Miracle on 34th Street
I am recently returned from the Big Apple, and – hold the front page – I have money left over. Not a lot, as Paul Daniels might say, but a whole $50 that I refrained from spending. My last jaunts across the pond have left my bank account in a post-holocaust wasteland state, and I had expected similar results this time, but due to a combination of massive self restraint and great company with an eye for culture rather than jewellery and shoes, I enjoyed a more experiential visit. As opposed to pounding SoHo, Fifth Avenue and 34th Street for five solid days, pausing only to down cocktails, I did stuff.
For the first time, I stayed in the heaving neon masterpiece that is Times Square – nothing like it for getting a cricked neck and having adverts emblazoned on the insides of your eyelids when you close your eyes. For the first 24 hours this was terribly exciting, gazing open-mouthed at the street entertainers, watching people making their way to Broadway shows dressed in their best, and laughing off the attentions of hustlers. But after that initial period, not so funny, and really just quite annoying.
Times Square - can't miss it
Not a bad view from your hotel window, eh? I jest, obviously.
Anyway, I’m trying to demonstrate what a grown up I’ve become, wait till I tell you. In the past, I’d have grabbed a hotdog from a street vendor and gone out dancing. Not this time. Although I did have one or two warm up bellinis before we headed to the beautiful and romantic Grand Central Terminal. Can a railway station be romantic? Probably not New Street or Snow Hill, but GCT is in a class of its own. A cerulian blue ceiling decorated with delicate golden zodiac symbols arcs over the heaving throngs, and the ubiquitous giant clock.
Grand Central Terminal. Not too shabby.
Hot on the experience trail, we enjoyed something a bit special to mark Adam’s first morning in NYC. NOT Breakfast At Tiffany’s – talk about letting the side down – but breakfast at the Waldorf Astoria. The beautiful art deco masterpiece facing Park Avenue is one of the grandest hotels in the world, and arguably one of the most famous. We dressed to the nines to enjoy eggs benedict in the Peracock Alley restaurant and while I had entertained ideas of pretending to be British Aristocracy, my general clumsiness and myriad bruises put paid to that. As you would expect, service was deferential and first class, the eggs perfect, the orange juice $9 a glass…
Peacock Alley at the Wadorf Astoria. Probably the most expensive orange juice in the world? Probably not, that's likely to be at the Cafe de Paris in Monaco
Much schlepping to be done to work off those eggs – we took in FAO Schwarz, resisting the urge to knock the children off the giant piano and bash out a bit of Razorlight, and admiring lifesize lego structures of Chewbacca, Batman and Harry, Hermione and Ron, and we traipsed all the way to 34th Street to Macy’s, where I got lost. In case you’re wondering, the miracle is that I didn’t spend anything on 34th Street. For all my raving about how beautiful the Chrysler Building is, I’d never actually set foot in it, and I can now advise that the ceiling is painted with a mural of the building itself – painted on canvas and stuck up there, apparently.
On Friday night, after a bit of an emotional reunion with my best friend Lou and a very pretty dinner, we made a midnight visit to the world famous Carnegie Deli for a slice of cheesecake. What arrived was roughly the size of a seal. How people can eat anything that size escapes me, I have seen smaller babies. Nevertheless, I can see why the deli is world famous, charging the same price as a Waldorf orange juice for a slice of cake that will feed a family of four.
When it rains in NYC, people in the street start charging $20 for umbrellas. I’d forgotten mine but hoped we’d strike it lucky. We were lucky to a point – we got to see New York’s most famous landmark while the weather was fine, before experiencing the tidal wave of city rain that washes over the city within a couple of hours. We caught the ferry at Battersea Park to visit that famous green statue – I’m not posting a picture, you know who I mean, and marvelled at her beauty and the generosity of the French, before carrying on to Ellis Island to see evidence of Amerca’s appeal to migrants. After a couple of hours envisaging the refurbished immigration centre in its original state, crammed with people seeking a better life, we could envisage no longer and had to brave the torrential rain that was sheeting down.
When we could ignore it no longer, we paddled to the mainland (from the ferry, in case you’re wondering, the rain was that heavy) and took refuge beneath hand dryers and napkins in a well-appointed TGIs until the rain stopped. A brief stop at the Ground Zero site to see how the WTC tribute was coming along, and then we steeled ourselves for a visit to Hell On Earth, the bargain department store Century 21, which is a cross between TK Maxx and Dante’s Inferno, but capable of rendering some fantastic steals if you have the stomach and the elbows for it.
I’d never been to Cafe Wha? before. Apparently Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan have; and many other big names in comedy and music, who have pitched up and made surprise appearances. We were knocked out by the enthusiasm, stamina and talent of the fantastic Cafe Wha? band, who covered off every genre imaginable over a five hour set – there is no way anyone could fail to have a great time, and it’ll be high up on my list of must visits whenever I go back.
So, this is where going away with a movie buff gets tricky. I am as guilty as the next person of expecting things to appear exactly as they do in the movies. A dazzlingly sunny day was spent exploring more Manhattan streets to see the Flat Iron Building and enjoying Sunday Brunch at Dock’s Oyster Bar, before heading to Central Park to soak up some sun and relax. I thought. But what we were actually doing, it seems, was looking for the building where Dana Barrett, as played by Sigourney Weaver, lived in Ghostbusters. And it’s DAMN hard to find, because the one we passed – 55 Central Park West, if you’re wondering, as spotted and accentuated by my good self – is the correct building but had magically been extended and enhanced by those good movie bods, so that it didn’t look right, and we walked much further than necessary. Here it is, in case you’re interested:
The spooky building where Dana lived in Ghostbusters, apparently.
We saw the Lion King – way better than the cartoon, and every bit as fabulous as I’d heard and read. Emerging into the bright lights of Times Square, we jumped in a cab to scramble to the top of the Empire State Building. Personally, I prefer the Top of the Rock, but I decided that an NY Newbie deserved to make their own mind up and dutifully hit the 86th floor, and the 102nd floor to look out over the illuminated city. Man, it was cold.
Look how pretty.
You wouldn't think you could miss him, would you?
3 comments October 15, 2009
Faith
Tags: 34th Street, Broadway, Cafe Wha?, Chrysler Building, Ellis Island, Empire State Building, FAO Schwarz, Fifth Avenue, Ghostbusters, Grand Central terminal, Macy's Saks, Museum of Natural History, Statue of Liberty, Tiffany, Top of the Rock, Waldorf Astoria
Tweet, tweet, tweet…
I am a bit of a technophobe, to be perfectly honest. I practically still have a Commodore 64, and despite having an iPhone, I write everything down in a diary, that’s how much IT impresses me.
I joined the Facebook clan years ago, finding it a brilliant way to stay in touch with my best friends, who had relocated to Sydney and New York to have families. I have been able to monitor their offspring’s progress and development without actually having to rock and coo, so that’s all pretty good. But it was about keeping in touch with pals, not with colleagues and contacts.
It was Marc Reeves, the editor of the Birmingham Post, who alerted me to Twitter. I’d been to a ‘The Future of Journalism’ seminar where Marc was speaking, and emailed him later to tell him how much I’d enjoyed it. He sent me a crib sheet with a view to starting to tweet, and I set about following the instructions to see what all the fuss was about.
It took me a couple of months to really get my head around it. I met a number of Twitterers at Birmingham Social Media Cafe and expanded my little circle, and slowly but surely started to make useful contacts and interact with people I shared interests with.
It was a bit of a strange one. I am dead against internet dating for example, having heard so many horror stories of date-rape, assault and murder, and I drive my young cousin loopy checking that he has every privacy box on Facebook checked to prevent paedophiles and bastards getting anywhere near him. So maybe it’s hypocritical of me to then start extolling the virtues of chatting and offering information to strangers…
But at the same time, for all the spam and obscene followers I have to routinely block, not only have I ‘met’ some truly fascinating characters and some useful press contacts, I’ve also been struck by the kindness of total strangers.
Take @plannersusanna, for example. I tweeted about being unable to find a harpist to play at my wedding reception. Susanna – a wedding planner, funnily enough - responded with names and numbers, and within days had made a tonne of suggestions about caterers, florists and jewellers. A professional interest for her turned into a daily exchange of long and rambling emails whereby we both discovered a shared passion for Marco Pierre White, Jack Bauer, shoes, handbags and selected city centre restaurants. We’re meeting up this weekend for the first time, and I am looking forward to finally seeing the person behind the spark, rather than the tiny photograph. Of course, if an appeal to find my murderer goes out on Sunday, you know who I was with :-)
But the person who has really made me want to send @marcreeves flowers for introducing me to Twitter is @mennard. He’s a very busy and important lawyer who, when faced with a slightly desperate private message from me about a potential legal dispute, has given me thousands of pounds worth of advice and support, drafting paperwork and offering reassurance, all via email, and all without complaint or an invoice. I didn’t expect that – at best, I hoped for the number of a civil litigation specialist in the area! Lawyers have this reputation for being power-mad, ill-tempered, impatient ‘time is money’ types, but @mennard flies in the face of all that. I can’t discuss anything about the dispute here, not until it’s resolved, but I’ll have a lot to say once the process has been completed.
I’m more ashamed of the fact that I have probably talked via Twitter more with certain colleagues than I have in person; well, they’re on a different floor and I am lazy…
I’ve pitched PR stories to journalists via Twitter – it’s surprising how succinct you can be in 140 characters – and received job applications through it. I’ve shared jokes with clients whom I wouldn’t dream of joking with in the office, and helped them to spread the word of their successes to a whole new audience.
Even so, I really should make the effort to actually pick up the phone once in a while…
Add comment June 10, 2009
Faith
Tags: Birmingham Post, editor, journalist, lawyer, PR, Twitter, wedding planner
Angels, Demons and grafitti
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. In other words, drive like a lunatic and take four-hour lunches. And it seems, scrawl in marker pen over every available surface, no matter how sacred.
I digress. I deliberately re-read Angels And Demons before visiting the Eternal City. I (misguidedly, I confess) had hoped to retrace Robert Langdon’s steps and be guided by the angels on my lofty quest. However, I settled for an open top bus and took what I could find.
My hopes of glamming it up a la Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday were scuppered due to a small misunderstanding over setting my alarm in the morning. I don’t remember Gregory Peck at any point shouting at Audrey for an error of judgment and maintaining a three-hour stern and crackling silence just because she hauled him out of the shower and gave him four minutes to get dressed and on a coach. No, I do not.
Five hours is not really sufficient time to acquaint oneself with myriad churches and fountains, so I settled for Basilica di San Pietro and St Peter’s Square, peered off the top deck of the bus at the bridge of angels and the Castel Sant’Angelo, and excitedly told Mark about the secret passageway between Castel Sant’Angelo and the Vatican before the audio guide got chance. He just looked at me with narrow eyes, he hadn’t forgiven me yet, then.
The main objective of my trip had been to see the Trevi Fountain and nothing had prepared me for its size and composition. I had envisaged it as a grand and beautiful fountain in a square, or a park. Not a huge engraved building akin to Buckingham Palace. Completed in 1762, the fountain forms part of the Aqua Virgo viaduct system, and centres around Neptune.
Trevi Fountain
This picture’s not mine – there was no way I could get far enough away to get it in a frame. The sculptures and detail that made up the enormity of the vast baroque fountain only served to make it the more remarkable. It easily took half-an-hour to fight our way to the front of the fountain, where we cast our coins into the water to secure our return to the city.
Next stop was The Colosseum, the iconic symbol of Imperial Rome. The building, again, is awe-inspiring, and it’s not difficult to imagine the gruesome gladitorial contests, executions, mock sea battles, animal hunts and dramas that it hosted. It is estimated that more than 500,000 people and more than a million animals died in the Colosseum Games.
The Colosseum
The building remains partially ruined, a legacy from devastating earthquakes and stone robbers, but is still breathtaking in its architecture. And there is no shortage of plume-helmetted faux gladiators on hand for a photo opportunity should you wish to reanact your own battle.
The cobbled streets (havoc on the heels), roaring roads, impatient motorists and general sprawling nature of Rome do not make for a relaxing visit, and five hours in no way did justice to the imposing city. But it was terribly blighted by the constant vandalism – sadly not confined to Rome as we later discovered. It is very sad that you can live in one of the most revered and spectacular cities in the world and yet not show it the respect that it really deserves. It seemed everywhere was marred by ugly marker pen; something that is no doubt too costly to clean away as frequently as would be desirable.
I’m hoping that fountain’s true to its promise and I’ll get to return for a longer stay some day soon.
4 comments May 11, 2009
Faith
Tags: Angels And Demons, Colosseum, Roman Holiday, Rome, St Peter's Basilica, Trevi Fountain
Buried alive and lost for centuries
I remember, somewhere in the darker recesses of my mind, learning about Pompeii in a classical studies lesson at school. I’d probably forgotten altogether, not thinking I’d ever visit, but when the opportunity to visit a city that was consumed by a volcanic eruption, and then forgotten for 1700 years presents itself, you have to go and see the evidence for yourself.
It was a blisteringly hot day when we visited the site close to Naples. But the heat didn’t prevent the chilling feeling and the goosebumps I experienced on visiting the site. Inside the city walls, away from the bustling souvenir vendors, restaurants and ice cream sellers, there is an eerie calm, which intensifies as you realise that this entire place was a hive of activity with wine and oil merchants, bars and a brothel – where the faintly pornographic frescos remain, tame by today’s standards – until Vesuvius erupted in AD 79, burying Pompeii beneath 60 feet of ash and pumice and leaving it destroyed and dead, undiscovered until 1748.
While the frescos, the walls and even the giant storage jars used for oil and wine remain intact in some areas, what I wasn’t prepared for was the casts of dead bodies. When the volcano erupted, the first sensation that gripped the ill-fated residents of Pompeii was the smell of the gases. Though the bones and remains have long since disintegrated, the casts of the bodies, set in pumice, remain. Some face-down on the floor, seeking to protect themselves, others hunched, knees to chest, with their hands over their mouth and nose to shield them from the gases.
Cast of a victim of Mount Vesuvius
To die that way is terrible. But for people to forget about the tragedy for centuries is worse.
The Archaeological Museum in Naples houses more casts of bodies. Anyone who has ever uttered the words “Sometimes I wish I could just curl up and die” when the going gets tough should maybe pay them a visit and be thankful for the luxury of life and of being cared for, for making a difference to someone else’s life.
Add comment May 8, 2009
Faith
Tags: Pompeii, Vesuvius, Volcano
(An expensive, but) Nice day in Nice
Having written a letter of complaint to the travel agents about the disappointing changes to the itinerary of our hol, I’ve calmed down a bit now and I can start to talk about some of the more impressive parts of my holiday, which in short, was the time we weren’t on the boat, kicking off in Nice.
We headed out of the port at once to hit Monaco, home to Prince Albert and Princesses Caroline and Stephanie.
The buildings in Monaco are gorgeous, the streets clean and the gardens beautifully tended. Views over wondrous hillsides, crystal clear blue seas reflecting dazzling shards of light from the burning sunshine…I know we saw it at it’s best, but I imagine the people who can afford to live in Monaco have some kind of deal with the rain gods where he takes a cut to make sure it only rains between the hours of 2-5am to ensure the greenery remains lush.
St Nicholas Cathedral, where Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier of Monaco, is a stunning church, perfect for the wedding of a film icon and Princess in waiting, while the principality’s courthouse sees very little use – essentially the domain for divorces now. Monaco does have a prison, where there is one prisoner – and as criminal addresses go, that’s not too shabby.
St Nicholas Cathedral
The prince’s palace itself, now inhabited by Grace and Rainier’s son Prince Albert, enjoys 24-hour security from terribly chic marching French guards, and is close to the enviably grand homes of daughters Caroline and Stephanie. The public gardens opposite their homes are beautifully kept, and could easily be the location for many lazy hours of relaxation if the lure of Monte carlo wasn’t just a few miles away.
Right now, the Grand Prix track is being set up in Monte Carlo, ahead of the race later this month, and we proceeded to the famous casino – which fortunately didn’t open in time for me to go a drop a load of cash. The world famous Hotel de Paris lies alongside the casino, with rooms costing 1,000 euros a night, and those overlooking the Grand Prix track later this month will go for 10,000 euros a night, my my my, Monte Carlo requires some wealth to enjoy its luxuries.
Casino, Monte Carlo
We compromised by enjoying a beer and a coke at the Cafe de Paris, and having received a 21 euro bill, I got my money’s worth by keeping my Hotel de Paris coaster and drinks stirrer as evidence as the most overpriced coke I would ever drink (I was wrong, by the way, see Venice at a later date).
We headed back to Nice to amble along the chi-chi pavement cafes, bask in the sunshine and playing my new favourite game: “If I won the lottery, I would buy that yacht. No, that yacht. the one with the helicopter on it.”
The one that I liked best was a snazzy little number with blacked out windows and a blue helicopter, which I later learned I could hire for a week, if I could get my hands on 67 grand.
Elton John has himself a rather swanky yellow house high in the Nice hills, which I spent some time squinting at through binoculars as we left port, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Oh well, I was later to learn he has lots of yellow houses, all over the place, so I didn’t give up hope.
Add comment May 8, 2009
Faith
Tags: Elton John, Grace Kelly, Grand Prix, Hotel de Paris, Monaco, Monte Carlo, Nice, Prince Albert
When is a Venetian Adventure not a Venetian Adventure?
When it doesn’t give you enough time to have an adventure in Venice, of course.
The boyfriend and I have had nothing but trouble with First Choice holidays. Last year we forked out for an excursion to Cairo when we went to Taba, and found out two days before we were due to go that there was no such excursion on that occasion, and it did in fact leave in three hours’ time. The entry to the pyramids that we’d paid for was apparently not part of this trip and we were left well and truly ripped off. First Choice’s response to our complaint? ‘We can’t possibly do anything about it without substantial proof that you were told you were going on Saturday’ – which is fairly impossible when their rep firmly removed that proof from my fingers and failed to return it, yes?
We booked this cruise back in October as a compromise – I wanted to go to Rome, Mark wanted to go to Nice, we both wanted to go to Venice. A cruise called the Venetian Adventure that started in Nice, moved on to Rome and Sorrento, traipsed through Dubrovnik (figuratively speaking) then landed in Venice for an overnight stay before concluding with stops in Split and Sicilly sounded ideal, and being the super organised being that I am, I had the whole itinerary planned to maximise those two days for a magazine feature, from the gondola ride through the Grand Canal to the trip to the Murano isle to have some glass jewellery made to order.
So it was terribly convenient when six months after the holiday was booked, and around 24 hours after actually setting sail (is that what a cruise ship does? I saw no sail. I suppose it powers along.) we were all told that actually, we wouldn’t be going to Venice overnight, they wouldn’t allow it due to the water weight. BEDLAM. I feared the captain would be lynched, not that it was his fault; it’s not his responsibility to write to the 1,500 passengers who’d all paid in excess of a grand each to visit these ports of call on a frankly fairly shabby ship; it’s up to the tour operator. As I heard hundreds of people complain over the two-week break, First Choice and Thomson knew damn well that anyone booking a cruise called the Venetian Adventure probably wanted to see a bit of Venice, and they weren’t going to run the risk of having to give everyone their thousands of pounds back. Bad customer relations – tick.
So it was that instead of spending a wonderfully romantic evening in the restaurants of this truly unique city, I found myself herded back on to the damn ship seven bloody hours after I’d got off it to see everyone milling around in the carnival masks they’d bought in the Island Escape’s very poor idea of recreating a Ventian ball.
Disappointed? I don’t think that covers it.
Add comment May 7, 2009
Faith
Woman overboard
I caught sight of my arse in a changing room mirror today and almost cricked my next spinning around to reassure myself that it wasn’t me. Which it was, obviously.
I was trying on white capri pants for next week’s cruise. These were capri pants I’d already bought – I took them back, tried them on again in a bigger size and realised that the 10 fit just as well as the 12, and when I say ‘well’ I mean that I looked like a blubber whale in either size. I was too mortified to try anything on to replace them so I shall just throw them back in my wardrobe and pretend I don’t own them.
I don’t understand when this lack of definition in my physique occurred. I used to go in and out and have some muscle definition. Now I just go out, and then further out. My arse looks like I have two buoyancy aids down my trousers, and given that in a week I’ll be in the middle of the Med on a boat, this concerns me.
I’ve never been on a boat before; not a big one with bedrooms. I believe their are rules on ballast and so on, and ultimately, I am concerned that the ship will list to starboard or similar when I go to sleep, ot that someone will grab my legs to stay afloat in the case of a Titanic-scale tragedy (they will regret that move as we will plummet to the nearest wreck and be eaten by fishes before you can say ‘I’m sinking’.
Worse still, the weather report isn’t spectacular and I am torn in two directions – part of me thinks if it’s not hot and sunny, there will be less cause to expose my bleached and beached body to fellow holiday-makers, who let’s face it, could have gone to a farm if they wanted to see a pot bellied pig, and not shelled out on a posh two-week boat trip, while the other part of me is aware that I look thinner when I’m brown, but then I might block out the sun when I lumber on to the deck, waddling along in my silver diamante sandals. I have gone overboard (see what I did there) buying holiday sandals because my feet are the only parts of me that don’t fluctuate in size.
I can pretty much wager that I will come back a good half a stone heavier because the food on these holidays is meant to be outstanding, but I can also say that sadly for me, there won’t be many photos of me because I don’t want to be immortalised digitally in my current state, thanks.
There is a gym on board, and I am packing trainers, plus we’ll be doing a lot of walking through Rome, Monaco, Sorrento and Dubrovnik, but I think that the damage has been done and won’t be easily undone.
The week I get back, I’ll be investing in four personal training sessions. It grieves me that I’ll have to pay someone to get me back on track and express disgust and disappointment at my lack of willpower and sense of pride, but I come face to face (and indeed, arse to face) with it every day in the mirror, so maybe a super-fit honed gym fascist is the only thing that will haul me off the slippery slope and set me back on the straight and narrow path I fell off six or so months ago. Here’s hoping.
Add comment April 17, 2009
Faith
O willpower, wherefore art thou?
Confession time.
I’ve not updated on my diet in weeks because I am ashamed. I have turned into that thing that lives in a dustbin in Sesame Street and eats whatever crap is hurled its way.
I am sure I fit the description of a binge-eater without actually having an eating disorder. I’ll start as I mean to go on, with nutritious seeds and grains for breakfast and masses of fruit, but at some point in the day; usually around 9.04am, it all goes wrong and I get more cravings than a pregnant recovering addict.
People laughed at the orange food plan, but that was a damn sight healthier than the diet I’ve adapted to of late:
Friday: Frantically busy all day. 3 cans Coke Zero, slice of cake as someone’s birthday. Visited friend (and baby), had a chicken korma with rice.
Could do better.
Saturday: Gym session (negates all food eaten for rest of day), followed by mid afternoon mini pork pie and Laughing Cow cheese triangle, then talked into my first Chinese in a year – sweet & sour chicken and prawns, noodles.
Am sure calories eaten trounced calories burned off.
Sunday: Another gym workout. Hurrah. 3 glasses wine, seabass fillets, leeks, baby potatoes & unidentified green vegetable in a lemon and chervil sauce. Oh, and half a Dairy Milk Turkish Delight bar.
Would be passable if I hadn’t glugged the wine and chocolate.
Monday: tuna sandwich, crisps, 3 cans coke zero, a gym workout – standing ovation please – wholemeal pasta with meatballs, mushrooms & peppers, slice of chocolate birthday cake.
Was boyfriend’s birthdaythe following day – is allowed.
Tuesday: Boyfriend’s actual birthday. Jacket potato with beans and cheese at client lunch, then my efforts to have a salad at a restaurant scuppered by outrageous waiting time, forced to once more eat a curry (I’m not actually mad about them). Prawn tikka massala, 1/2 portion of rice and some naan, here we come. One the plus side, too full for cake. Once more, managed an hour in the gym so full credit due for that.
Wednesday: Still celebrating birthday…3 cans coke zero, tuna sandwich, prawn cocktail crisps. Then out to dinner at 1709 brasserie – tucked into mussels followed by spinach & goats cheese risotto, then creme brulee.
Made me feel a little ill during the night – poss the mussels. So all I can think about now is a bacon sandwich, though I have resisted. But I am starving. Tonight we head down to Devon to see the boyfriend’s family, where we will no doubt eat our bodyweight twice over as Elizabeth makes such delicious cakes and prepares such gorgeous feasts, and I won’t be hitting the gym until Tuesday.
Which gives me ONE WEEK to lose ONE STONE before I head off on my cruise – odds: slim.
I saw a stunning dress in Monsoon today and realised that if I hadn’t shelled out so much on eating out in the past week, I could have afforded it, and looked better in it than I would with my little food baby in tow.
Glooooooooooom.
Add comment April 9, 2009
Faith
Shiny and clean
I have been whinging for weeks about the ongoing two year saga with the bathroom, but I’m happy to report that despite being skint now, my bathroom is gleaming, courtesy of some extremely laborious tiling and plumbing and some expert painting from the boyfriend.
My new tenant has the satisfaction of being the first to enjoy the shiny and clean facilities, and I can only look enviously at the photos and wish my own bathroom was shiny and new.
See, doesn’t it make you just want to jump in and get scrubbing?!
Add comment April 8, 2009
Faith
Renovations and reservations
I am starting to wonder if anything is ever straight forward. The work on the kitchen and the bathroom is now complete. I waited with baited breath to see the gleaming results.
I was a bit miffed when I discovered that the workmen, those oh-so-conscientious types who had taken three weeks longer than scheduled such was their dedication to their craft, had failed to replace the light fittings, and that the shower didn’t work.
Then there was the more pressing concern that they’d messed up the water supply so that there was none spilling forth from the taps.
I don’t know about you, but my chief expectation from a bathroom, aside from lovely slate flooring and shimmering white porcelain, is your run-of-the-mill running water.
Still, so very, very close…
Add comment March 24, 2009
Faith
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