Tag Archives: huntingdon

Damn your love, damn your lies

1. Some advice from me to you: when sending an R-rated text message, make sure you send it to the correct person. Ha ha ha ha ha yeah. I might have to move to Antarctica now. I am the Picasso of finding creative new ways to humiliate myself.

2. Things I’ve come across in Huntingdon market square recently:

One night I passed a guy rummaging around in one of the bins. Like, up to his armpit. Full rummage. I didn’t see his face, but he was wearing a blue shirt. Five minutes later I ran into a very drunk acquaintance of mine, who was wearing a blue shirt. “Were you just rummaging around in a bin?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Really? Well, it was someone dressed just like you,” I said.

“…Yes,” he said, and turned and walked away.

(It turns out that he had drunkenly bought some chips from the local shitburger, then drunkenly decided he didn’t want them anymore and chucked the closed container into the bin, then drunkenly decided he DID still want them; hence the raccoon act.)

The following weekend, leaving the pub with a friend at a slightly unreasonable hour, we came across a girl passed out cold with a couple of dudes clustered round her. We stopped and asked if everything was OK – the dudes seemed nice enough, but none of them actually knew her, so we carried the chick back to the pub (closed by this time, but the landlord is a sympathetic sort with multiple daughters). The girl could sort of talk, but wasn’t making much sense. We found her phone and had to plug it in to charge it, then we managed to call her mum, who’d been expecting her home a few hours previously. We asked if she could come pick her drunk-ass daughter up, but she was disabled and didn’t drive. We called a taxi, which took over an hour to arrive, during which time I had to basically carry the girl to the toilets and pull her stockings up for her afterwards. (We did get some minor revenge by taking pictures with her phone of her passed out.) When the taxi arrived (which we paid for, by the way), she was still nowhere near compos mentis, so I had to go with her. The second she arrived at home, however, she jumped out of the taxi like a jackrabbit. It’s a miracle! Not a word of thanks, of course.

I was meant to take the taxi home, but I realised I’d left my phone charging in the pub, so I went back there and pounded on the door. No answer. I walked back to my place, knackered and sober, and found my friend waiting for me: he’d brought my phone and had intended to put it through my letterbox, but had put his own phone through instead. The sun was coming up by this point. Christ, what an agg. No good deed and all that.

3. I pass a certain guy every day on my walk to and from work. One day I saw him at the pub (source of all trouble in my life) and we recognised each other and ended up introducing ourselves. How I regret this. Now we have to say hello to each other every single morning and every single evening when we pass each other on the street. You can tell that neither of us are into it anymore – the greetings are getting less and less enthusiastic. I would honestly take another route to work, even if it was longer, but there’s only one road into town (no need for more in a one-horse town I guess). Minor social obligations will be the death of me.

4. I went to the dentist last week for the first time in six years. Good news: my teeth are fine. Bad news: my dentist is extremely hot. Like, you’d stare at him in the street kind of hot. Dentists’ visits are awkward and embarrassing enough without having to worry about dribbling on a goddamn Calvin Klein model, you know?

5. As of Wednesday, I’m going to be on Vancouver Island for two weeks visiting family. Well, I will say a perfunctory hello to my family anyway before running headlong into the Pacific Ocean and splashing around for two solid weeks like a much less cute otter. There will be many photos of water and mountains and mountains reflected in water. You have been warned.

They don’t like it when I decide to mic it

1. There is a restaurant on Huntingdon High Street called Noodles ‘n’ Juice. I find this funny. Why those two things in particular? There is also a tanning salon upstairs – it’s a separate business, but I appreciate knowing that I could get a plate of chow mein, a pineapple smoothie and a spray tan all in one building, if I so wished. I am unlikely to so wish, but I am glad to know that the option exists. God bless capitalism!

When I googled ‘Huntingdon Noodles ‘n’ Juice’, one of the first results was a local news article from last year about a police raid on the restaurant, looking for drugs apparently. Not only does the place sell an oddly random combination of foodstuffs, but it is a front for the local criminal element! PLEASING. Very soon I shall have to go in and order some noodles ‘n’ juice ‘n’ meth. And get a spray tan.

2. Thanks to my friend who recommended Bob Hund. They are surfy and fun, like the Pixies’ perky Scandinavian cousins, with a bit of electronic weirdness thrown in. I’m thinking of taking some Swedish night classes so I can sing along.

I like to listen to this song very loud on my headphones and make believe I am a super-cool secret agent:

…And this song just makes me happy:

Apparently these guys are a household name in Sweden. They’d probably be more internationally famous if they sang in English but good for them for sticking to their gjuns.

And thanks to Peter Serafinowicz (shut up, he could be reading this, YOU DON’T KNOW), who tweeted a song by The Very Things the other day. You can’t help but like a band with song titles like “The Bushes Scream While My Daddy Prunes”…

…and “Mummy, You’re A Wreck!”

By the way, have you seen Serafinowicz singing Morrissey’s autobiography yet? I LOVE THIS MAN.

3. Happy belated birthday to Canada and America! In honour of both national days, here is Bruce McCullough of The Kids In The Hall waxing eloquent about America:

4. Oh hey, I’m single again. Wah-wahhhh! I’d forgotten how very very bad I am at relationships. (You mean we have to hang out and do things together EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND? But I need AT LEAST twenty hours a week for my vigorous regimen of sprawling on the sofa in tracksuit bottoms watching Supernatural!)

Up for a laugh

1. Over the weekend I was polishing up my windows in anticipation of a flat inspection (last time the report rating was ‘immaculate’, of which I am inordinately proud, GO ME), and my blinds fell down. This is not surprising since a) they cost £6; b) they didn’t come with any rawlplugs – just plain old screw hooks; and c) the plain old screw hooks were screwed into a half-inch of crappy moulded plaster ceiling, and not into the cement or whatever underneath. Basically those blinds were always going to fall down. I could (should) have a) bought some better screw hooks with rawlplugs and/or b) bought a masonry drill bit to get the screws more securely into the ceiling, but I was like “Eh, bored now” so instead I covered the inadequate screws (and my fingers) with crazy glue and just screwed ’em back into the knackered existing holes. Job done. DIY for girls!

(Five days later and the blinds are STILL UP so obviously my solution was GENIUS.)

2. I would not recommend the £1 swiss roll at Sainsbury’s. I was all “Swiss roll for a pound, I’d be crazy not to!” but then I had one slice and it was so cardboardy I threw the rest away. And believe me, when it comes to cake, I am not fussy. FALSE ECONOMY.

3. I’ve tentatively joined an online Meet Up group for thirty-somethings in Cambridgeshire. Why yes I AM that desperate. I’m feeling sort of maddeningly isolated lately. I know plenty of folks in far-flung and glamorous locales – Calgary! Portsmouth! Kilburn! – but I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to build up a proper group of friends in one place (since age twenty, the longest I’ve lived in a single town/city is three years) (!!!), plus now I don’t drink, plus I live in HUNTINGDON, which is not exactly a hotbed of kindred spirits (popular pastimes in Huntingdon include being suspicious of the European Union, mistaking the Sun for a news source, and wearing athletic gear whilst not engaged in any athletic activity). When I go to my local I feel like an anthropologist.

So I’ve joined this group. Odds are pretty slim I’ll actually go to any of the meetings. I somehow doubt that I’ll have anything in common with the sorts of people who go to arranged meet-and-greets in All Bar One (I envisage a crowd of Radio 1 listeners who would describe themselves as “up for a laugh” *shudder*); and besides that I am officially The Worst at mingling and would rather put a pork chop around my neck and make friends with a crocodile than socialise with a room full of strangers. But I am half tempted to put myself through it if only to have something to make fun of on this blog besides telly I’ve watched. I suffer for my art.

4. From my new favourite Tumblr, Design Jargon Bullshit: “Our strategists developed positioning that angled this curatorial expertise to the forefront of the new brand.” Well OBVIOUSLY.

New printable journalling spots – stained notebook pages

1. It is an occupational hazard of my job that I often get the hots for dead people.

Hang on. Let me rephrase that.

Proofing funeral programmes all the livelong day, I get to see a lot of cool sepia photos of people in their prime, including many pictures of sexy, dapper blokes in natty 1940s getup. Sometimes I can’t help thinking, “Phooarrrr. If I had a time machine, boy would HE be in trouble.”

Lusting after the recently deceased: a new low, even for me!

2. Also in my job I hear the word ‘literally’ a lot. The children I work with (seriously they are all under 25, I feel WIZENED) seem to love this word. They don’t misuse it exactly, but they use it in contexts where it really isn’t necessary. “I literally picked it up”, “I literally went downstairs”, etc, etc, etc. Is there a way to go downstairs that is not literal? Can you go downstairs rhetorically?

3. I haven’t posted any photos for a while, so here are a couple I took on my way to work. Instagram effects and Hasselblad borders can make even Huntingdon look cool. Technology is astonishing.

2013-07 bridge

Holes in metal

4. Here is a set of printable journalling spots for you scrapbookers, in the style of lined notebook paper. Print size is 2.5″x3.5″. Click here to purchase on my shiny new website, or here to purchase on Etsy.


And I’m back. I’m very sad to announce that Simon and I have separated. It was my decision, and it was as amicable as possible, but even so this past month hasn’t been the most fun I’ve ever had. If I had to describe it I’d say it was like one of those mythical torments where you’re chained to a rock and an eagle rips out your liver and then overnight it grows back and you do the whole thing over again the next day. Yes, exactly like that. Hideous and awful. I feel like I’ve been through the apocalypse.

I moved last weekend into a tiny one-bedroom flat in Huntingdon, which costs half my salary and smells of mould. On the upside, they let me paint the walls. We all know how much I hate painting, but I hate magnolia walls more. (Why do all rental flats have to be magnolia? It’s the colour of a Band-aid or a prosthetic limb. It’s so aggressively inoffensive it’s gone back round to being offensive. It is the colour equivalent of Muzak.)

I’m right in the centre of town, so I can take advantage of all that Huntingdon has to offer. Argos! Iceland! An enormous ’99p or Less’ shop! (Watch out, Poundland!) The Oxmoor council estate, if I fancy a walk on the wild side! Oh, and more Cromwell-related foofaraw than you can shake a pike at. I thought St Ives was bad for the Cromwell fetishisation, but dude was actually born in Huntingdon, so ab-so-lute-ly evvvvvvvverything here is named after him. (I don’t know why St Ives got a statue and Huntingdon didn’t. There must have been some fierce competition.) The Cromwell Museum is a mere stone’s throw from my front door. And I’m sure dear old Ollie would be pleased to know about the truly terrifying Lord Protector pub (in the afore-mentioned Oxmoor), which seems very much like a place where members of the ruling classes are liable to have their heads removed, or at least their wallets.

So my life is about to get outrageously quiet, trying to live on what passes in this country for a full-time semi-skilled salary. We’ll see if financial desperation lights a fire under my ass in terms of collage sheet productivity. PLEASE BUY A COLLAGE SHEET I REALLY REALLY NEED SOME FURNITURE.