'Tis the season to be Generous (unless M&S have anything to do with it)

Now, I have to say that I'm rather known to be organised. It's a trait of mine, for better or worse. Some may call it bossy. Some may call it smug. My family call me Monica (named after that dark-haired, obsessively anal one in friends who ended up hooking up with Chandler, and who has her very own ribbon drawer. Personally, I see nothing wrong with a ribbon drawer. But anyway). I call it perfect, slick organisation. Which is why I started buying my Christmas presents in August. Ah, now you may scoff, you may snigger. But all my christmas presents were bought and wrapped by the middle of December. Which of course gave me a lot of spare time to eat mince pies, drink mulled wine and generally get squiffy all the time...ahem, enjoy the Christmas season.

Until, that is, I merrily offered to help out with a few of Wonderful Man's presents. A jumper for his father in softest cashmere, and a few gorgeous little baby things for his brand new shiny niece. Easy peasy, I thought. Straight onto the M&S website, order them and bob is undoubtedly your mother's brother. Or so I thought.

Having spoken to a terribly sweet lady and ordered said items, I insisted that they be delivered to my work on 22nd December. She promised they'd be there. I impressed on her yet again how important it was. She promised faithfully that they'd be there on the 22nd December, come hell or high water. I believed her.

22nd December came around. I sat at my desk, chattering away to clients, sending out quotes, issuing invoices, updating our website etc etc merrily thinking that at some stage Nice Postman would walk in with a big box with M&S embossed on the side. But alas. Nothing was forthcoming. I rang M&S and was treated to a Christmas jingle on their hold music. Lovely. Until the 47th time. The lobotomised gibbon who I ended up speaking to told me that they'd had delivery issues. I impressed on him/her/it that these presents were VERY IMPORTANT and that they must be delivered. She/he/it promised me faithfully that they would be delivered the next day.

Come the hour, cometh the man, the saying goes. Well that's a pile of old tosh. The hour came, but no man with it. Not even a snifter of one. I rang M&S. "It's out on the van, it will be delivered today". I rang the delivery company, who shall remain nameless (Home Delivery Network...shame on you). "It's on the van but our drivers can deliver up to 10pm". Our office closes at 5.30pm. Hmmmmm.

So that evening found me curled up in Optimus Prime (no, that's not a filthy reference, it's the name of my car) outside the office waiting for White Van Man. Never, ever in my life have I ever wanted to see a White Van Man. But he didn't come. 7pm, 8pm, 9pm ticked by. No show. Eventually at 9.30pm (having had no less than twelve separate drunken revellers knock on my window with an "ello darlin!") I gave up and sloped home.

But it doesn't end there. I rang the delivery company and spoke to another lobotomised gibbon. "Please take the parcel off the van and I'll collect it in person tomorrow". She assured me she would. I made her promise. She promised. I told her that if that parcel wasn't taken off the van then our Christmas would be ruined and it would be all her fault. She promised faithfully.

Next morning, over a cuppa, I rang the delivery company. "Oh, I'm sorry, that parcel wasn't taken off the van. It will be delivered sometime between now and midnight". Bear in mind this was the 24th December and I was meant to be collecting Wonderful Man and driving out to his parents for Christmas. At 2pm. My "WHAT????" reverberated around the room, followed swiftly by my phone.

But I am never thwarted. And these presents were Important. So I rang M&S. In Richmond. No jumper and no baby things. I then rang Putney. No jumper and no baby things. I rang Chiswick. No jumper and no baby things. I rang....well, you get the picture. My phone, having been flung across the room, was now being made to sing for its supper. Finally I spoke to a lady in Kingston, who assured me she had all three items. In stock. And not necessarily the same colour but at least the same size. And still a nice colour.

I think I can truthfully say that Carol at Marks and Spencer Kingston saved Christmas. For having driven there at top speed, raced through the centre of Kingston, thronged with last-minute shoppers, I dove into the warm and fuzzy sanctuary of M&S menswear to see a warm, cuddly, matronly lady standing there. "I saw you coming all up the street love. I knew it was you, you sounded that frantic on the phone. Here's your pressies. Happy Christmas, love." I could have kissed her. In fact I think I may have. But she wasn't wearing cherry chapstick, so at least I'm not a stereotype. So excited was I in fact that I took the bags and was about to hotfoot out of the store with them. Until she called me back, leant close and stage-whispered, "you 'ave to pay for them, love." Oops.

All we hear is Radio Gaga....

Well this is very exciting! I am about to have my fifteen minutes (well, three and a half really but who's counting?) of fame! For in the midst of all this BA chaos (thanks guys) I received a phone call from BBC Three Counties radio. The upshoot is that at precisely 10.37am tomorrow morning I will be interviewed, live on air, about microlighting in Zambia.

Microlighting? Yes indeed. Let me paint a picture for you.

An early African dawn. Night noises surrendering to the sounds of the morning - the ground hornbills booming, elephants rumbling, hippos grunting and the sounds of the dawn chorus filtering through the air. The sun is a mere orange glow and the last few stars are clinging to the sky. The air is crisp, with a hint of coolness. The microlight is an amazing invention - able to soar into the sky within a few seconds of acceleration, it can reach a height of some 1500 feet, or swoop down low over game. I have microlighted with John Coppinger, the owner of Tafika Camp in South Luangwa National Park many times. We have buzzed low over hippos, flown over the nest of a giant eagle owl and seen the fluffy chick in residence, circled a lone lioness on the plain (who looked up at us with an uncomprehending stare) and flown over vast herds of elephant and buffalo. It's a totally new way to view the world that you have previously only seen on foot or on the back of a gameviewing vehicle. And it's very exhilarating!

So...chocks away!

Borealis Bob and a polar bear called Hrammur

You know, I planned on being totally faithful to this blog. I really did. Every evening, glass of merlot in hand, I'd wittily and eruditely recount the events of the day.

But I have been remiss. Mea culpa. My poor little blog has been sadly neglected. But this shall be rectified forthwith! Just let me pour myself a glass...

Now...Iceland. Land of frozen wastes, the odd mountain, glacier fields, geysers, geezers with beards, expensive booze and left hand drive cars. And of course Northern Lights. Ah, the Northern Lights. Wonderful Man was very excited about getting a superb shot of these little babies (which come in all shades of green, red or even purple depending on sun spots. Apparently. More on that later). But sadly it was not to be. Not this time, anyway.

But our lovely hotel, the Hotel Ranga (complete with Hrammur the polar bear - a mere ten feet tall, paws raised and outstretched, teeth bared, and wearing a santa hat, he towers over reception with a glint in his eye) more than made up for it. In the middle of a glacier field, miles from anywhere, this log-cabined haven rears up from the darkness. An orangey glow filters from the windows, and outside the rooms there are hot tubs. Hot tubs!

On our first night we stayed up late, set up camp (and a bank of cameras) on the balcony, and waited for the show to start. Something was happening. We couldn't see much because of the thick cloud, but there was a dancing, a sparkling in the corner of the sky. Lights were moving behind the cloud, constantly changing, first bright, then dark, then moving from side to side. Right above us there were stars - the Ranga is in a strange, slightly Bermuda-triangle-esque area, meaning that a hole opens in the cloud above the hotel, yet the horizon is shrouded in thick cloud.

But the hotel has much much more than that. More than the pool table complete with reindeer antler chandelier (where I discovered that Wonderful Man was a pool shark), more than the smorgasbord with over ninety delicacies from smoked salmon to whale (we feasted on twelve different types of herring, the most delicious thing I have ever tasted), and even more than the midnight dips in the steaming hot tubs. The Hotel Ranga has Borealis Bob. The encyclopaedically knowledgeable Borealis Bob. Dapper in a sharp suit, what this chap doesn't know about the Aurora Borealis ain't worth knowing. He regaled us with tales of sun spots, atmospheric pressure, borealis colours and Times I Have Seen The Lights. And then to cap it all off, he gave us a stunningly enthusiastic rendition of Hotel California. Thrashing away on his electric guitar, head thrown back, he wellied it into the microphone with a voice that would melt the Eiffel Tower. Although of course it was "Welcome to the one and only Hotel Ranga". For not only is Borealis Bob a world authority on the lights, but he is also an ex-rock star, having played in a band called BB and the Medicine Men. We were entranced! So entranced in fact that we have booked to return in March, for a whole blissful week of lights, herring and ice. And of course Bob. Hotel Ranga wouldn't be the one and only Hotel Ranga without him.

And to think that this was my birthday present from Wonderful Man. A girl can't get much luckier.

Round and About

I´m actually doing it. Driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car. Not as difficult as I thought it would be. Bar a few incidents. Well, one incident, actually.

There has been just one time in my life when I went round a roundabout the wrong way. I was nineteen, had just passed my driving test, and had borrowed my father´s car. It should perhaps be mentioned here that he thought I was taking the car just along the road to the next village. In fact, in typical rebellious teenager style, and desperate to show off my new skills, I´d organised a group of my friends and told them I´d take them to the cinema in Swindon, about twenty miles away. Dad, if you´re reading this, then I´ll call you in a few weeks time when you´ve simmered down.

Anyway, I digress. I took the car, a huge volvo estate, picked up my excited friends and drove to Swindon, where there was a huge cinema complex on the far side of town through all the industrial estates. But we nearly didn´t make it. Coming into Swindon there is a particular roundabout called the Magic Roundabout. In fact there´s nothing at all magic about it, apart from its ability to strike instant fear and loathing into the heart of the most sturdy driver. It consists of ten small roundabouts surrounding one big one, and is a nightmare to navigate. But I was ridiculously overconfident. I´ve been driving on my own for all of three weeks, having passed my fourth driving test after bankrupting my parents to the tune of over eighty lessons. I can do this!

I sailed round the roundabouts, vaguely aware that all my passengers had gone very quiet, bar the odd whimper. When we´d finally made it across, the boy in the passenger seat turned to me and said, 'have you actually, really, truly passed your driving test?' 'Of course!' I said, indignantly. 'Well do you realise you´ve just gone round eight roundabouts the wrong way?'

So, given my track record I felt that driving in Iceland should be a piece of cake. Wonderful Man had hired a rather splendid car, and being the proud possessor of an international driving permit, I was to do the driving. So off we set, me on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road and also relearning how to use a stick-shift (my own car, the glorious and aptly named Optimus Prime, is an automatic). But again, I was ridiculously confident. And for the first forty or so kilometres, despite getting hopelessly lost in Reykjavik, it all went as smoothly as a baby´s bottom. Until, that is, I hit a roundabout.

There are relatively few things in life which make me go truly gushy. A newborn elephant taking his first wobbly steps maybe, the sound of a blackbird in the early dawn - or the scent of Wonderful Man´s neck first thing in the morning. But not much. But this did. For I found myself, on an Icelandic roundabout, heading fast into the side of an enormous and fast-moving four-wheel-drive. 'Watch it! Watch it!' said Wonderful Man, and I braked, very narrowly avoiding a collision. Shock, shame and horror filled me (she says dramatically). With such precious cargo on board, and merely an hour´s driving under my belt, I´d nearly written off our car. I glanced sideways at Wonderful Man. Was he rolling his eyes? No. Was he gripping the Jesus handle for dear life? No. Was he making a comment which included the words, 'bloody', 'women', and 'drivers'? No.

Instead he did the one thing that made my heart fold itself into a paper aeroplane and shoot out of my chest towards him.

He turned to me and said, 'Actually, I think that was the other guy´s fault'.

They don't make 'em like that in Wigan.

Suitcases and Stickiness

There are some things which just don't seem to go together. Chalk and cheese, to be terribly obvious. Branston pickle and mango sorbet. Spots and stripes. Strappy sandals and a freak thunderstorm. And superglue and fingers. Or thumbs, to be precise. So as Ruth Jones might say, 'what's occurrin'?'

Wonderful Man is taking me away for a weekend of Northern Lighting. And by that I don't mean the lighting department of the Nottingham branch of Homebase. This is far more exciting! We are off to Iceland, to stay in a hotel in the middle of the glacier fields, and view (hopefully) the elusive and beautiful northern lights. It's my birthday present, and a damn fine one it is too. For weeks now I have been surreptitiously googling Iceland websites, devouring pages and pages of snowy landscapes and twinkling skies. Not to mention the hot tubs on the balcony of each room at the hotel. I feel absolutely spoilt rotten. And it's a nice feeling.

So, to prepare for such a momentous event I have been planning. Outfits have been tried on, tested, discarded, even photographed. Vast amounts of heattech clothing have been bought. Fluffy jumpers have been dragged out of my underbed storage boxes, and a utopia of scarves, gloves and hats has been unearthed.

But clearly, given a girl's need for clothes, there is a greater need to have something in which to carry them. Enter stage left, my faithful and trusty Marks and Spencer wheelie bag. Stronger than an ox, this has carried me round the world and back again, and has played host to many a strange item - from 8kg of cheese I took out to Sweden, to a long tribal wooden pillow I brought back from Zambia. It's never failed me. Until now. For on dragging it from its home in the back recesses of my office cupboard, I was dismayed to find that one of the wheel housings had broken, leaving the wheel flapping all over the place.

Cut to my return, late last night, with a few glasses of rather splendid merlot on board. Should I just have washed my face and curled up in bed with a good book? Probably. But instead I decided to DIY my suitcase. Out came the superglue, which was promptly squirted liberally all over the offending break point. But the wheel kept popping out of the suitcase casing. I know! I'll hold it in there with my thumbs, and press hard until it's set. Brilliant idea. Hence I was to be found kneeling on a suitcase at one o'clock in the morning, pressing bits of plastic with my thumbs.

It worked brilliantly. The suitcase was mended beautifully, never to break again. Unfortunately the superglue worked rather too brilliantly, wtih the net result being that on removing my hands from the suitcase, it came with them, dangling rather forlornly off my right thumb, having been well and truly glued there. I tried to shake it off. Nul points. I tried to peel it off. Ouch. In the end I dragged the suitcase through to the office and googled "stuck fingers".

Who knew that a liberal coating of vegetable oil and a twenty-five minute wait could be so effective?

For Want of a Quick Wit...

I must admit, I'm still rather shocked. What is it about random strangers and their need to pass comment? Why do they feel the need to share their views not only with me but with a whole tube carriage? (I must admit, I was rather comforted to see Mature Besuited Man rolling his eyes in sympathy). But I'm getting ahead of myself - let me give you the whole sad tale from the beginning.

Fabulous Best Friend and I had organised to go and see the Mara Watch at the Royal Geographical Society this evening, hosted by the brilliant Paul Goldstein, photographer extraordinaire.

My warm glow of anticipation was gently simmering as the tube trundled northwards, until the lady sitting next to me (frizzy hair, thousands of rings and Comfortable Shoes) turned to me and said, 'Do you have to do that in public? It's absolutely disgusting.'

And what was I doing that had so revolted her? Picking my nose maybe? Cutting my toenails? Flossing my teeth? Slaughtering a goat? No, dear reader, nothing of the sort. I was putting on my make up. To be precise, I was applying Plum Seduction eyeshadow with my little eyeshadow brush.

I was so surprised by Frizzy Hair's outburst that I simply stared at her, eyeshadow brush poised, and found myself incapable of speech. In the end I stammered something along the lines of, 'well, everyone's entitled to their own opinion', and defiantly kept on applying. I must confess that at this stage I was tempted to bring out my brightest red lipstick and apply it, hooker-style, all over my lips, while steadily eyeballing her. But my gumption deserted me and I cowered in the corner, furtively dabbing and brushing while Frizzy Hair huffed and puffed like an asthmatic marathon runner, occasionally interspersing her huffs and puffs with a loud tut.

But isn't it always the case that you think of some brilliant riposte AFTER the event? I would never have thought to say 'well clearly sweetie, make-up is a mystery to you', or 'Are you always this rude, or are you making a special effort today?' at the time, but twenty minutes afterwards, while relating the story to a shocked and giggling Fabulous Best Friend, ideas came swarming into my brain.

Oh, to have a quick wit. Rather like Churchill. My Grandfather is a great one for relating stories of Churchill's brilliant ripostes. Such as the time he was approached by Bessie Braddock at a party, who told him, 'Sir, you are drunk.' To which he bowed and replied, 'Madam, you are ugly. But in the morning I shall be sober.'

Bad Day Mondays

Have been musing rather. Why are Mondays always so awful? Had text from Wonderful Man today telling me he's having the day from hell. And so far today I've managed to dye the sleeve of my top khaki, stub my toe and crash my computer three times (although the third time was my fault. Blumming sea squirts.)

Bleached out!

How incredibly irritating. A girl tries to do a good thing (making tea at work) and ends up a funny shade of green. Let me explain. Our kitchen at work is an utter disaster. Looked wonderful when it was first built, but since then, the door of the fridge has fallen off, the cupboard shelf has cracked, the bin has broken and to cap it all off the sink leaked and threw out all the electrics in the building. Not a resounding success, to put it mildly.

So this afternoon, I thought, I'll be lovely and make tea. One tea no sugar dash milk, one coffee half sugar hot milk, one green tea made with fresh leaves, one herbal tea with half sweetener, one tea two sugars lots milk and finally one coffee, black two sugars to be precise.

Now, there's one lovely thing about our office kitchen. The wealth of magazines on the counter top. Not just your boring Heat, Grazia, Cosmo crap...oh no. These magazines are for the more cerebrally diverse, shall we say. BBC Wildlife, Wanderlust, Conde Nast Traveller, Travel Africa, Food and Travel. Are you beginning to guess what industry I'm employed in?

Anyway, making tea is also a brilliant opportunity to have a browse. So I did. Restfully leaning on the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, I read all about the mating habits of the sea squirt, and how a new gorilla baby had been born in the Congo. Uplifting stuff (particularly the sea squirt. Google it, I dare you. It's hilarious).

So when the kettle boils, I drag myself away and start pouring water. Which is when I become aware of a stinging, tingling feeling on my arm. Looking down, I see with shock that the sleeve of my gorgeous, deep periwinkle blue, brand new, warm-as-toast Heattech top has turned a minging pale olive vomity-green colour - and is changing before my eyes. And no, running it under water doesn't help at all. All it means is that I'm left with a damp sleeve (and given I'm wearing a very loose crocheted red top over the top, taking it off would result in some form of disciplinary action for breast revealment at work). So now not only do I have a damp squib of a sleeve, it's a detestable khaki-yellow-green-mud colour. And we all know that doesn't go with red.

And after...

Ta daah!

Before....

Chop chop

Note to self. Buy ready-prepared vegetables or risk ending up with arms like Arnold Swarzenegger.

Hmmm. By rights, my first blog post should be a corker. But I'm standing in my kitchen looking (rather forlornly, it must be said) at four huge carrier bags stuffed with marrows, tomatoes (red and green), cooking apples, onions, sultanas, sugar, cider vinegar, chilli flakes, ginger, cloves, peppercorns, coriander and mace. According to the one and only Hugh Frighteningly-Wellingtoned, this hotch-potch of ingredients should, with just the merest hint of encouragement, turn into a meltingly delicious, sticky-sour chutney. I'm not convinced. At least not entirely. But this domestic goddess is worth her salt (Maldon, since you ask). Here goes.