||[Jan. 15th, 2007|07:26 pm]
OK, I broke my resolution. This is because my charger exploded in sparks on the 8th - well, it didn't exactly explode, but it ceased to function. And thus did all the charge there ever was drain out of my sole battery.
And I managed without internet or computery entertainment cold turkey for a WEEK.
No, the emphasis is wrong. I MANAGED for a week. My only contact with the English-speaking world was phone calls from my father, who has a cardinal advantage over my mother in that he is not obsessed with my weight. OK, he's a Control Systems Engineer, and that means he's got a bachelor's in Boring the Pants off Everybody, but he has a good heart. Whereas my mother is like a Mean Girl. I've gone into a rebellious phase again; I've decided that I should dress all in green. It's the colour she doesn't like on me, so I bought a green jumper, a green T-shirt and green tights; I'm looking forward to purchasing a green skirt, but as about 65% of the population here is in fact over 65, brightly-coloured skirts are not much in demand. But the idea of rebellion is important.
So I've rebelled. What else hav I done:
- Ordered (before the non-functionalness) a copy of Jacques Lusseyran's Das wiedergefundene Licht; I intend to read it properly given a bit of not-on-edge time
- Written a whole sodding essay on same; I had an empty notebook and just wanted to write about something dear to my heart.
- Read The Cider House Rules, by John Irving. Ah... I loved it! I loved Hotel New Hampshire - eventually. It took me ages to get into it. But once I got past the first chapter, I was engrossed in the hotel and the family and the bear and the stuffed dog, the ex-black Lab-champion farter. Which floats. Just keep passing the open windows. I think I'll lobby for John Irving to be cryogenically preserved - he must be nearly 65 or so by now, and men live until they're... 78 or something. So I've got 13 years to have him frozen.
I did feel an odd sense of inevitability. Probably occasioned by having read Lady Chatterley's Lover at the age of 17 in Waterstone's. I had a preminition of just what was going to be up with Wally after the war.
- Went on explosive spending spree. Gotta live. Gotta buy clothes with my father didn't thoughtfully shrink in the wash for me before I came out again. The jumpers, which were 12-14s (and much too baggy for me) when new, shrank to a size 6-8. Had I been 11, I might just have been able to wear them comfortably. And although I'm still obviously thin and have no breasts worth a cleavage - at least not without the help of a semi-asphyxiating bra - I will never be a size 6-8. I do actually have a ribcage that offers resistance to being encased in wool. I couldn't breathe OUT wearing this jumper, and I turned the air blue with swearing trying to take it off. Charity shop!
- Cleaned room. I mean cleaned. Every corner. Scrubbd the bathroom floor (and discovered I wasn't made for a housewife, ever). Threw away suspect jar of olives that smelled like a virulent infection, even if they weren't yet fuzzy. Can't getshower floor to stop being grey, and there's a rust stain on thesink, but at least there isn't an angry smear of toothpaste across the mirror. And I bought some Alpine Mist Air Freshener crap. Don't know about the Alps, but my room doesn't have a vaguely disturbing two-day-old Spag Bol aroma.
And of course I waited on the door buzzer. My father had shipped me a new charger and I was desperate for it. I skipped lightly downstairs in my rather skimpy nightie and dressing gown, showing most of my legs, to be faced with people who were not the postman: A group of giggling girls after a shopping trip; the Hausmeister and a doleful-looking plumber, who didn't look any less doleful after his eyes had taken in the semi-clad twenty-year-old girl in front of him; and a couple of young evagelists, who also looked me up and down and then said, very slowly, and hesitntly...
"Would...you... er... like to join... our... church?"
with the faintest hint of "Hey look, we could reform an English Jezebel!" in their eyes. I said "Nein!" and ran back upstairs where I crumpled on my bed.
But this morning, it came! Someoneleaned on my buzzer. It was the postman, with his januty little Bavarian moustache thing looking like a wire brush on his top lip. He said something very fast in German to me, and then asked me who I was. I pointed to my name on the postbox and then to myself. He smiled. And handed me a massive box full of chargery goodness.
Since then I've been enjoying my computer again, only stepping out to redeem my Mezzo Mix bottles. And buy some slippers. Walmart hooray.