one knows where we are. It's just a room with 6 desks, one phone and an projector. But being away from the management, from our humdrum normal workloads and away from people who might give us more work makes us all very happy. And other people very jealous.

Me as Nigella Lawson

When I arrived in the office this morning I realised that what I thought was zingy, bright, zesty, perfect for spring orange eyeshadow was in fact pinky I look like I have a serious heroin problem and need a good night's sleep away from my pimp orange. Not good. And no amount of rubbing seemed to shift it from my eyelids.

To then break off two (not one! Two!) of my fingernails (painted a beautiful pink shade called splendour) attempting to open a Lock and Lock container without due care and attention in order to give a home made shortbread biscuit to a colleague just added insult to injury really.

Not exactly a Nigella day. *sigh*

Noogar

Your in-head pronunciation in this post is key. Pay attention. There'll be a test at the end.


I popped in to town to meet Mr Manbag on his way home from work today. The car is in the garage (long but not terribly interesting story) so we didn't go to the supermarket at the weekend - food is needed and the centre of Reading has a cornucopia of delights for the weary shopper (i.e. Sainsbury's Metro and Marks and Spencer. Not just shopping...). On the way back to the flat we swung by Boots the Chemist. Like you do.

I spotted a display of cheap perfume. You know, the kind of perfume that your mum used to wear in the 70s but that no-one would now. Tweed. L'aimant. Charlie.

Charlie reminds me of a line in the BBC comedy Dinnerladies...



(Skip to about 2 minutes 55 in)

There's something about Charlie that is reminiscent of the 70s, older ladies on HRT and desperation. But in my after work wisdom I thought to myself it's a classic! If it's still available after 30 years how bad can it be? Surely it's good stuff just a bit weak and lacking in a decent base note/top note/middle note and sprayed some liberally on my wrist. Charlie Gold.

Oh my fucking god. I smell like an old hooker. Cheap and tawdry and oh so sickly. And it won't flippin' wash off. Horrible stuff.

Then on the way home, chattering on the escalator about Mr Manbag's day he explained how popular the big cake of Thornton's Chocolates he had taken in to work was and slipped a Diplomat into my coat pocket. Not the person. I don't mean an ambassador or attache or something. The chocolate. Mr Manbag had retrieved it for me from the top of one of these, a gift to dispose of from Tooting Squared which Mr Manbag kindly took the problem off our hands by taking it in to the office:
Sorry about the mingey picture. Anyway, it's a ring and base of nougat covered in chocolate piping and chocolates. It's the size of a normal cake. And covered with chocolates, people! A cake made of nougat that is covered in chocolates. Nom. Hence the diplomat. Mr Manbag also revealed that no one had cut in to the nougat yet. So I asked for some to be brought home. And I think I might even be able to persuade him to say the word nougat properly. Like how my family says it in deepest darkest Oxfordshire.

Nugget.

None of this hoity toity noogar malarkey.

Nugget. That's what I want. How do you say it?

Patience, quality and freedom

After Thursday's :( post I feel all :) today. So a 3BT...

1. Mr Manbag gets up before me but spend hours and hours surfing in his jammies whilst I get ready to go out. I get frosty and say I'll head into town to do my chores without him. He gets snippy back and heads for the shower. I realise it will be much nicer to go into town with him than to meet him later so I build a bridge and get over it and wait for him to be ready. It IS much nicer.

2. I return to Timpsons to pick my re-heeled boots up. The nice cobbler tells me that he was impressed by my boots. He tells me at length that they're good quality and that if his wife saw them she'd want them. High praise indeed.*

3. Mr Manbag is out for the night, staying at a friend's house. I have the flat to myself. I think I will play some Tomb Raider (a Christmas gift - I love it), have some takeaway food (not sure if it will be Chinese or Wagamama's at this stage) and rent a DVD from my local Londis. But first I do the washing up, put the dishwasher on and light some incense from L'Occitane. Now I can relax.

*My boots are from Duo Boots who do calf fitting boots up to size 43 foot. It's rather like having tailor made boots. If you have trouble finding a fit then I'd definitely recommend them.