A quickie

Been absolutely ages since I have been on here... I almost forgot my login details. But, anyway, hello. I am here, just to say hello and to plead excuses as to why I haven't blogged for such a long time. In a nutshell:

Morning sickness (that went on all day)
Moving house (this was a saga; I was coordinating the move, God knows what the estate agents were getting a fat fee for, the buggers)
Sorting out house (this is still ongoing)
Feeling really, really tired (I have a bump to carry around now - it isn't huge (people say) but I've put on an eighth of my body weight (entirely normal))
No internet access (well, apart from at my parents' home)
Work's been rubbish - there's hardly any to be had - but thank God I don't have to commute for three hours a day. Blessings disguised, I tell you...

And that's about that really. Me, the four-plus-hours-of-kung-fu-a-week girl, can barely get up the stairs without needing a sit down. I've started yoga and t'ai chi, though, and go for walks, too. This to me is pretty strenuous stuff.

Anyway, I shall update again and include more detail. I will try.

Property solicitors: my thoughts

Some are good, OK, OK. Mine is great in fact. But some are shockingly incompetent. Why do they lie? Do they secretly wish they'd become teachers of fiction? They can certainly spin a yarn, but having said that, they rarely deliver said tales with any charm. I suppose they relax once they have the job booked. They don't give a damn about the stress they create; it is money for nothing very much. If I charged by the hour to recoup the cost of the time I have spent chasing and writing emails, I'd be booking my ticket to Mauritius now.

I have images of the man who is holding up my home move (he's acting for my buyer and vendor, sandwiching me in a somewhat stale chain)... sitting back in a big leather chair, feet on his desk, hand busy with his crotch. 'Cos that's what he is: a lying w*nker.

Springtime time lag

I have just about recovered from the time change last weekend that has enabled us to escape British Winter Time, or whatever its name is, so that we can enjoy longer, brighter evenings and see blooms springing up all over the place. The clematis, which has never been pruned and now has a blackbird nesting in it for the second year running, is heavy with shiny green leaves and white, scented flowers. I will miss this sprawling plant when we move later this month. I have let it grow wildly, so it hides the high wall of the building next door, and it has done me proud. If I could take it with me, I would, but it is massive: 20ft high by 20ft across, or more. The new place has a garden that is not shared, so I am looking forward to getting my fork and spade into that.

I don't know if it's the spring thing, but I seem to have developed sleep problems anew. I'm knackered. My head hurts intensely. I feel hot and cold simultaneously and consequently draw up or flick off the duvet for what feels like most of the night. This may be something to do with the weather or light, or something. Sap rising or something.

That's when good neighbours become...

Really. I mean. How long can a cold last?

Still, S and I had a superb afternoon and evening at our friends' home yesterday (they are our next-door neighbours). They cooked a delicious three-course Sunday lunch that started at 2pm and finished at about 10.30pm for us and the couple who live opposite. I was dosed up with various remedies, as I was determined that, having missed out on three social occasions due to mister virus, I would not make it four no-shows. And it was only next door.

The great thing is that the hostess wants to cook for us all again. "Let's do this once a month at least," she said. She is a very good cook. Her scallops were delicately browned, the lamb was tender, the frozen berries with hot white chocolate sauce... Mmm. All washed down with some red wine, prosecco, champagne, and eventually, water and coffee. I have to say, though, I slept not. I think it might have been due to the coffee, which I had weaned myself off while on my sleep programme. I will not be touching the stuff again. I don't even really like coffee. Tea, all the way. And water. Plenty of water...

It was one of those afternoons where I realised how much I love the area I live in – it's a part of London where there is a definite sense of community and friendliness (OK, except for GFG, obviously, who has incidentally ceased her noise after I knocked on the door one night and told them to quit the idiocy). So, anyway, six of us sat around the dinner table and laughed and talked about this and that and nothing in particular. When I stayed with my good friend R recently, she said that 'proper' socialising would not occur in the part of north London she lives in; she knows a few people to say hello to, but there would be no lunches and laughs. It did feel different there. It was different. More transient and hurried, somehow. But London is like that: there are pockets of friendliness, and darker places, where you wouldn't want to stop for too long. Of course, there are in-between places and the ones that are constantly changing, changing, changing. These strands keep the city youthful and interesting. I've had tasters of all of these; they make the capital what it is. I think back to the area in which I last lived (near to where I grew up) and recall hearing a scream down the street, which I later found out was a knifepoint attack. I had no idea; I was in bed, it was just a scream; it was not unusual. Then there was the gunman in the house next door. Oh, and the gangsters who left a man viciously dead in a house-cum-marijuana factory nearby. I also recall when the place I grew up in was all dairies and rag and bone men, sweet shops and bakeries and leather goods sellers. It's changed beyond recognition, some would say for the worse.

Most people I know have moved away from where I grew up. Many don't like it any more. I don't know if I will ever go back there, especially to the road I lived in. My memories are too powerful. The one time I did peek down 'my' road and saw my old front garden, I sat in my car and cried at the sight of concreted-over flowerbeds where stunning red roses, bluebells, tulips, snapdragons, stocks, dahlias, crocuses and marigolds had been tended by my parents. There had been flowers everywhere. So cared for, and now: nothing. Just cars, ugly cars, and concrete. Everyone had flowers in their gardens back then and made time to stop and say hello. We knew all our neighbours, which is why my current fellow road-dwellers are so important to me. If you can talk to, and relate to – and like – the people who share your space albeit a house or two along from your own abode, you feel you are home long before your key turns in your lock...

Tis the season to sniffle

Why is it that I have the lergy again? Argh.

And although I feel rubbish and am 'full of cold' as they say in certain parts, it's not enough to block out the stench of the mouse decaying somewhere in the floor/skirting. I am burning a Diptyque candle to mask the smell, but still, ugh.

Snakes

My spam inbox, which I clear regularly, just had a message in it telling me to 'grow giant snake in pants'.

No thanks.

Talking of snakes, GFG just passed me in the hallway; she didn't look at me (which satisfies me) but I had a brief, awkward chat with her husband, with whom I have no problem, as yet. I called the police station and left a message with the copper who had come round after GFG had kept us awake all night, saying that they were back. My initial instinct to walk the other way when I saw them at the doorway (going out), as I returned home evaporated swiftly. This is my home, I (and S) have done nothing wrong and I will not be made to feel uncomfortable again.

No thanks.

Calm after the storm

The calm before the GFG vs Us Upstairs storm wasn't really calmness. It was more a case of holding one's breath and counting to 1,000,000. Well, it did go on for many months until the point of no return, which is when the police were called in.

Now, GFG is on holiday presumably. She trundled out of the premises (after keeping us awake till past 4am), with a large case, looking fresh-faced, don't-care-ish and obviously thinking she can do what the hell she likes. We were bemused at her attitude. It was simply incredible. This is the trouble when you are a reasonable person. You give other people the benefit of the doubt and can't really concieve that others can knowingly behave so horribly and mean it. You live and learn. And she obviously thought our reasonableness was tacit compliance/the surrender of the bullied.

Having got the police and council involved, though stressful in itself, has bestowed a certain amount of calm on the situation. There was no alternative. Some people can't communicate, won't communicate and are reprehensible, so it's best to let the officials take over.

Good cop, good cop

The police came round and were very helpful. They listened, gave advice and offered to help. The main constable, who was an excellent communicator, soared in my estimation when he took the effects on my health and sleep very seriously, saying that he feels rubbish when he misses sleep and could relate to how I must feel.

It's a shame GFG isn't home, as they would have had a word about harassment among other things. Her front door had been left open (she'd left it that way), so they had a good look round her flat (and commented that they could see what I mean re the doors...) while shouting: "anyone in?" Ha ha, bet she'd love to have seen that.

They'll be back.

Showdown

The door slamming went on and on and on and on – until around 3.30am. We went to bed after speaking to the police, who said that they were busy (it was a full moon) but insisted that they did intend on getting someone out to us. As it happened, they called us at around 4.10am and suggested we get some sleep and said someone would come round later today.

Anyway, this morning, at 7am, the door SLAMMING started again. We shook in our beds (through anger and the vibration, not fear) wondering why and how life had become so strange. Can you believe it? We couldn't.

* just had a call from the police apologising for the delay and saying they will be sending someone around; I have to say, they have been pretty good at calling us back *

S and I cannot believe things are the way they are. We lay in bed as GFG ram-raided her way through the early morning, feeling sick and tired and bemused. We have done nothing – really, nothing! – to deserve this treatment. It's appalling. My stomach hurt and my head (dulled now by painkillers) throbbed. I had looked forward to today being productive and enjoyable. But all I am doing now is popping pills, drinking caffeine, waiting for the police and council to get back to me and, oh, yes, trying to write a piece (on stress) for a deadline today. Can't concentrate. Funny, that.

We had a feeling GFG might be on her way out to work, or somewhere, so S waited at the bottom of our stairs, inside our flat, and stepped out when she opened her door. He asked her if she was going out "because we called the police after the continual noise and they will want to speak to you..." She actually feigned surprise and looked at S as though he was talking Swahili. Barefaced in the extreme. As much as I would have liked to have punched her (and I punch pretty damn hard) I am not an especially violent person and don't want to end up with a police record because of her.

I immediately went down and asked her what the noise was all about, she kept on about "I'm on my way to the airport. I have to go," whilst S (who kept his composure remarkably well) said: "It was quite deliberate, what you did, that noise last night." I added: "You kept us awake all fucking night. What is your problem? What have we ever done to you? You know I have insomnia and you did that?!" The all-too-brief conversation, such as it was, ebbed between S telling her she was a liar, a despicable human being and a nasty piece of work, me asking what the fuck was going on, and GFG saying she was off to the airport and that "she would have let us know" if it was deliberate. Amazing, utterly incredible.

Watch this space.

Police

I've had enough of GFG's door slamming. So far, it's gone on until 1.30am, so I called the police (at about 1am) and am awaiting their arrival. I had earplugs in but still her blatant malicious SLAMMING, which shakes our home, woke us up. The SLAMMING has been going on all evening. I shouted at her to stop but it doesn't have an effect. Neither does the polite approach (tried that months ago).

My chest tightened horribly and my blood pressure must have gone through the roof; I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. I can't keep letting this happen. I will blow a fuse. I was having a nice peaceful evening watching telly and then she started (S was out). I have a deadline tomorrow and the actions of that selfish, immature little c*nt will now fuck up my day. It has gone on for months, the best part of a year. Too long.

I have fucking well had enough. ENOUGH.

Icy times

Talk about stress. I have a smallish amount of savings – from the sale of a flat and many years of hard work – in Icesave. I was gutted/stunned when I heard the bank went bust yesterday – especially when I couldn't access my 'easy access' cash. I have even developed a stress-related dry skin condition (nice, huh?) But this morning, as I sat glued to the computer listening to Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling, panic lifted.

Thank God they're going to cover savings. I'm finding work hard to come by as it is, and losing hard-earned savings would have been too horrible to boot. I spend time looking for good deals when supermarket shopping and have reined in my unnecessary expenditure where possible, so losing a huge amount of my money would have hurt. Badly. Oh, and any plans I had to visit Iceland are no more. I won't be spending any cash in a country that stuck two fingers up to me and other UK investors when it came to the question of compensation. Bastards.

Regardless of Icesave, I've been avidly watching or listening to the financial news (is there any other, beyond the US elections?!). It's addictive. God knows what will happen next. Is this really all the result of the US money men being complete morons?! The tectonic plates that have seemingly kept the economy going are sliding all over the place, giraffe-on-ice style. I'm half scared, half intrigued and overall, very pleased we didn't buy a new place last year.

Eye drips and drops

There are drafts of three unfinished posts in my 'posts' basket thing. They are entitled: "What goes around", "Choosing battles" and "Reflection".

The first two posts, had I bothered/had time to complete them, were about downstairs woman, GFG, and her wet walls and ceiling, which mysteriously leaked really badly for one night and then stopped. She had to come up and talk to us after being nasty for months. She still remained frosty and rude but it was funny to see her on the back foot. I call it karma. I call GFG, the door slammer extraordinaire, a bitch.

The third post, possibly more worthy of my time and brain power, was about how very tired I feel at times now. It reminds me of how I felt when I was suffering particularly badly from insomnia. I cannot now imagine how I got through weeks, months, years, without madness descending. (Or maybe it did...)

My current tiredness is due to having an eye infection that has gone on and on and on and on. I cannot wear eye make-up, which makes me feel a bit naked if I'm in a professional situation (I like my eyes to look 'polished', if that is possible). The skin around my right eye is red and raw, and I look as though I have been punched. The eye is scratchy (eyeball and lid). The eye streams at times. There seem to be bits in my eye. I wake due to all of the above, and I scratch and press my poor eyes.

I know it is not good to rub your eyes but I do so with much vigour. I do it in my sleep. I rub until my eyeballs squeak. The bad one is so irritated that I screw my fist on to the closed eye until my mouth waters. (I know, this is weird. I feel strange and obscene writing it down.)

My GP gave me some drops (that followed the previous prescription of eye cream) and while the drops feel cool, they don't stop the ITCHING. Bloody, stinking bastard itching.

I am irritated, itchy and annoyed. Even doing hours and hours of kung fu, which made me madly tired, have not been able to overtake the keep-awakeness of the eye thing. Hmph.

Things on my mind

• My dad is out of hospital and recovering. The doctors, on the whole, were incredible. The nurses ranged from fantastic to below average. There were occasions, however, where we had to drop in that I am a journalist – funny how attitudes changed from monosyllabic/apathetic to communicating/caring... Hmm.

• I love sparring. I can hardly walk today as I've done two days of kung fu in a row (yesterday was seriously hardcore – I sparred with three men, including my instructor, who batted me around as though I was a piece of string). Wonderful, wonderful stuff. It is by far the best exercise anyone can do. And great catharsis.

• The neighbour is a total c*nt and needs to be spoken to – probably tonight. She has again woken us with door slamming. It is unacceptable.

Salt of the Earth

I have a fantastic plumber, a superb electrician and marvellous builder/handyman. These three men are real finds. They are rare honest tradesmen and are so good at what they do that I must remember to write their numbers down in my address book. If I lost my mobile phone, I'd be back to pin-sticking in the Yellow Pages, which, as I have come to find, is not a source of high quality workers.

Today, our builder/handyman came round to do some work on our flat. I added to his workload by asking him if he would please put up two shelf units in the bathroom and en suite shower, and he did so without question – and without an extra charge. We drank tea and talked about crime, punishment, political correctness and common sense. All in a day's work.

Rage

The bitch downstairs (GFG = Ground Floor Girl) severely wound me up yesterday.

I deeply resent having her bullying behaviour being present in the back of my mind when I am talking to other people. Especially when I was talking to my dad yesterday, who is going into hospital for an operation tomorrow (bed availability depending). I wanted to give him 100 per cent attention. I did my best but there were slivers of Fuckface seeping into my head every now and then. I was slightly preoccupied.

What also pissed me off was that I felt ill and I wasn't able to relax in my own home. I should have really stayed in bed all day but I couldn't bear to be home alone with her making noise and using my garden equipment. If I had been feeling well and didn't have an infected eye, I would have gone outside and asked them what they were doing. But I was on my own and ill, and decided to hold off in case I needed a witness.

S was out for the day and I didn't want to go home from my parents' place so I popped into a friend's home for a chat. Then I went home. On the way, I bought some wine, knowing that I would need a drink to calm down. I was so furious that I was punching the wall (with gloves on) and did some press-ups on my knuckles. I only stopped punching as M, my rabbit, looked worried.

She let a door slam. The place shook. Bear in mind the endless (deliberate) slamming and stomping of feet (on wood) and the early morning hoovering – all knowing I suffer from insomnia. I screamed through the floor and didn't hear a peep afterwards. I will not be bullied. Does she really think people will put up with shit and that there will be no consequences? Moron. Does she know that people, when driven mad, don't care any longer?

Wrath

There are only two people in this world who incur my wrath on a personal level. One of them is GFG who has lived downstairs for nearly two years. She is the most selfish, arrogant person I've had the misfortune to deal with. I despise her.

I can barely begin to list the things she has done. But this morning, she decided to let her doors slam so hard that they woke me and S from sleep, and she then decided to hoover, and sang "I'm hoovering on a Sunday morning." Singing? Well, wailing. She did this because her husband (poor bastard) is home from his job away (he's rarely home, wonder why) and she feels a bit more courageous and finds she can more easily act like a knob. She helps herself to our garden furniture though she has paid for nothing, and you can be sure that if we used anything that was hers, she's go mental.

I am so angry I actually don't know what to do. I find it's bordering on harassment now and am considering calling the police. I can't put up with this for much longer.

I'm ill and should be relaxed at home (S has just gone out as he had something planned for today) but I haven't slept well and every time I hear her move, I am on edge. I will have to go out to get some peace of mind. This is ridiculous. Ridiculous. I can feel myself simmering; soon I will explode.

Girl of my dreams

GFG (Ground Floor Girl) is a pain in the arse. She's rude, selfish, messy, unfriendly and very odd.

And, as I discovered by listening through the wall, she is selling her flat soon. Such a shame.

(Normally, I would have scruples about eavesdropping. But where she is concerned, I am quite happy to throw them out the window – as she does with her skanky fag-ends.)

Oh, yes, I had a dream this morning that I was telling GFG exactly what I thought of her. It was quite satisfying. Maybe dreams can come true.

Fudge and foxgloves

Typical Southern Lakes landscape © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

There were foxgloves all over the place in the Lake District. They are pretty flowers, bright strands among the green. (I have a vague memory of them being poisonous though, so didn't touch any.)

View from Western Lakes © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

I was craving the break when it came. My head had been spinning with the amount of work I had to complete before I could pack and shop for our self-catering cottage. I was stressed so badly that my sleep was plagued with worry and teeth-grinding, which always scares me. I cannot let myself ever get back to my old, poisonous sleep-stress patterns. I am by no means completely cured of insomnia and when stressed, I gnash my teeth, wake with headaches and become crazed with exhaustion if it goes on for too long. I can control it by sticking to the regime. I have developed new patterns. It was so, so hard and I shall not be wasting all the effort I put in over the past 18 months.

Anyway, that particular week seems a long time ago now. In the past week, I've done some more work on my novel, which is now two-thirds complete and very dark in places. I'm not sure why, but when I write when I'm away and can let myself become completely engrossed in the story, the characters do things that surprise me. Something about the lack of email, internet and distractions gave me the chance to immerse myself in the characters' world. I found it difficult to write much when I had an entire day stretching out before me while S went walking up mountains one day (my knees don't allow such activities at the moment). But on the days when we went out early and came back in time for a cup of tea in front of Countdown (oh yes, we became middle-aged for sure)... well, on those days, I'd write a fair bit post-tea break. S, at such times, would go off and do yet more walking while I crafted my story.

Ullswater © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

We visited several new places including Penrith (closed, as it was Sunday, and very cold indeed), Kendal (unexpectedly pretty, with a lovely chocolate shop that sold tasty fudge that I'd been after in Penrith), Ullswater (a peaceful, vast lake), and we went to some old familiars, such as: Hawkshead (which is always raining when we go, which means we have to stop for cream tea), Ambleside (pretty and busy) and we also found ourselves back in Seascale (a bizarre town with a very long horizon that gives me the shivers; it is near the nuclear power plant and has an air of desolation that seems to creep under your skin).

Lemur monkey © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

And there was also the South Lakes Animal Park, which we thought might be just OK, but was fabulous. We wandered around in the cold sunshine (yes, it is possible) and saw plenty of animals, which were being bred to be released or were being cared for due to excessive poaching in their homelands. It was a very well-kept place and our only moments of unease were generated by seeing the big cats, beautiful lionesses, pacing up and down, looking as though they wanted to eat the people who watched. We didn't stay long in that area, preferring to see the free-running lemur monkeys and emus.

It goes without saying that we walked on the hills, though I was somewhat limited due to my ongoing knee problem, which is improving slowly. I got to the top of one mountain as the steep, winding road went quite a way up. S helped me over rocks as we made our way to the freezing summit; it was really very cold. I was scared to see the clouds coming in behind us and, when S said we shouldn't hang around, I was alarmed. The mountain is no place for the unfit or those who don't know it like the back of a hand. There's something sinister about clouds that appear from nowhere and follow like silent ghosts, surrounding you, blocking you from seeing your path home. I love views but do find the majesty of what nature can do (sea, wind, sun) quite astonishingly awe-inspiring.

We did some clay pigeon shooting, which I really enjoy, despite the man in charge being a bit too prescriptive. I think he thought I was incapable of holding the rifle still and kept interfering. I hit the targets when he refrained from standing up close and personal and let me get on with it. I should have told him that I do kung fu and am not averse to hard sports. Silly chap. Anyway.

So, back to reality. I did a clever thing, for once, and booked this week off, too. For the first time in years, I have two weeks off! But, being self-employed, I did get a couple of work-related texts from colleagues last week who seemed to have forgotten that I was on leave despite me drumming it in. To say I was angry was an understatement; my neck snapped into tension and I had to reply to tell the man to leave me alone and sort it out himself. I couldn't believe the thoughtlessness.

Yesterday, I had one work-related conversation but that was OK, as I'd made the call to put my mind at rest about something I'd slaved on before going on holiday. It was deemed 'compelling' by a new editor I'm working for – hurrah! Deeply relieved, I went to check out the sales, sit by the river for lunch and later watch The Edge of Love, which was average at best but was an impromptu stop at the flicks and not a bad way to spend the latter part of the afternoon. Today? Not sure... but I like it that way. The sun is shining in London and I have a diary that says only 'hol'. Great stuff.

Cringarama BB

Is there anything more cringeworthy than someone throwing themselves at someone who is patently not interested? Sylvia has excelled herself in that department. The way she followed new housemate Stuart (pictured left) around was puppyesque – and I am pretty sure he wanted to shake her off his leg. His body language was a lesson in 'get stuffed' (or as Miranda in SATC might say: 'He's just not into you!'

Last night, he told Jennifer that he was only in the house for the experience and nothing else (i.e. no Sylvia). While I find Kenny Everett – oops, I mean Stuart – a bit odd, I did feel sorry for him. If it had been a woman targeted by a man, there would have been uproar. It's a shame that Jennifer, who purports to be Sylvia's friend, didn't just tell her that Stuart didn't fancy her. Instead, we now have a situation where Sylvia's all angsty about her poor boyfriend In The Real World and is hankering after the Everett lookalike (why, I have no idea).

Anyway, as tedious as all this might be, it's not half as dull as the Dale-Jennifer mating dance. Uggggggh...

PS: Seeing as I was away, I didn't get to talk about Alexandra's efforts. Hmm, yes. She reminds me in some ways (mainly in terms of her attitude) of the lovely Ground Floor Girl – our neighbour – who is a difficult, defensive moron. I was listening through the wall recently (well, I am a journalist and quite frankly her voice is quite loud)... and she was telling her visitor, an estate agent , that she is off to travel the world soon. Shame.

Too late for flowers?

I have realised that it is June and I haven't planted any flowers for summer. Is it too late?