Optimism

Not something I generally deal in but if the blooms can push on through, despite the rain and the sleet and the ear-biting cold, well, maybe I should give it a crack?

It's been a bumpy couple of weeks but I feel like things are slowly on the up. LB and I celebrated our one year anniversary nearly two weeks ago and went for a mouth-watering Spanish meal on Great Portland Street to mark the occasion. LB broke the no presents rule but it's hard to feign fury when presented with sparkling baubles so I somewhat promptly forgave him. And fell just a little bit more in love with him when I read his card. Thanks to a dash of creativity with his gin and tonic, LB penned me a poem, inspired by our very first dinner date. It was lovely and thoughtful and hilarious and at points, it even rhymed. Spoilt I am.

A couple of days later we took our jazz hands to the BBC for a live screening of the final of So You Think You Can Dance. I've been harbouring a not-so secret love for this program for a number of years now and have dragged LB to the dark side of dance (in no small part because I don't know how to download the episodes...) and thanks to LB's BBC work pass we got to sneak in and spy on the rehearsal from the Observation room. I think the highlight was seeing Robbie Williams pause during his warm up to ask Nigel Lythgoe how he copes with all that hot tamale crap? A pointless anecdote for anyone not familiar with the show and its hysterical American judges but we were impressed and it was fascinating to get to see the mechanics of live television. Never mind getting to tick another thing off our list.


Since then I feel like I've done bugger all but in taking a moment to actually think about that, well, it's total bollocks. I've been nannying quite a bit and got a job working part-time retail, which starts tomorrow. Fairly unexciting pay but something to keep me busy while I look for the Meaning of My Life and a 40% staff discount softens the blow. AND, last Friday, I had an interview for a temporary role at the National Portrait Gallery. I really, really, really hope I get it and am trying really, really, really hard not to get my hopes up because I'm as sick of disappointment as I am trying to wedge my feet and two pairs of socks into my converse. Which is to say, very...

I will find out one way or another in a week and until then I am just trying to get my new website organised and starting to write again. I dragged LB to the South London Gallery on Sunday afternoon to see Michael Landy's new installation, called Art Bin. A room-sized glass skip, Landy has invited anyone who owns or has made an artwork they no longer love or think any good to come and chuck it, literally, into the skip. At the end of the six weeks all the rejected art will be crushed and turned into landfill. It sounds trite but I was surprised by how moved I was - all that emotion, angst, disappointment, failure made real - and it was strange and sad and fascinating to see works such as Damien Hirst's glittering skull print stripped of their aura.


According to LB, surviving a visit to Peckham without getting shot is a huge achievement but for me, the visit to Peckham was just what I needed to start writing about art again and I'm itching to have my new website up and running. Until then though I plan to distract myself with nannying, working, writing and waiting - to hear about the internship, to hear about my visa application, to see Mum and sister Soph and hopefully, for Spring to arrive. Not much to ask really.