We’ve joined a tennis club. I find this very funny, so I’m saying it a lot at the moment, because I feel like the phrase ‘We’ve joined a tennis club’ should be spoken by someone called Margot or Tasmin while waving her manicured hand at her husband Geoffrey or Julian and sipping her cosmo.

I don’t explain as often as I should, perhaps, that we have mainly joined a tennis club because
a) We don’t play tennis, we only wanted to use the gym. So …
b) Everyone else is playing tennis, so the gym is always empty. And
c) It was cheap because - God, I love this - because we’re UNDER 35, so we’re eligible for JUNIOR MEMBERSHIP. So
d) When they are using the gym, most of the other members aren’t exactly skipping around in tight lycra trying to pick each other up, you know what I mean? At least not in any way that I want to think about.

So that’s good. And I’m going to the gym regularly again, and that’s brilliant.
But because it’s a tennis club, it’s great, because it’s completely alien to me.

My favourite favourite thing today - and I thought Americans didn’t do passive aggressive as much as we do - was the lady in front of me who was changing her court reservation. She didn’t seem very happy, but she was talking, softly and insistently, trying to get a different playing time that suited her.

“What about 12 tomorrow?”
“Will you hold on to that one for a sec?” she asked the pleasant receptionist, “I just need to phone my friend and check it’s ok.”
“Sure!” said the pleasant receptionist “go right ahead!”
“Thank you!” said the lady, and turned away, while I moved up the counter and handed in my locker key, waiting while they rootled around in the deepest drawer in the world for my membership card. There was a sudden shout behind me.

“Moshi MOSHI! HI, it’s ME”

I jumped.
Sneakily, I looked around, the lady with the reservation was standing looking as cool as a cucumber.

“I’m just at the club, but IT STINKS”

I jumped again.

“They’re recovering the courts and the WHOLE PLACE STINKS and it’s going to make me SICK and so we CAN’T play because I’m just going to DIE if I have to play in this DREADFUL, AWFUL STINK. So I’ve booked an outside court that hopefully won’t SMELL SO BAD”

(And she literally was shouting on these occasional words, I use not my caplock lightly)
(in this instance, I mean. Usually I do. Totally, I KNOW I do)

“so just call me back and let me know if that’s ok. I just didn’t want to DIE of FUME POISONING. Ok love ya, speak later”

She turned around to the receptionist. I was caught, mid-membership card handover, terrified. I took it, quickly, and walked away.

“Ok!” said the lady, nice as pie. “So, I left a message for my friend….”
“Oh, you did?” said the pleasant receptionist.

Yeah. Because she was being Just SO Subtle.

By me, Anna Pickard, aged 31 and a half
and, incidentally, if you’re not that keen on needles, I’d suggest stopping reading now

Oh Acupuncture Acupuncture!
It is really good.
And sometimes it can help you
just like people said it would.

Although it’s pointy needle things
and that might seem quite weird
It’s actually quite relaxing
and almost nothing like you feared.

It’s good for stuffed-up tummies
and people who are sad
you get to lie there in the warm
and think nice thoughts which isn’t bad

At all. You should be careful though
when your pin-pusher says “I’m sure
there was another!” that she checks
extremely well and thoroughly before you’re

Half way home. For if you’re walking down the street
a block or two from where you were
and thinking ‘Wow, my calf muscle!
It’s really stiff. Oh cripes! Oo-er!’

You may roll up your trouser leg
Just to check and find that there:
(now pushed in all the way by jeans)
is that forgotten pin. A hair-

thin piece of metal, sure.
But, you know what? Standing halfway between acupuncturist and home
pulling a needle - even hair thin - now stuck in all the way up to the hilt, out of your calf muscle?

That IS a bit weird.

And you might feel a little bit woozy.

THE END.

But APART from that, I really like acupuncture. It’s really good. I’m going back on Friday.

There’s an ‘Authentic Irish Pub’ just a few blocks up from my house.

We don’t go there much, because … well, because we’re really boring and don’t frequent ever single bar in downtown San Francisco on a weekly basis. But we have been there few times with friends.

It is nice!
And it has authetic Irish beers, and authentic Irish ciders, and on some nights of the week it has authentic Irish musicians, on authentic Irish instruments, playing authentic Irish songs!

And, for those missing the craic-soaked comfort food of home, they appear to have a full authentic Irish menu, too.

It has colcannon.
And a full Irish Breakfast.
And …

And then it has a snacks menu. With authentic Irish snacks.
Like

Traditional Irish Chilli Cheese Chips.
Chips, for the sake of American readers, in the sense of fries.

Fair enough - I’m not one to argue, and am sure that at least one reader will claim it invented in Ireland. Possibly by Bono. You know, like he invented Rhythm and Blues.

Also

Traditional Irish Buffalo Wings
You know, from authentic Irish buffalo.

But my favourite favourite in SO many ways is a twist on the traditional Western US favourite, the

Traditional Old Irish Jalepeno Poppers.

You know what’s Irish about them?

Normal jalepeno poppers are hot-hot-chilli peppers stuffed with melty-cheese, dipped in batter and deep-fried (already sounds like traditional cooking like Nana would make, right? You just wait!) now these - these were made special by

…. being hot-hot-chilli peppers, stuffed with CHEESY MASHED POTATO, battered, and deep fried.

Awesome.

Oh Danny Boy, the Pops, the Pops are callin you.
From chilli mouth, to over toilet bowl
And it’s Be-CAUSE they’ve got potato in them, son,
they’re called Iri-sh,
and that’s the way it is sooooo thereeeeee.

It’s not a great song, I know.
But seriously - you haven’t tried the poppers.
No judgies.

You know what I miss about home? Home in the sense of ‘where I am from’, you understand, rather than ‘where I live’, which is clearly here and not there at all and therefore isn’t something to miss? You know what I miss?

Being able to leave it easily. I mean, I can leave here pretty easily, we have doors - although not as many as I am accustomed to, it being one of them fancy-schmancy loft apartments with mezzanines an open plans and only one wall with windows - but we cannot just decide to pick up, get on a plane, and go for an explorey city break in a foreign land. And sometimes, I get a little bit sad about that, because it is one of my favourite things.

And then I realise how stupid that is. Because I’m living in this enormous country of which I have seen approximately 0.0009% of and perhaps only a limited time to see as much of it (and perhaps get as much lucrative writing material out of it) as we can, so I should shut the fuck up already and get on with it.

So I want to start having breaks. And I want to go to just anywhere I can get to from here, quickly (ish) and easily (ish) because if I don’t do it now, when am I going to. I have my itchy feet again. I love my itchy feet. I need to explore again.

I want to go to Boring, Oregon. And, Ordinary, Kentucky. I want to see what’s so Happy about Happyland, Oklahoma; I want to visit all the folk history and small enthusiasts museums I can find. I’m even considering visiting Florida, although mainly because the Holy Land theme park there offers perhaps the only roller coaster + recreation of crucifiction recreational experience I might find anywhere. I want to go to competitive Steak competitions and find large foodstuffs made of fibreglass and take pictures of them. I want to visit Bubblegum Alley, where the walls are coated six inches deep in pre-masticated goo, just to say I’ve been.

I’m not quite sure how I’m going to fund this, though I have a few ideas (however, if it turns out I need all my livers after all, I might have to go back to the drawing board) - and we might have to start small; but if I can find a way of funding it or at least justifying it, there’s nothing I cannot do.

I have a weird yearning to go to Kansas at the moment. Admittedly it’s mainly so that, on the plane out again afterward, I can turn to whoever might be my seat-neighbour half an hour after take off and say, in that polite jolly tone you only use with strangers during small talk, “Well, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore!!!”

Man, the travelling businesspeople of Kansas must love that joke and all the hilarious people who think they are the first to make it. I know they must.

Specifically, I’m thinking I might first target Liberal Kansas.

No, don’t worry, I won’t have to do as much careful searching and combing of county political polls as that might suggest: it’s a town. Liberal, Kansas. And it has an airport. And a Wizard of Oz museum with a real yellow brick road and from the looks of it, only three hotels, and one of them is called the SUPER-LIBERAL! (or, alright, the super-8-liberal) which pretty much sums me up. And ALL the hotels are on Pancake Boulevard, all of which sounds heavenly to me. Also it’s within driving distance of Beaver and Hooker, Kansas, and I just have to visit once before I die, right?

Monkey’s Eyebrow, Arizona; Novelty, Missouri; Pigbutt, Idaho; Hell, Michigan; Humptulips, Washington; Tigertown, Texas; Bumfuck, Idaho; Experiment, Georgia. Hell, only some of these are made up, people! Most of them are out there, they’re real, and unknown, and waiting.

Mainly I’m interested, though, in people gathering together in these places to celebrate the things they feel passionately about. I would love to go to the Spoon-Art championships in Horsefingerer, Ohio. I’ve already got the Yo-Yo championships (California. Near me, in fact) and a good few other ‘who’s the best at that thing no one else has ever really considered doing much’ competitions marked into my diary. But if any one else hears of any - no matter how silly it seems - a place or a competition that they think ‘that can’t be real, can it?’ please, let me know. And if I can find a way to go - I will

I’m slowly getting used to how down the line the neighbourhoods are in American cities. If there’s a line that says where that neighbourhood stops and the next begins on a map, then that’s just exactly where it is in real life. BOOM. There it is.
No fucking about.

You’ll be walking down a block surrounded by thick crowds of people bartering at supermarkets that spill out onto the streets for crazy-looking vegetables in loud, seemingly angry voices; flinching at bits of chickens hanging from hooks that you weren’t even sure existed; drooling at the salty smell of hot steamed buns and trying to stop yourself from buying brilliantly kitsch bits of plastic that you don’t really need, while red lanterns for the coming new year swing on strings, suspended above the road next to you.

And then you’ll cross the road. Just one little road. One little street, and the noise and the smell and the colour will suddenly fall away, and you’ll find yourself standing outside a gelato parlour. And there’ll be someone wearing all black, drinking espresso and smoking a thin cigarette at a little metal table outside. And their little pastel scooter will be parked by the roadside. And you’ll suddenly want to look around and work out whether you really did just change continent, or just move a few metres.

I’m used to there being a mixture of different ethnicities, influences, people, smells and sights - I’m inner-city London, born and bred - I’m just not used to them being so clearly marked out. It’s amazing. And fascinating.

My beloved knows the city better than me, so is used to me asking incessant questions as we walk: “What neighbourhood is this?” “Well where are we now?” “What about now?” “Now?” “Where are we now?”

I am annoying, but he knows it helps. However, sometimes, I do not need his guidance. To whit:

There is an area in the middle of San Francisco, quite ear our house, called the Tenderloin. There are many stories about how this area got its name, many of which are very interesting, but which we will come to another time. (In the meantime it is poetry enough to mention that this particular area is next to the much posher Nob Hill, and that there is consequently a borderline neighbourhood known as TenderNob. A-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee)

The Tenderloin is a run down area, sandwiched between more affluent hotels, residential bits, shopping centres, financial districts, all of that. It’s just … well, full of people on quite strong drugs, mainly.
Not legal ones, no.

The Tenderloin is a bit notorious. There are hotels and good restaurants in it, bookshops and bars. But also crackheads. Many many crackheads, just hanging about, being a bit Cracky. And wondering how they might fund that.

The Tenderloin has many interesting examples of San Francisco architecture, geography, and, frankly, is right in the middle of everything and if you like walking and want to get from here to there, you will almost certainly find yourself passing through it. When we first moved here, I was intrigued by it. Suddenly, people had always told me, you’ll be walking through the centre of town and find yourself surrounded by people who, to put it mildly, don’t honestly appear to wish you all the health and happiness in the world. One minute: shoppers and people in suits - next minute: not that. At ALL.

Again, I didn’t realise, however, that it would just happen in a SNAP.

We were going for a walk. To the cinema, I think. And to get there, we had to walk straight through the Tenderloin, which we were both fine about: he’s a big chap, and I’m from London and therefore clearly well hard.

All the way up the road, from our flat, past Market street, I kept asking the same questions? “So where’s the dividing line? Where does this bit stop and the Tenderloin start, then? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are we there yet? Is this the Tenderloin?” I asked, as we passed a line of fast food restaurants.

“No, not yet”

We crossed a street.

“Is this it?”

“Not quite, no”

We stepped onto the pavement and turned a corner.

“Are we in the Tenderloin yet?”

“No, not yet”

Another street crossing, and …

“What about now? Is THIS the Te…”

Suddenly, with great timing, an old man wearing three hats, goggles and pushing a shopping trolley with half the world loaded on it and held down with string walked toward us and screamed at the top of his lungs: “FuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURCK!!!!!”

I turned to my Beloved.

“Yes, Anna. We are in the Tenderloin now.”

I thought it was nice of them to send out the welcome wagon.
That was all.

And then I hailed a cab.

One of my resolutions - one mainly drawn from the fact that since arriving here I’ve put on half a ton in weight (due to trying out new eateries and the amount of hidden sugar and/or cheese in everything, the bastards, along with some medication that was making my appetite go INSANE) and probably won’t be allowed in lifts soon in case my sheer mass proves too much for the cable - is to start exercising in earnest again.

So next week I’m going to join a nearby gym. We are, I mean. Not just me. We’re going to join a gym.

Not the cheapest one, because that takes up the ground floor of an office block in the busy financial district, and all the exercise machines are positioned so that every idiot walking past can watch you sweating on the crosstrainer while they walk to their fancy lunch meeting.

And not the nearest one, because that’s a boxing gym, and I’d just end up standing in the middle of the ring bursting into tears and shouting “Why are you so HORRID? Go AWAY!” at my sparring partner, and I think we all know it.

so not the cheapest. And not the dearest. And not the nearest. And not the one where they make you all exercise in a circle while shouting happy things at you. And not one of those ones with ridiculously self-absorbed and undoubtedly part-plastic people trying to get off with each other. But a gym all the same.

And we’ll intersperse that with, every other day (when it is not raining) going for a big old walk up and down some hills. Because seriously; I didn’t move here to look at the front of a treadmill. I just need to get moving on this, because it’s currently making me shy, and embarrassed, and feel like a ginormous lump.

So this post doesn’t really have a point. I just wanted to put it in writing so I can feel like I’m committing to it, and so you can shout at me if I sound like I am notdoing that.
But don’t shout at me otherwise, because I’ll burst into tears.

Though actually, since we’re here, if anyone has any top tips for magic make-fit-quick super-weightloss magic - then please. Please, let me know. Because I feel like a heffer.

(and, with the frankness of speech US adverts are renowned for, it’s certainly up against stiff competition) … is awarded to an advert so completely risible it’s hilarious. This genital ad. No, not ‘genial’. Genital.

And I should make a point to be specific, because, my lorrrrrd, they don’t shy away from details in this country. “Have you got an itchy vagina?” one advert might say. “Are you unsatisfied in bed?” another might blatently come out with. “Does your ballsack smell of old plasticine?” another might enquire. “You have a tiny penis.” states another, plainly “We have a pill that probably won’t make it any larger, but at least you’ll feel vaguely proactive and full of empty hope about the whole thing”.

But apart from those - apart from all of those; there’s this one that I’ve seen only in the last few weeks for some vaginal complaint cream.

It features a shy but happy-looking woman walking from the shadows into the sunshine, and a

“When the itch disappears … when the odour is gone … when you feel clean and fresh … THEN you can come back to your life.”

Which just always sounds like it should conclude with:

“Until then, Stay in the bushes.”

And then maybe a backing up of that sentiment, like:

“Thou art UNCLEAN, filthy woman. Begone.”

Leading to a simple payoff slogan of:

“Scented vag-wipes. Because you’re Dirty.”

Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking it every time I see it, and had to write it down somewhere. Which, incidentally, reminds me of a conversation I was having the other week with someone lovely who was idly chatting about a work colleague and mysteriously dropped in the line: “But he’s a bit of a neat-freak. He won’t even let his wife sit on the sofa while she’s on her period” - but I never managed to get deeper into that story, and it really deserves a post of its own some other time (because really?! is that really a THING? A thing people DO and put up with? Really?!).

Still though. these pesky women and their stinky, messy bits, eh? Tut. When will they learn?

Ahem. Sorry, I meant to write something skippy and positive about New Year and resolutions. maybe tomorrow, eh? …