Nic moc

Isn't it sad when the only real success of the day is having sent off a census form?  I got the expected blank kind of look and no words other than 'you know you have to post it today, right?' (in Czech of course) as I was handed the envelope to send the damned forms off in.  But the point is, it's done.

Everything else was rather ,nic moc' (nothing much).  I'd been mostly dreading things that hadn't been proved, some of which turned out ok, then there was one non-census related bureaucratic irritation and a bit of exercise to round-off the day.

There's nothing like leaping around to Limp Bizkit, singing/saying '...cause your mouth's writing cheques that your ass can't cash.'  (One of my favourite lines. I wish I could find a way to slip that into a conversation one day.  Preferably with a person of authority who keeps going back on her word rather a lot.)  I even managed all my high kick moves to the full-on bits in the "Rollin' (Air raid vehicle)" track.  My fitness level must be slowly creeping back.  [Minor success.]

And then I read an article in a French magazine while having a relaxing bath, and watched a music video of Maxime le Forestier's song 'L'homme au bouquet de fleurs'.  One of my favourites.  Not least because it's a really intriguing song with Daniel Auteuil in the video.  I have to come back to French things from time to time because it's somehow where my heart lies, more than England.  My soon-to-be temporary French teacher told me I should have been French after I told him about my penchant for red wine and dinners with friends.  Maybe he's right.  He also said, "it's never too late to change your nationality!"  It's a tempting thought.  But my Dad, and now the architect too, would never forgive me.

Rain and anonymity

The clouds came back today.  So did the rain, briefly.  It's so strange, because I had been thinking what an exceptionally long time it had been since it last rained and how unlike England that is, and then today it rained.  But it didn't last long.  It doesn't seem to rain here in the same way it does in London.  It's been winter and yet it's been months since my lovely red and white polka dot umbrella saw the light of day.  It's extraordinary to me.  I've been so lucky that I've had both heating and a lack of miserable, rainy weather here over the winter.  I can't quite take in how much easier that aspect has been, compared to what it would have felt like to go through winter in London.  Don't get me wrong, it's been crushingly cold, but it hasn't been quite so cloudy and grey.

Not that any of this stops me from longing, aching for a holiday.  The idea of spending even just a few days in a row, pottering about would be blissful.  Or to have time to go to a cafe for a chance to sit and think.  In my fantasy life, I would have gone to the bookshop cafe today, bought a few books on art and photography and spent the rest of the day listening to Maxime le Forestier and Yann Tiersen and  covering notebooks in lots of cut-out pictures from magazines and putting up new photos on the wall.

Maybe it's ok that I don't have my fantasy life just now.  Maybe I needed a reminder of just how easy I have had things in terms of the weather at least, so that I can 'count my blessings', as it were.  I've also still got my health and I haven't come down with another cold yet. (Though this is tempting fate, surely, and I'll no doubt wake up with a runny nose and a sore throat tomorrow...)

And on days like these, maybe the best thing to do is accept the gloom and listen to a few Leonard Cohen and Suzanne Vega songs.  Time to slip into a black silk nightie, get into bed and read a couple of fashion magazines and pore over the hopelessly glamorous darlings of high society and be glad I don't have the burden of an impeccably well-kempt image to maintain.  Ah, anonymity is bliss...