Snow + Beach

We've had the unusual occurance of snow that hasn't melted as soon as it lands this week.

So, for the first time in my life, I've seen a snowy beach.

I couldn't resist taking photos until my fingers were too cold to work the dials of my camera.

And there's more to come later in the week...

The Sky Saves The Day (Again)

Yes, I know we've only just had Skywatch, but I couldn't wait until next week to post these photos. I had yet another super frustrating day. You know the type, when you think, aha, this will take ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and you're still wrestling with it four hours later? Yep, one of those.

So again, it was 'take some deep breaths and look out the window time'.

On applying for a Career Development Loan

The snug, smug feeling of 'all's right with the world' that I woke up with this morning was clearly hubris. Or perhaps I should have just realised by now that any dealings with those providing educational finance in this country is fated to induce a serious need for wine in the unfortunate person coming up against systems that must've been designed by someone who took as a model some of Kafka's more nightmarish writings. But, at least it's good to know that it's not just Chinese banks that reduce me to a froth mouthed frustration.

And how stupid I was to think that, just because I had account with a bank for thirteen years or half my entire life, that they would actually have my details correctly. After a short verbal battle with the Indian call centre, where the fact that I had to ask the person to repeat themselves when they were asking 'what's your address' made me wonder about the definition of 'fluent English speaker' that the bank was using, I was told me the information I'd given them was wrong. But they couldn't tell me which bit of information was wrong.

So I had to walk walk the mile and half or so into town, to go and sort it out with my branch, whilst trying to suppress a mini meltdown that someone of nefarious intent had somehow hacked into my account and my overdraft was probably buying them a new plasma screen TV. The only thing 'wrong' with my information was that my home telephone number wasn't there, but as the rather astonished young man who talked to me said, they shouldn't ask you security questions about data that doesn't exist. (Why on earth no-one has put this on the system in the last thirteen years is another matter entirely.)

But, the system is mightier than mere mortal common sense.

Walking back home it started to snow. My boots started to leak. Just a little bit, but that's just a little bit more freezing water than I like inside my boots. It was one of those moments when you just want to be, like, universe are you KIDDING me?, and then feel a bit guilty because, after all, this is hardly a major disaster.

So then I phoned them back, and everything went OK, but frankly, by the end of the call I was past caring whether or not I get approved for the loan, I just want to never have to call them up again.

So then I confirmed to national stereotypes and make myself a cup of tea, confirmed to gender stereotypes and ate some chocolate, and looked out of my window at the beautiful winter sky, took some deep breaths and attempted to relax. And it's sort of worked. A glass of wine when I'm watching Supernatural later might not go amiss though.

*CDL loans are how most people finance postgraduate study, and as only two banks offer them, they can pretty much treat you as shoddily as they like.

View more relaxing skies at Skywatch Friday.

Continued

Yes, I'm still on the throwing out theme. You may possibly have underestimated the scale of the clear out, like the people at the charity bookshop, who obviously didn't believe me when I said I had over a hundred books to bring in, and then were all like, 'Oh you do have a lot of books, don't you?', looking all surprised when I turned up with them. And I stifled an urge to retort, 'well, if I said I had over a hundred books, maybe that's because I have over a hundred books!' but I refrained and just smiled nicely instead.

Yesterday, was tip and book charity shop day. Today was give furniture away day. I found a great local charity that comes to pick up furniture and divested myself of:

• A bureau that is incredibly uncomfortable to work at. I've hardly ever used it, except to do a few holiday university assignments, and I remember more about how pissed off I was about how uncomfortable I was, than anything about the essays themselves.



• A wardrobe that I can't actually hang my clothes up in. It's a man's wardrobe, and, the last time I checked, I was definitely not a man. (I hung dresses and stuff on my bookshelves. Obviously.)



• A double piano stool. This provenance of this piece puzzles me, as I've never lived in a house with a piano. I doubt if anyone in my family can even play the piano. Yet I had a piano stool in my bedroom. Strangely enough, it didn't get much use.

So I've established that these furniture items were neither well used, nor particularly well-loved. And yet, whilst I was waiting for the removal guys to pick them up and take them away I had a strange clenching feeling of 'omg I can't believe I'm getting rid of these', and it was only at that point I realised how strong the security bond of familiar things is.

But they were carried off to be renovated and resold. And instead of having any pangs of remorse, I felt fantastic. Like ripping off a scab (this is meant to be a good thing). Like the glee in throwing the monstrously hideous dressing table mirror (the dressing table that went with it was coated in white, pink and brown patterned padded vinyl, which mercifully vanished years ago), that I'd tried to improve my painting the white and gold frame deep purple and sticking virgin Mary medals to, into the rubbish pile at the tip and hearing the glass smash.

I almost can't believe the amount of stuff I've got rid of over the last five days, probably half or more of everything I own. The trouble is I think it might be addictive. I'm now finding myself looking around at my life (not to mention the three items in my room that haven't been dejunked yet) and wondering what else, that I live with, that I might even be attached to through familiarity, I would be glad to get rid of...

Harmony

Junk

So far I have thrown out:

• Two fake leather miniskirts
  
• A purple and white tiedye top with a white sparkly eye of horus design on the front
  
• A suitcase with a broken pulling handle (Rome, 1998) and a broken lock (Cornwall, 2000)
  
• Two of my three copies of Wuthering Heights
  
• Two cheap copies of Northanger Abbey
  
• General accoutrements of dead dog including basket, water bowl and squeaky toys
  
• All my school reports, which have reminded me not to take to seriously other people's judgement on how you can do, after the read my high school reports where I was given Bs, Cs and even Ds in subjects that I eventually got As or A*s in
  
• My merit certificates from middle school
  
• Notes for a presentation my (perhaps unsurprisingly) ex boyfriend was doing on methods of torture in the European and Near Eastern ancient world
  
• Several of the same ex boyfriends socks
  
• A solitary stiletto heeled black ankle boot
  
• High school textile projects that are now falling apart
  
• Manuals for every mobile phone I've ever owned
  
• A selection of random loose change from various countries
  
• The brochure of a company I went on two excursions with during my holiday to Iceland in 2006
  
• Two German dictionaries and a book of German verbs
  
• The booking print out from my 2008 flight to Beijing
  
• The prospectus Lampeter sent me when I was first thinking of applying, and assorted accommodation bumpf
  
• An assortment of mini skirts in sizes that mean I will only fit into them again if I develop a serious illness
  
• Various sketch/scrap books where there was a first page and nothing else
  
• Two sets of hair curlers, both used once and then discarded in disgust
  
• An eclectic array of expired medications
  
• A packet of expired condoms
  
• Fossilised nail polish
  
• Eyeliner that I'm allergic to but was saving for something (nights when I want to go out looking like I've got a contagious eye disease?)
  
• Handbags that were cute when I was 16 but would now make me look like I need my medications readjusting
  
• A pair of jeans whose zip has been broken for at seven years

...and I still have a little bit more to go!

This has been my world this week, go check out some others.

Not Being A Bag Lady No More

This post doesn't have a photo, because I'm sick of the sight of it's subject. (I'm also hoping that that sentence vaguely makes sense.)

Earlier in the week I moaned about not having the will to do things that I wanted to do. One of them was writing more, another was tidying what I could euphemistically describe as my living space but is actually my bedroom, because, yes, I might be limping towards thirty, but I still live with my mother.

And every morning I wake up amidst piles and boxes of detritus I've accumulated over the last twelve years and inwardly shudder and never do anything about it. Somehow it all just seemed too much.

In the normal course of events, this is followed by some internal recriminations about slovenliness and laziness, and a passing shadow of fear that I'm clearly going to become the crazy old woman who gets crushed to death by the piles of newspapers she's been hoarding for twenty years. But as part of my general scheme of navel gazing, I decided to consider why I was doing a junior bag lady at home when in China I had less possessions that any of my friends.

If perfectionism is my writing kryptonite, then guilt is why I'm living in a lumber room, because I genuinely felt guilty for throwing stuff out: if I loved something when I was six then obviously I can't throw it out now, I might not have worn something for five years but there's nothing wrong with it. (Well, unless you count the fact that I'd look like trussed mutton in a lot of my 'perfectly fine' teenage/early twentysomething outfits.) Getting rid of it would be wasteful, and being wasteful is wrong.

Once I realised that the reason why I've been living with two (yes, TWO) broken suitcases, my dead dog's bed (died ten years ago) and every calender I've had since 1997 amongst other miscellanea I've been on a bit of a mission. Throwing stuff out (or being cheap, putting it aside for a car boot) feels good! I've only dealt with a quarter of the rubbish that's been festering away for years and already I feel strangely light and relieved.