I even took some pictures to demonstrate how much I disliked packing.

Then I realised I’d packed the uploading cable thing.

Urg. I have the dusty sneezes. There’s so many lightbulbs still to clean. The kitchen needs packing. There’s a mouse in the kitchen. Urg. Meh.

Whine whine. Moan. Grump. Whine.

I still love CSI the most. Nothing can take away how much I love the original CSI. There is an affection I have for Grissom, Warick, Nick, Sarah, Willows and especially Greg that cannot be surpassed. No, not Greg. I meant especially Grissom. No, Greg. No. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I think I can afford to be indecisive on the matter of which fictional character I like the most. It’s moderately improbable that I’ll ever have to decide between the two at the altar.

Still, CSI, no matter how wildly ridiculous as the murders get, how utterly nonsensical the science bits and how ludicrous the leaps of logic, never ever palls for me, and I watch the show religiously every Tuesday night. Alright, you’re going to call me saddo somewhere along the line. Do so now.

Right, let’s move on.

So I loving the original CSI, I always thought I might love CSI Miami and CSI NY as well. I thought they might be as good. Well, they’re not and I don’t, but I watch them slavishly all the same. Whenever they’re on. (Although funnily I can only ever watch any episode of any of them once. There’s no point in more).

CSI Miami really is rubbish - all guns and silly camerawork, presided over by that little ginger raisin with an air of a constipated Robin Cook. CSI NY is growing on me, showing a little bit of the humour and geeky labness that I love about the original, while introducing more of the relationship with the police on the case. But still, that Gary Sneezy bloke has nothing on Grissom, so it still doesn’t stand up well to comparison.

But then - and this is becoming quite the point of game in this household - there are some common threads across the three versions. Structurally, I mean.

The main one - and I’m going to assume you know what I’m talking about now if you’ve bothered to read this far - is the last line of the pre-credits. The moment when Gil Grissom, or Nopoo Gingergnome, or Gary Sneezy (sometimes Catherine Willows, now) has examined the body, and he (or she) turns to the other important people poking the corpse, and says something with wit, pith, pun and panache.
Or Gil does, anyway - the others are mere pale imitations.

Anyway - they spit their bits;
“… Unfotunately for the gangs, they can’t indimidate the evidence…”
“… Looks like someone’s going to be waiting a long time for their pizza…”
“ …Well, whereever they were headed, they probably didn’t get there without their head…”
And then big guitar chords, and songs by The Who, or Pete Townsend or whatever kick in.

And so, everytime this line comes in, we tend to rate it. Oh, no, that was nowhere near Grissom standard. No, no, he can never pull these lines off, can he? Hm, that wasn’t bad for him, was it? Good god, Grissom just did a bad Grissom.

So, essentially, it seems, that moment is called ‘the Grissom’. This evening, however, we decided it needed a better name. ‘Corpsetopping’.
‘Incitement to a-Daltrey’ (as in Roger, from The Who) was one suggestion. ‘Death warm-up’. ‘The money shot’.

My beloved’s best, however, and the current favourite, is ‘The Knock Knock Moment’ (because just after it happens, you hear The Who’s there).

It’s now going to be rather a preoccupation of my evening, I fear. Surely that moment has an official name?

Today the following songs are on repeat in my head:
- How Do You Like Your Eggs In The Morning - Dean Martin
- The Thomas the Tank Engine theme.

I have solar-powered earworm.

The sun is shining, and therefore I am happy.

Hello, how are you? Does anyone read this anymore?

But sometimes, when the weather gets muggy, and all the people get tetchy, and the buses get sweaty, and the morning aches and the evening weighs an elephant, London isn’t that nice a place to be after all.

You know what it’s like when you know you’ve got time off coming, and you need it, and your body sees it coming a mile off, and shutting down in advance?

That’s me.

That’s been me, this week. And it’s been a stupid busy week, too, and all the time I’ve been thinking ‘next-week-move-flat-new-flat-sleep’. Concentrating on work, making sure I do everything I need to do, everything I want to do, and what’s more, do it well, there’s a voice in back of my mind saying ‘next-week-move-flat-new-flat-sleep’.

Sorry I haven’t been posting much. I’ve been doing more professional stuff, and I’m proud of that, but I’m not going to stop my blog, and I don’t want people to give up on me because they think I’ve given up on them, or my little boat, or um, you know. It worries me. Meta meta meta, whine whine whine, blog blog blog blog blog.

I’m very tired.

You know, I have said, in the past, that I’m a person that loves Ikea. Two visits in one week later, and the love is waning.
I can’t write about it yet. Because there’s at least one more visit to go. If not more.
Christ have mercy.

I will be onish and offish these next few days, forgive me. But will be when I can, and do, and will, or something. I mean it. And I’m very. Very. Tired.

So, let’s imagine that the ‘blogebrity’ thing people talk of isn’t a really bad parody, and that someone out there actually thinks it’s a brilliant idea to actually set the surely whimsical ideas of ‘A’ list, and ‘B’ list that we all joke about IN STONE, and make them actual things, and more, to (and I love this so, so much) to imagine that there’s a market out there for a magazine about A-list bloggers and no, no, this has to be a parody, because no idea in the history of the world has been that big a pile of cock.

Still, the fact remains that there’s now yet another list out there that people are actually fighting to get on to, and… oh, let’s stop pretending - you do still all love me, don’t you?

I’m kidding. But these popularity contests are annoying, especially for those with a tendancy to the competitive, which, being human, is all of us. And those who take advantage of that … ah, what’s the point. It’s a cynical attempt by someone who dislikes bloggers to take the piss out of them by trying to make them prove to him how important they all are. And they do. We do. Why?

No, don’t tell me. But do say hello.
Let’s form the ‘N’ list.

And not tell anyone about it.

Um.

I was on Canadian radio the other day.

It’s here. It’s the first audio chunk on that page, about ten minutes in, bookended with the most incredibly ‘Canadian public radio’ stories you can possibly imagine.

Bear in mind from the interview that I did tell them that I wasn’t the expert on the subject, I gave them the url of the man who is (Mike. Obviously) and offered to get in touch with him, but they seemed to just want the first person who they could reach who had sat through the whole thing.

And I was nervous. And say ‘You know’ and ‘I mean’ almost as a tic. And the presenter, although lovely and a seasoned journalist, may well have been new to the whole thing, the term ‘comedy metal’ and the concept of ‘Eminem’.

Anyway, it’s there. And I like my biog.

I think the BBC managed to confuse the hell out of most people I’ve spoken to so far this morning, as well as leaving them in a general state of slight ignorance.

The strike action that led to the cancellation of BBC Radio’s flagship news programme - Today - is surely, in the scheme of things, not the world’s most momentous problem, however… when it’s a staple of your morning diet, it sort of is.

Morning people should get some dispensation from the strike action. We are delicate people, emerging out of sleep. We need not to be screwed with; it messes with our day. As well as our heads.

Bleary eyed, I emerge from the bathroom, and switch on the radio, and expect to hear some politician or senior civil servant being uncermoniously grilled by John Humphrys, or some far-off political revolution being discussed by people I’ve never heard of in terms I simply don’t understand. As unlikely as it sounds, this is comforting. At least I know vaguely what’s going on, internationally, in a fuzzy ‘dreamistan’ kind of way.

This morning, however, switching on the radio, I was greeted by Just a Minute. Now, I like Radio 4, perhaps it’s just because I’m getting older, whatever, but I like some of their comedy, Just a Minute in particular. So while I was glad to hear Just a Minute, HOWEVER - They generally repeat Just a Minute at midday on a Sunday, so as soon as I heard the familiar tones of the panellists, I really wanted to go back to bed.

I can see why they did it, though, the idea, I guess, being that in order for people not to get confused and think they were hearing news or anything current, they had to put something on that was about as far from news as could be imagined. Just a Minute is pretty far, I guess.

It began to strike me, though how good it would be if they could just combine the two, a little, just because waking up this morning to people trying to speak for a minute without hesitation, deviation or repetition was actually quite pleasant. And a nice change from forceful journalists shouting at slippery politicians.

So perhaps tomorrow morning, to ease me back into the morning routine, John Humphries could ask his politicians to speak on a subject of his choosing for one whole minute without hestiation, deviation or repetition.

And he could have buzzer, and award pooints. And if they deviated, and hesitated, and repitited (…?) then they would LOSE.

That would be ace.

I did a minute by minute of the Eurovision Song Contest 2005. It’s over here.

I do, I admit, watch far too many programmes about building houses, buying houses, decorating houses, developing houses and selling houses. Especially for someone who doesn’t own a house, isn’t buying a house and is forbidden by letting contract from decorating anything bigger than her nails.

But I’m picking up a lot of interesting information from these programmes - that you should be shot if you consider painting your walls anything more exciting than magnolia or stone (seriously, I hear they’re trying to make it a law); that everyone can see exactly what’s wrong with your house - apart from you; and that there are some things that everyone wants in a house, and are willing to pay tens of thousands of pounds to have it included.

Now, some of these things, I just don’t get. Parking space, for example. And the look of almost sexual ecstasy that comes over some punter’s faces when they get TWO parking spaces (or a large slap of concrete welcoming people to the house, however you want to look at it) is a sight to behold. Of course, I wouldn’t understand that, because I don’t own a car. And can’t drive.

I do, however, have an en suite bathroom. And all these programme witter on about how incredible it is, to have an en suite bathroom, and how everyone in the world wants an en suite bathroom, and are willing to pay thousands of English POUNDS (or Scottish/NI pounds, whatever) for the privilage of having one.

Let me tell them. Don’t.

I mean, I just don’t see the point. Sure, if you’ve got an enormous family and you can’t get into the bathroom of a morning, then sure. Or if you’ve have no legs below the knee and a bladder the size of a new potato, I can see that you’d want the toilet close. Otherwise - meh, nah, don’t see it.

The en suite bathrooms I have known basically fall into two camps. The ‘we’ve tacked this on to try and make it look classy’ camp, and the intentional camp.

In the ‘tacked it on’ camp, you’ll often find that the carpet runs straight through from bedroom to bog, and that the ‘en suite’ itself is basically one corner of the room with an mdf partition wall smacked round it. So, basically, it’s a toilet in the corner of the room. Which is a bit like a prison cell, really, isn’t it? Or like putting a bed in the bathroom, which is always how it feels to me.

The other kind is the very well thought-out, proper, nicely done en suite bathroom. Hate those too. For the last year, in this flat, we’ve had an en suite bathroom, mainly because it’s clearly the only place they could put it. Also, the bedroom is the size of a postage stamp, so you have to do a commando roll over the bed to get there.

My thing is, and I realise it may sound ridiculously old fashioned, but I do believe relationships need a bit of mystery, and that you only should really know your partner so well, you know what I mean?

And once you utter the line ‘Gosh, that was a big one’, ‘can you open the window in there?’ or ‘Is your tummy alright?’ from the other side of a door - that’s just too well.

So sing hallelujah for the new flat, where sleep will evermore be uninterrupted by a flush of flushing, and my beloved can go back to believing that women’s bottoms smell of flowers. Because they do, you know.

So, in conclusion, en suites? Non suites, more like.

Sorry, that was a rubbish conclusion.

Right. Ok. Take three

One flat was in a basement, and had no light. The spare room advertised was literally a walk in wardrobe. Seriously. There were steel barred gates with nine locks on all the windows, which the details called ‘excellent security’, and I called ‘terrifying prison house weirdness’.

In the master bedroom (or possibly ‘mistake bedroom’ - ‘master’ may have been a misspelling), one wall was covered by a brown smoked glass mirror, while the rest of the house was merely covered in smoked brown. The overbearing landlady, who showed us around, had clearly been sitting in the house smoking with the heating on full for around 9 days. Or perhaps 500,000 years.

Oh, and the winning factor? When the landlady buzzed us in, the resident ’strange old man in string vest’ who had set up his recreation area in the entrance hall almost hit us square in the ear with not one, but two darts. Who Throws Two Darts At Once? WHO?

Another flat, also on the ground floor, had mould growing downward in grey green clouds from the bathroom ceiling. Its kitchen was seperated by a fence from the living room, and the ’spare bedroom/study’ in the details was actually a hallway leading to the back door. Those who don’t live in London, prepare to scoff - this was being offered at a bargain £250 a week. Oh, that’s nothing, the first one was £275. A week. A ha ha ha ha ha. Why (how?) does anyone live here?

So when we saw our brand new (or ish) world’s most beautiful two bedroom flat for a negotiably even more beautiful amount of rent, we were very very happy. Still are very happy. Only now, we have to wait. And Annas don’t do waiting.

Still, I can content myself with other things, little projects, ideas. I might do a minute-by-minute report of the Eurovision Semi Final tomorrow night, just for kicks/practice/warm-up.

And planning moving days, and trips to Ikea and arrangements of shelves and where each piece of colourful tat should go.

It’s a lovely flat. I’m so excited. It’s five minutes round the corner from where we are now, even closer to the bus route, and with a beautiful kitchen that I won’t be afraid to go into. And yes, before you ask, we *could* get a cat, but we’re not going to, because the poor thing would have no outside to be in.

And there’s enough room to have our personalities in, and books and things and stuff and people to stay, and I’m going to shut up now, smug married London middle-class bastards. Been railing against them for bloody years. Now I bloody am one. A big one. Piss.

Anyway. It’ll be mice. Nice, sorry. Not mice. No mice. No mice at all. It’ll be nice. but then anywhere without mice would be… No, Anna, no talking about the mice. No talking about the mice that have overrun my lovely little flat, the mice that mean I spend weeks avoiding the bloody kitchen that takes up one third of the bloody the flat, the mice the scuttle and wee, and scuttle and hide and then the bastards… and …. breathe. Oopses. I broke the don’t mention the mice rule (see below) (oh bother, no, don’t, I mention the mice) (no, do) (oh, I don’t know). *ahem*.

Ignore that last para, will you?

Anyway. New flats, eh?

Mmmm, lovely.

Mmm.

Anyway.

Take two

Two weeks today, and we’re out of here.
I mean, it’s a lovely flat, and all, but, you know, we’ve been here a year, and it’s time to move on, we’ve run out of room for books, it would be nice to be somewhere a bit more sparsely furnished where we can start buying furniture together and, and well, also our landlady is selling the place, so we have no choice.

Almost immediately, though, we found another place - you know, friend of a friend, that sort of thing, and we only had to look at half a dozen of the world’s most expensive slumholes first.

I’m so exctited, I want to pack. It’s not a good idea to pack. I have to physically stop myself from packing. Because, frankly, while we have quite a lot of stuff, we don’t have that much stuff, not two weeks packable amount of stuff, and we’d have to spend 12 days sitting among boxes and having to unpack to find spoons.

Of course, the other problem is that if the boxes are just sitting there, prone, little curious creatures might investigate them and try and make houses in them, and then, you see, we would end up moving the MICE to the NEW HOUSE.

And what would could possibly be worse? Taking them with us? Oh, the very thought!…

Everything’s tied up nicely, we’ve found ourselves the most mouse-unlikely new flat - new building, third floor, all floors and interior recently done, no garden - everything we could possibly think of to have NO MICE. Not that we ever thought that there were ever going to be so many here, I mean, I’ve done my best, I’ve kept things SO clean, and SO neat, and yet back they come, back and back and back and back and back and back and back, and they won’t Go Away, and they Won’t Die, no matter WHAT we do, and I just hate them and hate them and hate them and oh bugger, I’ve started talking about the twatting mice again.

Bad Anna.

BAD.

I’ll start over.

Two weeks today, we move to the new flat.
I’m so excited.

Obviously I’m not excited about moving just because of the three mice in this flat in the last fortnight, and the 7 or 8 in the last six months (3! 7! Or 8! For fuck’s sake! What the fuck? I fucking clean thoroughly, I clean all the cunting time, why do they fucking do this to me? Fucking fuckers! I mean… Sorry, sorry, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the mice.

I’ve sort of made a deal with myself not to talk about the mice in public, it’s just got so fucking dull, for me, for everyone else… And then there’s the fact that it make me think about it all the more. And I’m alright until I think about the mice. The fucking mice. I mean what the fuck? Why can’t they just ALL DIE, or just ALL piss off, or something. And why ME? And why MY HOUSE? And… oh piss, I’m talking about the mice again. I’m going to stop this post and start over. Start again.

I’m going to go away, and then come back. Just like the mice. Fucking mice. I tell you, if I came back as a mouse, I would just DIE, because that would be the decent thing to do, and, oh titwank, sorry…)

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ‘Eurovision Semi-final’ THING ALL ABOUT?
I was quite prepared for the whole Final thing, but suddenly, the internet decides to thrust this ‘Semi’ upon me.
EH?
SEMI-final?!

Where the HELL did that come from?
What IS it?

PANIC!

So I had an amzon box-fest on my birthday, and it’s all thanks to you.
Well, no, to be fair, it’s all thanks to the notion of unabashed, shameless, petulent tantrumming until you sent me presents, but it’s ALSO thanks to you.

So thank you to Chillicheese, and to Em², and to Scroobious, and Kaptain Kobold, and ansy - and a few people with *actual* names (oh, no, I’ve just realised that Ansy is an *actual* name, sorry honey), so thank you to Barry, and Andy, and to Dave (although as one of my best mates he’s sort of obliged, to be honest, but it came in an amazon box, so we’ll thank him all the same), Clare, and the lovely meg, or Meg o’the Blender, as she is known in these parts. And thank you to some anonymous people too, who are also lovely.

Update: Ooooooh! And the lovely lovely Petite, whose gift arrived today. Is there no end to the loveliness?

And thank you to Mike, whose present not only came wrapped, but with a lovely personalised Amazon present card on the wrapper with a message. The message said ‘Dear Auntie Jean Happy Birthday love Morgan and Eve‘.

So thank you to all of you. All of your presents made me happy. Mike’s present made me both happy and confused, which is quite the coup. Mike - if your Auntie Jean was supposed to ge the Phoenix album, do let me know. But only once I’ve burned it to my New ipod shuffle. (Well, new if we weren’t on an economy drive, instead a much-loved one sacrificed in the name of birthday. New to me. And amazing).

Anyway.

Thank you. Thank you very very much.
(And let me know if I’ve forgotten you, or got a link wrong).

Now go and look at the Squirrel in the post below.

Go and look.
Look now.