Kapry and other twists of fate...

I'm stopping for a break after another relentless week and a full-on Saturday of work. I've had so little time to myself and fear I'm like a ticking bomb as a result, especially as I'm facing 10 days in a studio flat in the middle of nowhere. I hope that we'll find a way to muddle through and that despite having had so little time to myself, I'll find the tolerance I need to cope with a TV that's on all the time and nowhere to escape it except the bathroom or the cold outdoors.

I'm glad of this little break (in a cafe) but I think I'm a bit too tired to enjoy it fully. I've got to help out with the cleaning as soon as I get back because the Cowboy is on a tidying and cleaning mission to make those TV cleaning presenters (from 'A life of grime', is it?) wince. I know that he will do his utmost to make it the toughest, most unpleasant experience possible while I'll be putting my headphones on and trying to make a game of it by wiggling my sizeable arse to songs like, "I like to move it, move it" and suchlike and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

In the meantime, for your amusement (well, sort of sordid entertainment, actually) during my 'internet exile', here are a couple of photos of the poor carp or ,,kapry" that are being sold on the street in big vats of water near metro stations everywhere around the city. 

They await their cruel fate of being bought and cut open immediately in preparation for the traditional Czech Christmas dinner and their only hope of revenge is that they are full of sharp bones that someone could easily choke or hurt themselves on as they eat them. (Ooh, lucky me! I'm dicing with danger and living life 'on the edge' as usual...)

And here's a more pleasant photo of the Christmas market at náměstí Míru, 

where I got myself a treat of lavender soap and body lotion because it just smells so amazing. I must get on and brace myself for Christmas in the remote mountain village, (oops, I mean "town") of Kašperské Hory. I promise I will make the best use of my time that I can by perfecting my rendition of 'Stop The Cavalry', Laandan accent and "dub-a-dub-a-dum dum"s included, of course. For now, here's wishing you a calm, manageable and rejuvenating Christmas and New Year that gives you the relaxation you need and at least a few added bonuses. 

Merry Christmas!  Veselé vánoce!

A day of ice and icy responses

"Walking on thin ice, I'm paying the price, for throwing the dice in the air.

Why must we learn it the hard way, and play the game of life with your heart?" 

Yoko Ono

I'm glad it's Sunday and I finally get a morning off, because quite frankly, this week has been a battle and a half and I really have had enough. Earlier in the week I had a callback for a commercial I did the first casting for the previous week. I re-acted the scene they'd wanted from last time, but more accurately thanks to the time I'd had to practise in the interim and I thought I did pretty well. They even said "perfect" at the end. But I didn't get the job. Wrong look, I guess. They had ditched the gorgeous, model-like blondes from last week but the brunettes who were left still included some model-type figures, and as the cowboy so readily likes to remind me, I do not possess a model's physique. So I guess I just didn't fit the bill. I pity the poor guy who gets cast in the male role though. Getting the job but knowing that as a result you'll have to shave your head (even with the special monetary bonus for this very reason) must be a bitter-sweet experience. 

Yesterday was 'walking on ice' day, as the previous days of snow had left the ground covered in compacted snow from people walking over it and then overnight the temperature rose to a balmy 0 degrees and it rained. And thus, with the temperatures hovering around zero and the ground already being extra-cold and covered in snow, that rain settled nicely as ice. Leaving me feeling like I'd been trapped in a re-run of 'Home Alone' as I attempted to walk down the slope out of the building to get onto the slippery path to walk to the metro. As luck would have it, the path to the metro is also on a slope and there are only sporadic areas of grass on the side to walk on as an alternative, so this was truly the challenge of the day. It wasn't super early either - we're talking 10.15am on a Saturday. Not impossible for people to have come out and poured boiling water on it and put down some salt or grit or something. But no. It was an ice rink on a slope instead.

All through the day there were areas like this that I had to negotiate to be able to get to my meetings (yes, I need the money so Saturdays are not a day off) culminating in a meeting at 3.15pm ish that took some time to find because the map I'd printed out didn't show me the lanes I could cut through and the street names were a long walk along a big wide road in one direction, or a long walk across a park in another, just to establish which road I was starting from... In the end, with much discussion on the phone to my meet-ee and many wrong turns, I managed to get to her house. But not before meeting the mother of all ice-covered outside steps that I had to walk down to be able to get to her street. I grabbed a hold of the hand rail, which made my gloves wet, and took it one step on ice at a time. It was a miracle I got there in one piece.

I proceeded to give her a fantastic range of inspiration, guidance, tips, demonstrations, technique exercises and audition strategies for an hour as a free trial singing session. I asked her if it had been useful and she said, "Yes, very useful!". But when I told her my fee for lessons going forward, she did her best impression of a maintenance guy telling me how much it's going to cost to replace a boiler and did that classic, sharp intake of breath with a sort of 'ouch' at the end and waited for me to respond.  I offered a ten percent discount for paying for four sessions in advance, and then took off 160Kč to round it down to 2000Kč total. (Around £64) And she still said nothing. But as I left to go and went out of the gate she said, "I'm just going to pay you the 500Kč next week because I can't afford to pay the full amount in advance". I was dumbfounded and felt like I was trapped in a parallel universe. When does anyone ever dictate to any service provider what they, the client, are going to pay?! But feeling so downtrodden from such a long and arduous day, I said, "Ok, well, we'll need to sit down and book in the dates at least next time."

But I know now, that that was just ridiculous. I will not accept that. I cannot accept that. There are free training videos she can watch on my website, she's just had a free trial session and I offered her a great discount on four lessons. What more can I do?! I then came home, hours later than planned because of all the wrong turns before and the continued 'walking on ice' situation everywhere, and the fact that she lives miles away from me in totally the opposite direction, feeling utterly ticked off. 

To cap it all, I then read an email from a friend, with details of the cost of mixing the two tracks I'm trying to get finished here. The upshot being, £250 just for the mixing. That is more than I have left in my UK account from the money donated to me from the Swedish faerie godmother. She had given me more than that, but it has gone on the costs for domain name and hosting for a couple of websites and paying the MU subs that got me the "free" legal advice I needed to negotiate a contract, as well as the recording done so far here in Prague. I have a grand total of £221 left (now that I have sensibly transferred an amount as an emergency fund to an ISA account, most of which is loaned money from my sister) and I am diligently paying off a small amount of my student loan each month, just so the amount doesn't keep growing.

Where am I going wrong? (Rhetorical question - no need to answer that one.) I can see that the list of mistakes I've made in my life in discerning how to play this attempt at a creative life is long and complex. Clearly one of the things I had wrong all along is that being self-employed was the best strategy to leave time to do music - especially as I had to do all that basic learn to play the piano, learn to write songs, learn to sing better, stuff as an adult. I'm still chasing clients who pay a pittance and take up too much extra time in needing to negotiate with and I then can't afford the help I need to get my own creative work done. And to cap it all, my Macbook battery is beginning to slowly die. As is the battery of my iPod. (I don't have an iPhone or anything flash like that.) How on earth can I afford to achieve the goals Im working towards? How the hell will I ever afford to get out of this flat if I have to invest more money than I have in the bank after donations from kind people just to get two songs mixed? How will I afford the cost of setting up my websites professionally enough to actually sell stuff on them when I have got those songs mixed?

I'm beginning to think I may be forced to try some sort of crowdfunding venture. But that's a big risk, because those generally are only successful with a wide network of people to appeal to. I'm working on building my network, believe me, but it's hard while based in the Czech Republic, and while working like crazy to earn only enough to cover food and MU subs, student loan repayment, travel, phone top-up and little else.The Guardian have been running stories lately about the impact of the financial crisis, and how ex-partners can't afford to split up and move out and run two separate households. I'm beginning to fear I am one of them. 

But all is not lost.  I actually have a paid article to write today. All of £12 an hour. Hurrah!  That's big bucks in my line of work. (Actually, that's a lie - I generally earn just about a pound more than that per hour with meet-ees, but only just.) And the irony of that is, I'm ghostwriting for a married woman and mother of three...ha, ha! The universe really does have a loopy sense of humour, don't you think?

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas..and other thoughts on the passage of time...

The snow has arrived in earnest today. (Compare the other morning-

to this morning) -

It's just as well I found my snowboots from the cupboard in the cowboy's flat this morning. I can't believe I still don't have enough money saved up to move out anytime soon. What with the cost of now paying social security and health insurance, the ongoing battle with the internet company who still want to charge me for the internet in my flat that I no longer live in and the cost of not only buying Christmas presents but the postage to send stuff to the US and UK (the postage is almost always at least as much as the presents were, if not more) I am no where near having three months' rent saved up. I'm close to having one month, but that's one month's rent according to what the rent in an equivalent place would be now. Which is about 2,000Kč more, at least.

I have to factor in that from now on I may as well add a further 3,000Kč as rent as well, because that's roughly the cost of the health insurance and social security payments, so the outlook isn't good for being able to move out. And at the same time, I know I need to move out, to do the cowboy the courtesy of having his flat back to have other women come to at some point because if he really wants to have children, he's going to need to start looking around for a new girlfriend. And this country is really cruel when it comes to ageism. Once you've hit 40, people seem to assume that's your life pretty much sewn up. If you're a parent by then, then that's all your life will entail until retirement. And by the time you're 60, well, forget having any purpose to your life. You may as well lie in the grave and wait for death.

I must admit I'm getting really tired of this attitude and I feel really sorry for those who truly feel bound by it. I'm grateful that my interpretation of getting older has a bit more fun involved.  This was/is my plan anyway, sod what the Czechs think (or anyone else for that matter):

List of things to do in each decade of my life (skipping the childhood bits, which are mostly awful because someone else's always making decisions for you):

20s - Find out all the shitty things that happen in life like not getting the career you want, nor a suitable partner, and get over them quickly because you're still young.

30s - Go through ill-advised mini-midlife crisis and then realise you've got plenty of time to screw up loads more stuff than just career and relationships so you may as well give up on those and get on with learning new stuff. Become dynamically "you" in a stronger, more self-assured way than ever before. Play gigs with a wild disregard for industry 'standards' and just wear what you want and sing whichever songs take your fancy and write cryptic things on social media sites in an 'anti-popularity contest' approach to music marketing. Don't have children because there are about 1,560 reasons why not to and you'll thank yourself when you reach 45 and don't have to live with a teenager as a result. Enjoy the fun of being able to travel and have time to write and read books anyway.

40s - Show everyone what a sexy, hip and happening woman you can be in your 40s when you have the advantage of not having children to deal with and start buying vastly expensive dresses and make up because now's not the time to go for cheap products or materials anymore. But as Simone de Beauvoir put it, there's no need to stop dying your hair blonde, wearing a bikini or flirting with deserving men.

50s - Time to show the world what it really means to be 'une femme d'un certain âge' and write a novel or memoir full of deeply moving insight and wisdom and, of course, acerbic wit. And have a hedonistically blissful love affair in between writing your books and playing your grand piano that your lover donated you. Wear incredibly sexy knee-length black boots and red lipstick all the time. Even when you're shopping in M&S. Infact, especially when you're shopping in M&S.

60s - Write vehemently about politics in opinion columns in newspapers and with the kind of venom that divides people instantly and don't give a shit about it because you've hit the wise old age of 60 and you will NOT apologise to anyone. Go on 'Newsnight' and 'Any Questions?' as a well-known pundit who can be relied upon to be entertaining just because you're so appallingly outspoken and it makes for great TV.

70s - Show how fit and flexible you still are because you never stopped doing aerobics and pilates and amaze people with your freakish strength and youthful demeanour. Pinch men's bottoms in department stores just to show'em who's boss and enjoy being totally irreverent.

80s - Maybe snuggle up now and then with a blanket on your knees as well as a few thick jumpers on, because you're allowed to get a bit cold at this age. Still write achingly moving and pertinent prose though and develop a hot toddy routine involving brandy or rum. Forget to get the piano tuned now and then because you haven't noticed how off-pitch it is, due to diminished hearing ability. Oops.

90s - Write poetry just to piss off a few more people while you still can. Then curl up with a cat and snooze every lunchtime. And be grateful for every day that you wake up and find out you're still alive. It's another day in which to wander about in eccentric clothes and annoy people by pretending to be deaf. Or maybe you actually are deaf. You can't remember.

The end. 

(I think.)

A funny little day

Having had a really nasty cold over the last week, but more work and more meet-ees, it's been a dreary time. The weather has been cold and miserable and I was feeling fed up especially at all the work I've put in on various projects (from contacting people I'd like to work with, to organising meetings and a possible gig) and getting nothing back. But today has started to feel a bit better. 

This morning on the metro, as I was travelling in to my 8am meeting, there was a woman with a canvas bag full of Christmas tree-like branches standing in front of me. Not particularly interesting. But then, I noticed a tiny little life-sized ladybird on the side of her bag. I thought it was really cool to have a life-sized plastic ladybird pinned to your bag and started on a little reverie about ladybirds and how the word for ladybird here, ,,beruška", is also a common term of endearment for women by their boyfriends, much in the same way as 'honey' would be in the US. And I am privileged to have been called that. It infact changes ending (it's the Czech language - of COURSE the ending changes..!) when you call someone over using that term, like when asking for help you with something, e.g., "Honey? Could you just...?" so it becomes, ,,beruško...můžeš...?" And that word just sounds so yummy and lovely in that context.

I came out of that linguistic reverie to find that the plastic life-sized beruska had in fact moved. And it wasn't plastic at all. It was real. So then I got quite involved watching the ladybird crawl up the bag to the bag handle and on to the cuff of the lady holding it and how she nearly swiped the ladybird off with her newspaper as she (standing up and still holding on to a handrail with one hand) flicked over a page. But the beruška survived. And crawled further along her arm and towards her glove. I somehow felt terribly concerned that the ladybird would meet with a sad end from this adventure of hers and wished she had just walked towards the fir tree branches instead, where she would be safer for longer. But the ladybird soap opera ended there as I had to get off at the next stop. I wonder if the woman holding the bag of branches ever noticed the ladybird? What torture it is to have such unanswered questions in my life...

Later on came more unanswered questions, in the form of an odd little gathering of people for a Wilkinson advert at the casting agency oddly called Myrnyx Tyrnyx near Petřín park. It was a typical huddle of actors and model types, mostly the latter when it came to the women, who had been informed that it would involve a secretary and boss. (Sad that they stick to the sexist stereotype of assuming the women are the former and the men the latter....) So there were several beauties sitting in a row in six inch heels and short skirts and looking every bit the sexy secretary. 

And then there was me. Hmm. Not quite the sexy anything. I had at least managed to remove my newly acquired kid-like fingerless gloves/mittens combo that look like little brown pandas and had worn my red dress, with a thin grey belt but on an icy day like today, I had decided against the red Kurt Gieger shoes I should have worn if I'd wanted to compete with the others. (Though, as it turned out, they would never have been in shot anyway, but many actors consider this irrelevant as it helps you to get 'in character'.) As is so often the case here in Prague, the city full of Czech supermodels and Eastern European beauties around every (other) corner, the term 'actress' appeared to mean, 'classically beautiful specimen of a woman'. As though it was outrageous to think you could be an actress if you weren't. (Why try against this competition?) Thus, I felt like the ugly duckling. I often wonder if people think that this means I must be deluded about my appearance. I sometimes want to scream out to them - yes, I know I'm the ugly duckling of the room! I'm under no illusions. I'm just aware of the random nature of selection for these kinds of things and am here if for no other reason than to do the casting agent the courtesy of showing up for something she invited me to do." 

As it was, for some reason, the casting agent remembered me and she's only seen me once before. She asked me as part of the introducing yourself bit, what kind of music I do. And as I trotted out the two most common artists I'm compared to, she said, "oh those are two of my favourite singers!" So I somehow made an impression despite my nondescript features. Though I must admit, when it came to playing the tiny little scene I had to do, being out of practice showed and I rushed too much. But at least I know what to do next time. And also one person to send my next recordings to.

Ah, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...I wonder if the ladybird fared better today? 

Looper, Lars and not many laughs

I seem to be having one of those weeks where it's super-busy to the point of insanity but then there's a total slump afterwards where my body refuses to keep up the momentum and relentlessness any longer. I also seem to be observing odd little things as I have wound my way throughout the week. First of all, I sort of reached a milestone with a professional project this week, so I decided to sneakily celebrate it by going out to the cinema with the cowboy. Except I didn't tell him that it was my way of celebrating my achievement because when I'd mentioned the completed work to him earlier he just said, "yeah, but you've been doing that for ages and I don't even see the point of it". So it was my own way of marking the milestone, giving him an opportunity to have an evening out which he needed too and just try to enjoy doing something fun together for once. 

We went and watched the film, "Looper", which stars Emily Blunt and Bruce Willis (looking somewhat shockingly old) and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who I hadn't come across before. Emily Blunt was great and performed with a really convincing Southern-ish US accent without sounding OTT and her character's bravado made me laugh. It was one of those time-travel themed sci-fi films which get hard to follow because you spend half the time thinking, "so did that happen in the past and now they're trying to go back and correct it? And if so, why are they bothering to go back to the present..." and you end up giving up because it's, frankly, not worth the hassle because you miss the next part of the film if you sit there trying to figure it out. Which they kind of made a joke about in the film anyway, perhaps to appease the audience who would by then be getting a bit lost. I still think it was worth seeing, even though it was kind of depressing. And Jeff Daniels was a hoot as the ruthless boss/chief character just by being so unnervingly unpredictable. So it was kind of worth it for his scenes alone.

Afterwards, we wandered around like lost sheep trying to find our way out of the shopping centre, where the cinema is located (following the impossible trail of escalators that don't run all in one line down, so you keep having to walk out of your way and come across more random shops in order to find the exit) and we came upon a small supermarket (called 'Albert' - no, seriously) and realised we were out of bread and milk so we should at least pick up those things. And that's when I came across the "Duff" beer that I've seen out in stalls in the centre of town but saw for the first time in a shopping centre. 

I don't know who decided to give that a go and how they got permission from the Simpsons to do it, but there were not only cans of it but bottles too. 

Which then sparked a mini 'supermarket photos frenzy' (Czech soups - including Goulash soup)

and 'Lentilky' (the Czech kind of Smarties)

and the cowboy remarked how this kind of behaviour could get me arrested. Well, it could have in the US. Sadly, no-one batted an eyelid here.

And the rest of the week has been a mad rush of meetings and an entrepreneurial conference online, making videos for music-y things and trying to keep up with admin. Until this afternoon/evening when I decided to watch three films back to back because the cowboy is at his brother's and I have several films I've wanted to see for ages but couldn't because I never have the time or the cowboy wouldn't be interested in that kind of film. So I watched an old one for comfort-viewing which was just a cheesy chick flick but with Joan Cusack being utterly brilliant in it, which is so typical for her that I know that that doesn't narrow it down for you... Then I watched 'Salt' (as the cowboy would normally like this kind of film but he hates Angelina Jolie for some reason, enough that he won't watch a film with her in) and found it very entertaining but with an annoyingly open-ended and 'unfinished' kind of ending. Followed by, 'Lars and the Real Girl', which just made me cry even though the premise is so ridiculous (and the doll looked strangely like Angelina Jolie infact..!) but the underlying feelings of the characters are so sad and yet so caring. I don't know why it made me cry so much. Maybe it was the sense of everyone going out of their way to be kind to this guy who was obviously in a huge amount of pain. It's so unusual. And that in itself is sad. 

But Ryan Gosling blinks a lot, don't you think? I've only seen him in this, one other film I've already forgotten the name of, and 'Fracture', and he blinks a lot in all of them. Maybe that's what makes him so endearing. It certainly helped him seem more of a nutcase in this film. (Maybe nutcase is too harsh. I catch myself calling myself a nutcase from time to time, but I think that's just my Mum's voice infiltrating my brain again, as it sometimes does.) And in the middle of all that, I got a lovely email from a friend saying how artistically fashionable and gorgeous I looked today, which was not only super-lovely, but also surprising because it was one of those, 'hardly anything left to wear because there are piles of washing to do' days and I'd worn my greeny-blue jeans, my cookie monster t-shirt and a couple of cardigans (it was cold) and I thought I looked so scruffy, I'd better do my best to compensate by wearing (fake) pearls, chunky glass-gem-looking earrings and pale pink/purple lipstick. I thought I probably looked like some kind of freak. But maybe that's just 'artistically fashionable' seen from a different perspective. I guess only the likes of I-D, Dazed and Confused and NYLON magazine would know about that. And I'm probably too old for their demographics anyway. Who knows.

I feel so frustrated today that so much effort has gone in to achieving what feels like so little. I can't even finish recording the two songs I want to finish before Christmas without difficulties of organising time with the guy I know here who has a studio (well, is moving to a new one actually, so currently only has a home studio) and organising time to practise. The cowboy is very concerned with how thin the walls are here in this council-flat like place and doesn't want me to sing or play aloud in the evenings, so I have to try to fit it in around meetings and so on during the daytime. Which hopefully will get easier to do soon, once I've done enough on the videos I've been doing. But doing any recording here seems just out of the question. Even for something fun and simple like recording a cover song on the keyboard with just that and vocals.

I think I'm rambling too much now, so I'd better get to bed. Goodnight readers, wherever you are.

Single Person Behaviour (Part Deux)

I'm so thrilled at having this time to myself I can't get over how wonderful it is!  I therefore had to create a second part to my previous post. I had a somewhat unfortunate start to the day in that I was woken up by period pain, even though that shouldn't be happening for at least another 5 days so I had to take some painkillers right away but that kind of gave me a good excuse to have a longer lie-in as compensation. Snuggling up with a hot water bottle always feels cosy even when the reason for making a hot water bottle was the pain that came unexpectedly. I am so lucky that I kept a good lot of magazines out and in bags instead of boxes because that means I've been able to plaster the bed with them and browse, read and lounge about looking at pictures avidly. I'm feeling a bit mournful about all the lovely old copies of Vogue I had to get rid of before I even moved to this country though because I had some great ones, mostly bought for half-price at the second-hand exchange bookshop on Notting Hill on Pembridge Road. Oh how I miss that shop...But I did keep a whole bunch of pages from my favourite editions including a few Paris Vogues, and I'm glad I've had a chance to look through those. Nothing like covering the bed with fashion pictures and mini-articles (zoom in on the middle left of the photo) on people like Daniel Auteuil.

I have also continued my practising of new make-up techniques after educating myself that it's not entirely about the make-up you buy but how you use it, thanks to this Lisa Eldridge video in particular. But I amazingly found that I already had one of the lipsticks she mentioned - the 'New Black' no17 one! Which is exactly the dark shade I most wanted - yay! I vainly took a few pictures of myself (how shameful is that?) using PhotoBooth on my Mac (Macs are just so brilliantly full of useful and totally free software!) sporting that very dark red/mauve lipstick. This is where it gets tricky to remain anonymous and show the fruits of my labour...

(Well, it wasn't exactly labour. There are tonnes of other things I've done that are far more creative and took wayyy more work but that I really can't share here as it would indeed be too much of a giveaway. Though I'm pretty sure at this stage the only people reading this are people who know me anyway. (Leave a comment and prove me wrong if that's not the case!) 

I enjoyed my lie-in today and I made a terribly unhealthy cooked breakfast (but not exactly a totally English cooked breakfast) of eggs, baked beans, mushrooms and Czech spicy sausages, with a mug of coffee. It was rather yummy. And I can't tell you how delightful it was to realise there's so much less washing up to do even after making something as messy as a cooked breakfast when there's only one person's washing up to do! Wow - it only took about 15 minutes!

The other thing I have been doing is trying for the life of me to come up with a good present for my sister's birthday. It's the big 'three - oh' and I want to get her something special, but anything good and something I'd feel pleased as punch to get her is out of my price range and is something I've failed to get for myself and yet have always wanted. Such as a proper silk camisole or chemise like this or a sumptuously sparkly handbag like this. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever be able to a) make her proud of me that I can actually afford to buy her something really special for once and b) if I'll ever be able to have any of these things myself. I suppose while even copies of Vogue are out of my price range, I have an amazon wishlist that I still can't even afford to get any of, and I've declined to buy ice-cream this weekend because I couldn't afford that as well as a bottle of wine and salmon, I can safely assume the answer may well be 'no'. I really want to turn this around. My sister deserves some luxury for once.

She is the epitome of the brilliant bargain-hunter where I aspire to be more Parisian and spend a lot on something that will truly last and do me well for being better quality (but usually I can only manage this by buying it when it's already 10 years old from a charity shop) so she has a revolving list of items in her wardrobe that she gets rid of on a regular basis because she buys from Primark, H&M and Kohls. She's got it down to a fine art to get my Mum or Dad to buy things for her while she's seen that they're on sale and has built up a remarkable range of clothes on this basis. I just wish I could treat her to something she would never want to replace.

Heigh-ho. Time for some more old pages from Vogue perusing (and in this pile is one of the pages of photos that inspired my main music pic for social media and google use for my music work at the moment. I had such fun working with the Russian Countess on that shoot - I wonder if you can guess which one...)

and a huge amount of denial about the fact that tomorrow the Cowboy is coming back and tonight I have to deal with a meet-ee on Skype and that that damned expensive festivity - Christmas - is not far off and I'm possibly more broke than when I first started out as a student. I'll find a way to get through it somehow but I just wish I could at least be doing it all on my own, in a flat of my own, with my keyboard set-up in a space befitting it and enough money to buy myself at least one treat, if nothing else, as a means of celebrating getting so much done on my websites all by myself from working out stuff from free training videos.

Single Person Behaviour Night - Yay!

I finally have a weekend to myself. An evening to indulge in 'single-person behaviour', which couldn't have come at a better time. I've had such a strange week. I got dragged into a series of strange interviews with a language school-cum-consulting company whereby I couldn't tell how they separated the two and it took hours to understand even the beginnings of the aims of the company because the person explaining it to me spoke English as his fourth language and it was rather hard to interpret at times. I had to do a 'test' of phoning the Director of Sales of the Four Seasons hotel here in Prague and get him to agree to a meeting at the hotel about how we could send him some clients. Except it was based on the premise of a business card for a less than luxurious German travel agency that this guy at the language school/consultancy company had the business card of. It was all so confusing and pointless and seemed like merely an exercise in blagging. Which I loathe.

As it turned out, I got paid £10 for successfully arranging the meeting (and therefore 'passing the test') then I tried to negotiate a fair rate (£11.53 an hour instead of £6) for the work going ahead and in the end got turned down because the guy at the Four Seasons (rightly) cancelled our meeting on the basis that he really didn't think we were in a position to offer him clients appropriate for the standard/price of the hotel. So I didn't get the job. And I can tell you, I am SO relieved. I did learn a lot about how I CAN negotiate afterall (well, at least, when I know I'm in a strong position - I mean how many other Brits in Prague can speak Czech to intermediate level, French to advanced level [at least on a good, 'brushed-up' day] and understand German and even a bit of Spanish?) and I know how to prepare myself for setting my limits. I carefully calculated that the number of hours he was proposing amounted to half my working hours in a week overall and that therefore, I could not actually live on £6 an hour for the work. Simple. 

In other news, I got through ex-partner's birthday for another year, having sent him a little card and sent a text message on the day. It feels so strange. So odd to realise I haven't actually spoken to him in a year or so. In the meantime, the cowboy is still finding it amusing to torture and judge me about this former relationship because he's not mature enough to let bygones be bygones and accept that he can't really understand how something may have felt for another person. (Having recently got a new meet-ee who's a teenager and whose Dad set up the meetings, the cowboy thought it appropriate to ask about the Dad as soon as I mentioned him, making a sexually suggestive face. I told him this was unacceptable, but the cowboy disagreed with me on that.) So I am more determined than ever that I deserve to be with an adult man, just like any other adult woman is, and I would very much like to be able to move out and be on my own to enable that as soon as possible. The cowboy knows that we are not compatible in the long term, as for some strange reason he really wants children (and I certainly do not want two in one go, i.e an infant and a baby I actually gave birth to, too) but he is incapable of handling that information in a rational way and sits and sulks about it instead, saying things like, "I'm not talking to you, because you don't love me".

So life goes on as usual. I have made professional progress in the form of updating one of my websites, contacting another casting agency with whom I shall register properly on Monday, making a video to go with one of the aims of one of my websites, and contacting a couple of music producers, one of whom seems interested in knowing more about my music. Sadly, he wants some chord charts that I either don't have and will have to set up my keyboard here, where there's not really room for it, to work out, or that I do have already but are in a box in amongst other boxes in a cupboard. (Have I mentioned I don't want to live like this?) Oh and I spoke to my sister about ordering some things from the UK, one for a Christmas pressie for the cowboy, and the rest for me, but she'd already bought a bunch of things I sort of needed, meaning I have less budget left for what I really wanted and was going to sacrifice the 'needed' things for, out of sheer urgency in cheering myself up more, so I have to strike a few things off the list. (Because, much as I really didn't want that consulting job, I really needed the goddamned money of course...)

So, for tonight, by way of compensation, the cowboy has gone to the flat in the mountains and I have bought myself some salmon and cooked it with new potatoes, broccoli and mushrooms and have been sipping rosé wine from Australia from a year prior to losing my ex-partner (here's where I am pathetic) because it was one of the few decent rosé wines in the supermarket here in the back-of-beyond that is this Prague 4 suburb, and I've been watching old SATC videos, reminding myself of a time when my former flatmate, the now super-famous pop star in Denmark, used to sit on my sofa and watch them too and sob because her producer at the time was being a total asshole to her. You know what? I am so glad that she escaped and made it. She bloody deserved it. And I love how much better pop songs sound in Danish. It's almost faerie-like. (Even though the Swedes think the Danes sound like they're speaking with a potato in their mouths.) And it works as a good subterfuge, so that I don't notice that lyrics like, "when time goes backwards, I will love you again and again and again" sound a teensy bit naff. But maybe that's just my own aversion to lyrics about love. I just don't believe in them. It's just too "icky". I really can't explain why.

(Not as bad as) A Cow's Life

So winter has come early here in the Czech Republic and I feel weighed down just like this little bluebell-ish flower.  

(Is it one of those Spanish ones that have overtaken the English ones? I'm not very good at botany. As you may have guessed.)

The clever rescue plan of moving in with the Cowboy got me out of my flat and avoiding life on the streets or randomly on someone's sofa (actually I don't know anyone grown up enough here to have an actual sofa...)just in time to avoid financially overstretching myself into bankruptcy, but it has left me in a flat so inaccessible and so undesirable that no meet-ees really want to come here. Thus my income has remained so low I can barely save anything and now I feel utterly doomed to having to spend Christmas here. And I really didn't want that at all. But I'm rather used to being backed into corners forcing me to choose what I don't want. It's horribly familiar now.

Enough. I mustn't feel sorry for myself. This weekend I got to see beautiful countryside covered in snow. 

And by this morning there had been this much (see the level on the balcony ledge)!

And I must be grateful that I am not stuck sleeping out in the cold.  Unlike this cow.  

Chudák!

Autumnal grumblings and a nasty cold

Autumn has set in with a cloudy, mist-filled vengeance and gloom and darkness now seem to be the order of the day. Even here in Prague. Consequently, in my over-enthusiasm to workout harder in my aerobics sessions to develop strength and avoid colds, I miscalculated the difference in temperature in this flat and exercised without a jacket to begin with, and got a cold. Or was it just the stress of never knowing when I'll have time to myself these days and a lack of soothing candles and lights and things that make me go mmmm...?

This cold has been particularly nasty and I'm only just getting better, but in my slowness to recover, I've bought myself some time to do some much needed ground work in trying to build up meet-ee numbers again as well as get better paid writing work and improve my website to be more of a showcase of all my areas of work. So I guess I've been working hard without realising it. As usual. I even got out to a networking event. God forbid. Actually, I surprised myself and actually followed-up a couple of acting related contacts. Joining one more casting agency can't do any harm I suppose.

In the last few weeks, the cowboy and I have managed to get out for another couple of mushroom-picking trips, which has made me an above average foreigner when it comes to recognising edible varieties.  This, for example, is edible:

These, on the other hand, are not.

See, expert, right?

Well, not exactly. But at least I'm occasionally capable of picking the right ones so that not everything I gather has to be discarded. Although sometimes, the ensuing mushroom soup with potatoes that the cowboy has made, has given me the worst tummy ache ever. And you do not want to know the side effects of that. I shall not go in to such matters. Ugh. 

The gorgeous autumnal trees and colours of the leaves have been cheering me up though. 

And having a nasty cold has given me a good excuse to curl up in bed more and catch up on some old David Attenborough documentaries. Which is soothing, fascinating and in the case of the mole-rat things that live underground and gnaw away at soil to make their burrows, disgusting all at the same time. The platypus was just amazing though.

Politeness and the British Way

I just came across this article the other day, which came as quite a surprise actually. I didn't really think that Americans, much less New Yorkers, would think British English is either cool, or good to use to try to sound, 'posh'. Most of the time, it just sounds poncey to use such unfamiliar language. But then again, if you travel back and forth between the UK and US it could seep in and start to get all mixed up. I have had compliments lately from a couple of Americans that my British accent is lovely to listen to, but mostly because they were exposed to other kinds of regional British accents that they had found incomprehensible. I suppose the standard RP accent (what most people consider 'BBC English') is the preferred kind of British accent but it makes you wonder how others are perceived if they can't even be fully understood. I read in the Guardian, that had a whole round up of 'comedy news' yesterday (whatever that is) that the actor/comedian Rob Brydon will play a Welshman living in LA. How ever will Americans understand him? Will he purposely have to talk more slowly?

As an interesting follow-on discovery from this NYTimes article, I came across the blog 'Separated by a Common Language' where one of the latest articles deals with the issue of politeness. I'm quite interested in this because the word 'politeness' brings up all sorts of connotations for me. It reminds me of my childhood and having it drummed into me as though the world would collapse under a sea of despicable, immoral conduct if not used, that 'please' and 'thank you' were the most vital elements of any conversation at the dinner table. Quite rightly, my Mum wanted us to be grateful children, who always respected the people around them and would be polite at all times in either requesting or receiving something. On the other hand, this stretched to asking permission for all manner of things that perhaps went a bit too far. Was it really necessary to ask, "please could I leave the table now, as I've got homework to do?"  And worse still, was it necessary to decline kind offers from neighbours or family friends, when you really wanted to accept, just because it was the polite thing to do, not to take 'too much'?

This last point leads into the idea of self-worth. Too much politeness or an overly self-deprecating manner can cause its own problems. Perhaps these are not readily recognised in the UK, but I've noticed the differences I've experienced in both the US and here in the Czech Republic, not to mention comments from Russian and German friends. Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, 'Committed', (that I've been avidly reading and have just finished) explains the uncomfortableness of finding herself caught in a 'permission-seeking' situation with her own partner. She knew what she wanted to do, (go to Cambodia on her own without her partner) and she wanted to check that her partner would be ok with the idea, but she didn't want to put herself in the position of making her partner some kind of authority figure from whom she had to seek permission. As she puts it:

"When it came time to discuss with Felipe my idea of going off to Cambodia without him for a spell, I broached the topic with a degree of skittishness that surprised me. For a few days, I could not seem to find the right approach. I didn't want to feel as though I were asking his permission to go, since that placed him in the role of a master or a parent - and that wouldn't be fair to me. Nor, though, could I imagine sitting down with this nice, considerate man and bluntly informing him that I was heading off alone whether he liked it or not. This would place me in the role of wilful tyrant, which was obviously unfair to him."   

I recently struggled with learning the protocol of polite language usage here with some friends of friends who were Czech. First of all, there's the question of whether to use the 'Ty' or 'Vy' form, i.e a friendly form of 'you' or the polite, respectful one. And then, there's the question of how often to use the more polite conditional forms, such as 'could I help with something?' instead of a straightforward, 'can I help?' and you can forget about adding 'please' to any simple request to pass something over or ask where the loo is. That would just seem a typically apologetically British approach that has no place in this country. 

So it's something I'm still battling to learn. Having been accused of being too polite by ex-partner, who often said, "you don't need to apologise for breathing, you know!" about my tendency to say sorry too much, and yet at the same time being brought up to avoid asking for too much because that was rude, I'm in a bit of a pickle really. Maybe I just need to be British-ly polite in the UK and assume a certain sense of 'everything's ok' in places like the US and here in the Czech Republic and try very hard NEVER to get confused and mix them up.

Jimmy Savile and other revolting characters

Having read and researched the allegations about Jimmy Savile in the British press recently, it is hard to shake off the sense of disgust that I feel about him and the kind of uncomfortable, 'icky' feeling he elicits. I remember watching the Louis Theroux documentary about him and sensing that he was not an affable eccentric type at all, but rather someone who was mentally unstable and had only built up a greater defence of that dysfunctionality as he had got older. There was just something about him, a certain readiness to stand his ground and defend his strange behaviour as his right, that seemed somehow 'off-kilter'.

The sad truth is, that there are probably a lot of women who have come across someone in their lifetime who has been this kind of character - seemingly kind and gregarious, avuncular and well-liked by lots of people, but who underlyingly, sometimes imperceptibly to others, definitely has a problem. Most of the time, other people around them sense this odd quality about them and know to be careful or to monitor this kind of person more closely. Other times, young women or even girls are subjected to uncomfortable situations such as a hug that goes just that little bit too far or a congratulatory pat on the back that lingers too long and settles too low. Coleen Nolan describes this situation that she experienced with Jimmy Savile here. This is the type of thing that somehow goes on without anyone ever calling the perpetrator up on what they're doing because there's no outright crime to be accused of and, the worst thing in Jimmy Savile's case is the fact that he believed himself to be above recrimination. He would have laughed anything off as 'a bit of fun', no doubt, and nobody could argue with that. Until evidence emerges to the contrary. Which in that day and age, with no video-enabled mobile phones, would have been hard to produce. The fact that there were rumours, at the time, made little difference because Jimmy Savile had so much financial influence and because, as Janet Street Porter attests here, the rumours would have been laughed off in such a male-dominated industry if the only complaints emerging were from women.

In other cases, for women anywhere where there is no further act than a little 'over-enthusiasm' that physically manifests itself as an ambiguous touch or lingering hug, there is no way to take the matter any further, but the feeling a young woman has to deal with is at best, very unpleasant. It's a rite of passage that no-one would wish on a young woman but one that often takes place one way or another due to the nature of the confusion around new emotions and sensations experienced as a teenager and the lack of confidence in one's attractiveness or worth. A young woman unsure of herself but in need of affection is such an easy target for people like this.

And the other consequence is that these kind of sleaze-bags give the decent, kind, respectful guys a hard time figuring out how to negotiate the beginnings of a relationship when women have been subjected to so much deceit, so many instances of a 'smoke and mirrors' subterfuge of a sexual advance, that starting a relationship with someone becomes a frightening thing to do, where nothing feels safe. Add to that the humiliation involved in being a victim of someone like this when no-one will believe you or else they'll think it was your fault, and you've got the perfect breeding ground for a terrible wound to be carried by that young woman throughout her life.

This kind of experience, of the sort Coleen Nolan describes, is something that is hard enough to explain and describe as a fully fledged adult, let alone a young woman. The complexity of the confusion of conflicting emotions, such as 'Did I cause this?' to, 'how could I cause it - I'm not even attractive?', to, 'I feel violated but nothing happened' would give anyone pause in voicing their complaint about an isolated incident. All I can say is that my deepest sympathy goes to the victims who may not even consider themselves as such, because the word victim has such disenfranchising connotations, but who surely must feel that flood of conflicting and confusing, skin-crawling revulsion all over again just seeing his picture all over the media. The man had a screw loose and there's nothing anyone can do to compensate for that now, how ever it occurred, and how ever he chose to override or indulge that. Though Mark Lawson's beautifully written piece in the Guardian offers the poetic justice of the graveyard slot programme consigning Jimmy Savile's reputation to the scrapheap, it offers no real comfort for the women who know there was a nasty, horrible, screwed-up man who lived the high life, hurting and humiliating teenage girls along the way, who got off absolutely scot-free.

Forces beyond one's control and other existential crises

I've been reading the latest Elizabeth Gilbert book, "Committed", which is largely about her plight of having to get married in order to resolve an issue with immigration that sent her and her boyfriend into a horrible limbo of travelling and waiting for permission to marry in order to be accepted back into the US, despite the fact that she and her boyfriend had sworn off marriage for life after their painful divorces. I'm gripped by it, not only because of the similarity of opinion that she expresses throughout the book about how she sees marriage as something that has always benefited men, while robbing women of much of their previous strength and autonomy, but also because her situation of a kind of exile in a lifestyle she doesn't want reflects my current predicament so profoundly.

I admire her writing style in amongst what could otherwise be quite dry subject matter of statistics and research findings about marriage across various time periods and locations. I'm also humbled by the way in which her relationship endures this incredibly demanding challenge. In having to stay out of the US and keep travelling, and having to face doing the very thing they said they'd never do, just to be able to stay living together, I feel every bit of her struggle to comprehend how debilitating it is to be at the mercy of a power greater than you. In her case, the US immigration system. In my case, the recession, or maybe it's not the recession, it's just some outer force that has decided that for me to ever progress in my life, I have to be thrust back into the very surroundings and circumstances that not only I said I'd never want to be in, but also that reflect everything I have tried to avoid in my life since leaving home. I cannot understand how I have got to this age, travelled this far, (ok, not that far from the UK really) and ended up in a place that reminds me of everything I hated about my childhood.

I do not want to live in the suburbs, far away from connection with the vibrant city, but that is where I grew up, and where I am again now, albeit in another country. I do not want to be judged and held in shame for mistakes I've made or things I want but can't seem to get, yet that is what countless sarcastic comments and repeated stories jokingly retold in both my childhood and in my current relationship seem designed to do. I do not want to be dependent on someone else's income and unable to afford to buy the kind of healthy food I really long for, the kind of quality clothes I really desire because I want things that make me feel good and last a long time, the kind of books and magazines that keep me informed about the world, the kind of technology that enables me to pursue my creative projects freely and efficiently and yet, this is the position I am in. 

Whatever force is at play here, I am certainly aware of the irony, the amusement, the shame in all of this. I can hear the voice of my uncle poised to say, "She speaks all these foreign languages and studied so much and she still can't earn enough to live on her own!  Ha ha!" I also know that he is a pretty messed-up individual with 'issues' of his own that are none of my business, as mine should be none of his. I am willing to learn whatever it is I need to learn here, but it is painful. It is not easy to live with someone who gets angry with me for not being able to drive because, "that's what normal people do" and I don't fall into the category of 'normal' adequately enough for him. I am perfectly 'normal' for anyone living in a busy, capital city with an integrated public transport system, and what is more, I did drive, I got a licence when I could but I have since had little opportunity to practise seeing as I haven't needed a car, nor would it have made much sense to have one, central London parking costs being what they are. But I am being picked at for my failings as a suitable suburban housewife, with no compassion for the fact that the last thing I am or will ever be is a suburban housewife.

So I soldier on. One day at a time. One writing assignment at a time. One advertisement applied to at a time. I am counting every penny (or rather crown) and trying to keep 'going without' things, such as still not getting my hair cut since March, still not buying any new jumpers or leggings even though I need them, still not being able to afford a flat because I have to keep the money my sister lent me as emergency money for income loss, not as flat deposit money. I will not be able to afford to move into a new flat until I get some regular work that pays me enough to cover food, phone bill, travelcard and still have some left over for all the other costs and some left over to save up with because not only have rents gone up while my salary has plummeted, but I will soon have to pay healthcare, taxes and national insurance here in a bid to gamble on getting more work as a result of having the documentation clients need to get their bosses to release funds for their training, that as far as I can ascertain will cost me a third of what my rent will probably be, which means, not only do I need to earn more than I am earning now (clearly) but I need to be earning more than I was when I was working for lots of clients in order to cover higher rent and more charges on top of the usual stuff.

Hence, I need a miracle. A job offer that brings me a liveable wage, a series of high-paying clients and a regular writing job that pays a wage someone in London could actually buy their grocery shopping each week with (at least) or else I have to contemplate moving into a shared house, which totally defeats the object of being in Prague altogether, because that was the only thing I hoped to gain by coming here.  And I had it. That lovely central, really reasonably priced flat all to myself. I had it for two years and I am enormously grateful for it. I would dearly love to start making some gains now, instead of fielding more losses. I would love to have an opportunity to show how much better I am at living when I actually get to do it in my own private space. Whatever force is at play holding me here, I hope it will teach me whatever it is I have to learn as rapidly and solidly as it can because when I leave here, I do not want to have to come back. Ever.

Catching up, thoughts and "hard alcohol"

Thoughts on a day when I ran out of time to post this (26/09/12):

Voluntary ban? Pah! We've got the real deal here.

Having just read this article on the Guardian site this morning, I was quite surprised that it was about shops being asked to voluntarily stop selling the stronger alcoholic drinks mentioned. I myself, have failed to mention that here in the Czech Republic, (that's right - right here, right now in the 21st Century) there is an actual ban on all alcoholic drinks of 20% alcohol or higher (referred to as "hard alcohol" in Czech).  Some people died from the sale of alcohol that had metallic alcohol not the digestible type (I still don't know exactly what this means, not being a scientist myself and not having the advantage of being able to read this news story in English and I suspect the actual difference itself, when relayed in English, wouldn't mean a whole lot more to me anyway) so they've banned it from being sold in shops and supermarkets.  Though the ban is already lifting now, for any drinks manufacturers who can produce a certificate to confirm the date and method of production.  Or something.

So just as I finally have time to write about this (I'm sort of pleased to say that paid writing work has taken priority this week, though also disappointed to say that it really isn't paying more than half the minimum wage for how long it actually takes to write the articles I have to write and subtly include the links they want, ho-hum) it's a story that's almost over. Mind you, that doesn't stop the news here talking about it all the time. Still. After a grand total of about 21 people died. The fear is that more will follow from people who bought vodka or rum or that sort of drink months ago and might not open it to drink until a birthday or other celebration comes up, by which time they'll have forgotten the time they bought it and the ban that followed because it will then have slipped off the news agenda.

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After re-watching the film 'Stranger than Fiction' on Saturday night (while away with no internet access):

I think I would have loved an old style typewriter to write on, just like the novelist in 'Stranger Than Fiction'. The light of the room she writes in. The peace and quiet. I wish I could have that peace right now. It's beginning to get to me. To settle into my brain. The background noise of a constantly on TV spewing out Czech exclamations incessantly. Offering sometimes a welcome variety of vocabulary and a delicately accented Czech that I don't hear here in Prague. The gorgeously bristling sound of the 'ř', the carefully placed emphasis on the first syllable of a word or preposition that precedes it. But sometimes the TV merely replicates what I hear at what is for now my 'home'. A series of exclamations of disgust, despair and disappointment that become reduced to expetives and casual language that can sound even lazier and weighed down in apathy when given the right, Prague-style dull intonation.

I know I will need an exit strategy, no matter how grateful I am for the lessons I have learned here.

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I don't seem to be making much progress lately. After a wrangling with Barclays on the phone yesterday which ended when they put me on hold so long my £10 credit ran out, and a battle with a form I just cannot fill-in in Czech without help, losing meet-ees again and barely earning enough money to keep me fed and able to travel (and top-up my phone after talking to the people at Barclays) I'm in the heart of the recession I think. Just like everyone else. I really, really miss my flat now more than ever and the thought of going into the thick of autumn, possibly even winter without my own space to work and put up pictures and fairy lights and generally feel snuggly and at home, is just upsetting. I've got to find a way to be ok with the way things are though, because we all know - "what you resist, persists". I should know that one by now.

I must make, "it's ok, everything's fine, this is exactly what I want right now", my inner mantra and see if that shifts anything. It's worth a try. Everything else failed, so why not try a totally insane kind of 'self-help' practice and see if it works? Failing that , I'm simply going to get out the big Sesame Street book again and resort to singing the Cookie Monster version of 'Call Me Maybe' over and over: "Me just met you and this is crazy, but you got cookie, so share it maybe..."

New Rules

It's been a long break of not having time to write anything for myself, but, for today at least, I'm back! I've been caught up not only with some demanding paid writing work (it's terrible pay but I'm building up my portfolio of business, finance, politics and health/fitness articles, so hurrah to that!) but also with the trials and tribulations of living with a Czech boyfriend. Emphasis on the word 'boy'. Oh, how I long to be with a person who can be an adult at home as well as at work. My survival here depends, I have realised, on being able to negotiate enough time away from him or to myself to be able to cope with whatever is thrown at me and an unwritten rule to never, I repeat, never, expect or hope for kindness, understanding, love and affection given without prompting, or washing up completed by anyone except me.

These are the new rules in my current living situation:

1) Do not expect anyone to do any of the following: make tea in the morning, make meals at any time, do food shopping, washing up or any general cleaning unless it is you.

2) Get to bed before the other person so that you don't have to get into late-night difficult conversations that destroy all hope of sleep.

3) If you leave nice, loving post-it notes, thank you notes to accompany a red rose you bought, or buy special little things while food shopping just for the other person, do not under any circumstances hope for reciprocation of any kind.

4) Buy your own red wine and drink it while the other person is out.

5) Have a 'coffee fund' to escape the flat more often when suburbia and the quiet isolation of being in a flat you didn't want to live in in the first place begin to grate.

6) Make "acceptance, acceptance, acceptance" your new 'political party of one' manifesto.

7) Wear nice clothes while you can because you never known when the next Czech bank holiday might creep up on you and force you to accept a prolonged trip to the mountains to wear a hiker's uniform that makes you feel frumpy. (That would be the coming weekend.)

8) Be supremely grateful for rent-free living because this is the huge advantage that makes up for it all while income is slow to materialise.

So, in the meantime, I've developed a terrible YouTube habit of watching Kermit the frog interviews about all sorts of Muppet films, DVDs and TV shows past and present, as well as a cafe bill that is close to the sum total of my meet-ee income, bar one meet-ee who pays me directly into my Czech account, which serves to slowly be allowing me to save up. A bit.

And I've taken to re-training myself in the area of shopping. Seeing as I now live right next to a shopping centre, which I have to walk past to get to the metro station, it is no longer viable to cry, weep, pout or otherwise feel sorry for myself in the face of hundreds of things I would love to have but cannot afford. So I have purposely been attempting over the last couple of weeks to constantly think of things I love, such as, red roses, books, magazines, iPads, posh knee-length boots, YSL red lipstick, Wine-coloured dark lipgloss, dresses found at random on Net-a-porter (my addiction of the future I predict), Côtes du Rhône red wine (or the Rosemount Shiraz/Cabernet wine when French wines are not available even in the local big supermarket because this is the Czech Republic), tight-fitting warm Victoria Beckham-range type dresses that go over black leggings and feather earrings/hairbands of all kinds of crazy colours, and flights and hotel stays in London, Paris, San Francisco or NYC and imagining myself having them. Some of which is possible, some of which is a stretch to even imagine being able to afford. (The flights to NYC in particular, though I know I could stay in a friend's flat if only, if only, if only I had the money to sublet her flat or give her almost the cost of the rent at either Christmas or in Spring and I've NEVER been to NYC at Christmas...)

Anyway, the upshot of all this fantasising is, I am learning to not wince in lack-of-funds thinking whenever I see a lovely soft jumper or gorgeous dress or sparkly big handbag, and instead imagine that one day I could indeed afford this stuff or even walk into the L'Occitane shop without feeling like I'll be singled out as working class scum, and thus unworthy, at first glance. And I am writing lists in my head of what I already have, which I am enormously grateful for: Macbook (hallelujah!) iPod (hurrah!) red, Kurt Geiger shoes (Kermit the frog-like "yay!") and Nokia slide phone that is reliable and still works, bless it (Gott sei dank) and all of this is helping. Bit by bit.

Here are the pictures I printed out of dresses I loved on Net-a-porter (and I purposely didn't look at the price) and stuck in my scrapbook:

Happy perusing. The cowboy has just come back armed with a bag of freshly picked (giant) mushrooms, so we're having salmon and mushrooms and spinach tonight which is not only a culinary experiment, it is an experiment in sharing the cooking duties. Hmm. Strange new worlds...

Mushroom picking and other preoccupations

It's been about a week now since I moved in with the cowboy and we're managing ok, but I'm beginning to develop a Jeff Goldblum-like twitch that becomes apparent everytime I get too much exposure to company and not enough time on my own.  I'm wondering whether this will gradually develop into a full-blown illness, much as Jeff Goldblum's character turned into a disgusting mesh of fly and human and I'll end up a gibbering wreck on the floor in about a month's time. It looks like I'm going to be here longer than the month I had hoped it would be limited to, because former meet-ees expected back in September have failed to materialise and new ones are few and far between and the writing work I've got pays so little for the amount of time it takes, it could take about a month before I earn a week's rent.

And in the meantime, I feel slightly more isolated than I did before, in a surreal world of Mums and babies because this area seems to be full of them, or at least the local shopping mall on the way to the metro (where the nearest shop is located) is. And it feels very disconcerting to be in the suburbs again, just like I was when I was growing up, having to accept yet again that I must do exactly the thing I don't want to do and hope that it's temporary. I hope there is a lesson in all this that I can learn just once and move on from, because otherwise this has been a series of years now of going to live in places I don't want to be (Prague) and doing things I don't want to do (have meetings with meet-ees) and not earning enough to get me out of here and onto something better (my whole earning life in a nutshell).

But I shall not dwell on this. The re-spinning of this whole experience would be: I'm now doing better paid work, I've actually got some ongoing paid writing work and I'm living rent-free with a boyfriend who's fairly easy-going. These are all pluses. Another plus would be, that one of the new skills I'm picking up here in the delightful Czech Republic has now stretched to identifying useful flora and fauna and indeed, fungi. You can't be a proper Czech if you don't have a good knowledge of which mushrooms you find in the countryside are good for eating and which will kill you. I have now got to 'mushroom picking 101' level by at least identifying viable edible mushrooms, but I couldn't tell you if they happen to have any close relatives that look very similar that might actually kill you. So, not quite Czech standard yet.

I was the first to spot the ripe hide of a huge mushroom in the field 

that started our search on Saturday. It looked like a giant toad from the angle I first caught it at, but then I realised it was a mushroom that was a little too old for eating, but by going over to inspect it, we actually stumbled upon younger, edible options, which was rather good. And the meadows that followed (aren't they pretty?)

yielded one or two more, 

along with lots of beautiful flowers and every so often, a sign showing the other wildlife we might be able to find here. From otters, to harvest mice, to vipers and little deer, I got to learn some useful names.

The harvest mice [myška drobná] in one of the other pictures looked so small and diddy that the cowboy decided this could be my nickname for the day.

We hadn't planned on picking mushrooms and we didn't have a paper bag to put them in, but we made do with tissues and a plastic bag and took them home relatively intact in order for them to then undergo the slicing and drying process that the cowboy always does. 

Once they are properly dried, they go in a jar and can be used at any point in the future to make a kind of mushroom sauce that goes rather well with chicken and rice, which I must admit, is rather a yummy specialty of the cowboy's now that I particularly look forward to.

Having spent this weekend away in the mountains, yet again, without internet access and without much opportunity to read or write things because we went by motorbike this time which limits the number of things we can bring with us, I feel a great need to stay in Prague this weekend. But the cowboy wants to go and see his brother in another part of the countryside on the other side of the Czech Republic.  I'm not sure I can do it. If nothing else, I need a break from weekends spent doing things according to his agenda and above all I need some time to myself. I think I'm going to have to look like the super bitch, horrid girlfriend he suspects I am, and just say no. In anycase, if I want to earn any money at all from this writing lark, I need to up my productivity, work all weekend and make sure I write about 10 articles in a week in order to hit the higher rate of pay allowed for anything over 8 articles from one Friday to the next. And with that, perhaps I should get going on the next one for them today.