Cannibalistic, shy Alien WLTM others. GSOH necessary.

PB (Post-Bowie) there followed an enormously self-indulgent Bowie-Extravaganza, involving the rooting out of all bootleg Bowie CDS and the (legal) downloading of anything the bootlegs missed (most of the Berlin tracks, all of the 80s).  It got to the point that the kids were not only singing along every morning on the school run, but then, when I started to get a bit sick of it all (HERESY!) demanding Starman, on a fucking loop.  The final straw came today when they started belting it out before the damn song was even playing, and realising they thought the words were:  “There’s a Starmaaaaaaaaaaaaan waiting in the sky, he’s like to come and eat us but he thinks he’ll go outside”.   

I think Bowie would have been proud.

Happy New Year!  Again.   My only resolution is to find a house which isn’t fucking INSANE.  I’m not sure what they put in the water here in the 80s – meth?  Crack cocaine? – but every single house I’ve seen (all built in the 80s) has been a shrine to ugly bathrooms, bad light fittings and even badder style “quirks”.  Such as: a lurid-pink fish pond in the middle of the living room, the awfulness of which is accentuated by its having to remain empty because of mosquito-related health concerns.  Empty, that is, apart from the pipes and forlorn fountain head sticking out.  Kudos, however, to the estate agent for suggesting it could be used to showcase a Christmas Tree.  Or the house which seemed quite normal (relatively speaking – they all have at least one bedroom in the middle of the living area, and a “family space” in what the rest of the world calls “the upstairs landing”) until I went into the master bedroom and saw a vast built-in wardrobe.  Which would have been fine, if it hadn’t been square and put smack-bang into the middle of the room.  The builders had considerately left about six inches of space so you could squeeze past to open/close the windows, but had failed to consider that most couples like to have a double bed in their  room, and no amount of shoe-horning would enable that.  (The estate agent had no response to this, which disappointed me somewhat.  Do I not look like someone who’d share a bunk bed with her spouse?)  Another house had expanded its floor-space by covering over the balconies in the bedrooms with glass panes, but ran out of time or effort or money (or intelligence) to remove the original railings or replace the balcony floor  - so as well as having something which looked like a glass lean-to stuck on the side of the room, you also had to endure temperatures akin to the surface of the sun.   (The agent was remarkable pleased with this feature.)

Also, builders / developers here LOVE marble.  I have seen more marble in the past few weeks than anyone outside the marble trade should.  Because I am not a fan of bringing my kids to the hospital every time they run with wet feet across a slippy  surface, the only possible upside I can see to marble floors is that they will cause no end of hilarious cat entertainment. I might even have a designated, highly-polished cat-dancing zone (perhaps in an unused fish pond? Only from Jan – Nov, obv).   This would have the dual effect of providing both amusement and a means of feline weight-loss  - those kitties have become FAT (but have kept their ridiculously small heads, so look like a child’s drawing of a cat. Although there isn’t a child in the world who could properly capture their expression of exasperation and disgust.)

So the house search continues.  But first – this weekend I am gate-crashing one of my best friend’s family get-together.  Usually I’d be a bit embarrassed about this,  but (a) my oldest friend (b) no children and (c) BANGKOK.  Instead I will worm my way into their hearts with tales of Bowie grief, ridiculous houses, and even more ridiculous family pets.  I think they’re going to have the best weekend ever.