Offline, off beat and off on one.

Well, I am back in the land of passwords, email, facebook and people who use lol so often I want beat them to death with my keyboard (you know, most of them aren't laughing out loud when they type it, fucking liars). My laptop screen has died and I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to get to grips with substandard alternatives to access the net, whilst trying to track down a relevantly knowledgeable nerd to fix the problem. It would seem this was too much to ask (special thank you goes, in particular, to the bushy bearded fellow in the local IT store who when I asked how much it would cost to get a new back light for the monitor, replied 'Dunno', and then simply stared at me with his dead eyes until I backed, slowly and silently, out of the shop. A future giant of business in the making, I'm sure of it). Anyhoo, I attempted to get online using my mobile phone, but found that staring at such a tiny screen for longer than it took to make a frigging internet connection was enough to induce the stomach churning headaches known to man. I also tried to use my Playstation 3, which was more successful than the phone, if not tooth-itchingly slow. It also had the minor downside of only recognising certain links, so I was able to open my email account, just not read any of the messages. I could log into facebook and scroll up and down, but not across, so was only able to view half a page at any time. So I resorted to simply plugging the laptop into a separate monitor (I say simply, but the idea didn't occur for a few weeks, and I say I, but it was actually fiance that it eventually occur ed to).
On a less technology-based note, wedding plans are under way! I have no earthy idea as to where, when or how we will get married but I am researching every type of wedding known to man in my usual obsessive need for information. I am totally in love with both the offbeatbride.com blog, with its marvellous 'wedding porn', and indiebride.com, in particular their kvetch forum, which is a mine of random ideas and unique perspectives on the whole concept of marriage. I am exploring the idea of marrying abroad, as I like the idea of an outside affair (have always had a passion for the Al fresco..) but this is not possible in England. My dad has suggested an elopement to Gretna green, but I'm not very sold on that one. I am pleased to discover that fiance is as keen to strip away all the pointless traditions that have attached themselves to weddings but are entirely for the guests entertainment, rather than the couples commitment. I am adamant there shall be no receiving line, no bouquet toss (fairly sure there won't be any flowers), no speeches, no favours and NO DJs. Anyways, I shall, fingers, eyes and legs crossed, be updating much more regularly now my connection to the world beyond my garden has been restored.

Bonsoir!

Well, I have been away, but I am back and, quite frankly, unimpressed with the return to normality. The clan and I packed our trunks and left on a jet plane (well, a budget airline papermache creation that probably cost less than the stale egg sandwich I was overcharged for whilst on board), setting up camp in the Latin Quarter of Paris. I have found my spiritual place of calm and satisfaction. I have found a place where I can visit Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf in the morning, buy pepper spray and snails in garlic sauce in the afternoon and be promised that all my drinks will be free if the men I am with partake of the skin sins in the Sexodrome or Pussy Palace. I have found Japanese eateries that serve steak so beautifully tender that it is merely shown the grill before it's served to you, bloody, soft and melty and French patiseries that offer cakes and sweet goodies that rot the canines whilst you browse.
I have also, in amoungst my tourist treats, become engaged to be married. I enjoy the term 'engaged to be married', it's links to the idea of a telephone being engaged offering a nod to the idea that I shall forever more emit a busy signal to all passing passes.

Oh, and I am weak...

I caved in and made my brother a birthday cake. It was in the shape of Stewie Griffin's head and had 'Victory is Mine' written on it it red icing.
I'm going to hell.

Roll it around and see how it feels.

This evening, against my better judgement and purely because I am of a macabre disposition, I am listening to a documentary about a plane that crashed when the 15 year old son of the pilot was having a go at sitting at the controls. It is on youtube, split into about 5 videos, and I am listening to it whilst on another page writing this. I should probably not be listening, since we fly off on holiday in a week, but I have an odd need to examine all sorts of 'what-ifs' for any change to my daily routine. I guess I figure that if I have thought about it happening to me, it probably won't, since it's always the thing you're least expecting that gets you.

I read a charming short story today, by Amos Oz, who makes my heart sing and brow furrow in equal measure. In it, I was introduced to a character with possibly the best name I have heard since Veruca Salt. Shimshon Sheinbaum. Shimshon Sheinbaum. Say it. Say it, out loud, three times. I will be amazed if you aren't smiling by the third time. I may write to Mr. Oz, and see if he's bothered to say it out loud. I bet he has. He probably spent hours, pacing back and forth in his study, saying all manner of name combinations over and over again until he found one that had this effect. Kudos, Mr. Oz, kudos.

A lesson for you all.

Sooo, I thought I had pulled off the deception of the decade by convincing my nearest and dearest that I had lovingly baked a beautiful birthday cake for my son a couple of weeks ago. Sadly, as I should have anticipated, this little white lie has come back with the firm intention of sinking its teeth into my posterior. My mother has requested that I produce an identical cake for my brothers birthday on Sunday. It would seem that I am now the cake lady. Never lie, you'll only end up having to bake.

Bukowski on the bus.

Whilst on the local bus into town a few weeks ago, I noticed that someone with an extremely steady hand had scratched the words 'This whole place is diseased with the presence of everybody but myself.' into the back of the seat in front of me. I was fairly sure that it was a Charles Bukowski quote and checked with a couple of my more navel-gazing friends later to make sure.
I encourage this kind of grafitti, it lifts the spirits to see something dawbed on a public surface that has been written by someone who has read a book and had a thought. It is so much more engaging than simply 'I luv Craig 4eva 4real.'
Not that I mean any of the Craigs, Daves, Kevs or Garys any disservice - I am glad their underaged girlfriends love them, it will make it much easier to pressure them into giving blowjobs in the backseats of Vauxhall Novas. But I am not entertained by these felt tip declarations; they don't make me wish their author had written more. So, next time you're on a bus, scratch something worth reading and address it to me.

Mixing it up.

I am in a sunny mood today, my new cocktail shaker has arrived. I have had my trusty lounge shaker for a good long while now, and it has served me well. The cap on it serves as a perfect and handy 25ml measure (the fact I don't use it since my free pouring training isn't important - it's a feature and we love each and every one)and I have flung many a Martini, many a mile in it. But I was given my lounge shaker by a Diagio rep at a spirits expo, it is a Smirnoff promo and is blood red with chrome detailing, and I have missed my old style. So, as an indulgent treat for myself and my concoctions, I have splurged on a glorious, shining Boston shaker. It is luxury in your hand, a monument to everything alcohol should be. A heavy base to the mixing glass will allow muddling for mojitos, without risking crack or chips, and gives a smooth and easy rhythm to the shake. People assume you just throw eveything in and jiggle it about, but an easy and regular shake is important to ensure the ice cracks properly. The back and forth of the wrist needs to be steady and firm -ask any man who's just had an afternoon to himself.
It also has a beautiful, shiny, stainless steel beaker, one of the new breed of easy strain tins with holes in the rim to allow easy straining without the need for a Hawthorne strainer. To the bar!