No matter how romantic I think Colin Firth is as Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, there is a lot wrong with Mr. Darcy stationery (mainly the level of twee).
Un-fucking-believable
So lemme get this straight. I can’t be trusted because I’m a foreigner and so I need to be tracked (and I’ll be paying the Home Office for the privilege, they will be pleased to know I do fuck all because I’m so tired from work). I pay all sorts of taxes and National Insurance, and am not allowed, under any circumstances, to claim any public funds. Why am I bothering working to pay for British nationals who live off the dole and tax-free, cash in hand jobs, or take long-term sick leave and full pay? I should just give up my private sector job and join the civil service (job for life, final salary pension).
My friend Graeme, who’s an economist, says we should all be extremely worried about what’s happening. You bet we are. I really don’t understand why governments are throwing good money away, trying to force the consumer to go back to spending the way we did before. The fact that we are going through this madness right now is incontrovertible proof that massive, thoughtless consumer spending doesn’t work.
So now our tax money is going to dole bludgers, benefits cheats, and bankers. That’s just fucking great.
Alphabetise your skyscrapers
How cool is this? The letters of the alphabet created by negative space between buildings. Via ReadyMade.
Well, that’s a relief
When I have to fill out forms and make my way through red tape, I almost inevitably get completely entangled and am much like the fly to the spider, i.e. I get stuck and the worrying just about kills me. So to give up my passport to the UK Border Agency a couple of months ago was a very worrying time — I was applying for permanent residency, or in the lingo, Indefinite Leave To Remain.
I hate being without my passport! Getting paperwork to prove your relationship is difficult if:
- You live together but do not own or rent your residence
- You live together but do not have either or both your names on the bills
Given the bureaucratic nightmare (exaggerating somewhat given there’s never been a horror flick about paperwork) we went through moving from China to Singapore (everything in Mandarin Chinese and little to no official paperwork because we left an extremely light adminsitrative footprint there), I was super stressed about it all. Delboy gave some advice on documents to submit that hadn’t even occurred to me and I’m sure that helped. Plus that whole getting married thing and rather amusing home video of the ceremony that my uncle shot must have added a few points in our favour, showing the UK immigration authorities that we know each other, like each other, and probably shag on a regular basis:
w00t w00t!
So this is how my sister sees me
This is what my sister thinks I’m like, apparently! She sent this to me from some avatar-creation service:
No, I do not tell people to get fucked on an hourly basis! I’m sweet and innocent and guileless and made of chocolate. White chocolate. I am as adorable and pure as these guys:
Update: Terry suggests this might be more appropriate:
My image is really taking a beating.
But I’ll have you know I use both, er, physical expressions.
We’ve just found the best way to make meatballs
By cheating!
Take Aberdeen Angus sausages and cut them into four. Cube some potatoes, and chop up some peppers and chilli. Put the potatoes in a pot of boiling water and start frying up the vegetables, and set them aside when they start to soften. Start frying the sausages, which will automagically swell and resemble meatballs (w00t!). Throw in the cooked peppers and chilli, then the drained potatoes. Squirt in some tomato puree. Add salt and pepper to taste. Keep stir-frying until the sausage-meatballs are cooked through.
And no, I didn’t do it. Neil did — he’s pretty protective over his cooking, he gets damn cranky when I try to help. All shout-y and everything.
No National Men Make Dinner Day™ for him!
In the next 60 hours: a to-do list
This weekend we shall be eating smelly cheese with my cousin.
And I’d like to unclutter my wardrobe (as should Neil, who has been promising he’ll do it “this weekend”, every weekend).
And there is also that scarf that is being crocheted far, far too slowly — it needs to be finished and embellished, and then sent off.
(Oh, and W starts its UK run today.)
Today I tried something new
It’s called queso de Cabrales, and it’s the strongest cheese I have ever tasted. It makes your mouth hurt.
So of course Neil bought half a wheel of Cabrales for my cousin.