20:24. OW.

OK, Jim-not-Gym killed me yesterday morning.  I hurt today.  I hurt before we were finished the workout.  My gym is located underground: you walk down 4 flights to hit reception, and then another 2 to get the gym floor and the locker room.   There is no lift.  Since I was already beginning to ache by the time we finished, I thought, "Hmm.  Can I possibly shower, do my hair, put on my makeup, and get ready for work BEFORE my legs seize?"  Concluding that the answer was "probably not," I decided to get myself up and out before I was walking like a pensioner, and shower at my office.   

Mission accomplished, but, as predicted, as the day wore on, I was progressively walking a little bit slower.  A night out at Callooh Callay in Shoreditch with friends, drinking punch out of a gramophone (no, really-there are pictures, I'll post 'em),  and I wasn't feeling any pain.   However, during the night, when I woke myself up trying to turn over, I knew today wasn't going to be pretty, and it wasn't.  I screamed climbing into my shower (I have one of those typically English elevated tub showers that you really do have to climb into when you're 5 foot 2, like me).  I screamed climbing out of my shower.  At work, I had to make a little noise whenever I got up or sat down, because it hurt.  I popped alotta Advil.  

Really, I have no one to blame but myself for working rather than working out over this past year.   Ironically, a fitness DVD I'd ordered after my friend Heather blogged about it, "The 30 Day Shred," arrived today.  I think that one will be shelved until tomorrow...I'm shredded enough as it is.

Ugh. 6:23.

I am now leaving the house to head to the gym to see Jim, my personal trainer. Jim always likes to make it very clear that his name is spelled "J-I-M" not "G-Y-M," lest there be any confusion. Bless.

Eating a banana and staring at disbelief at Currie Cat that we are up this early. What happened to lunchtime or afternoon sessions? Sigh.

Operation Roxie Hart.

On Saturday night, some friends and I went to see Chicago. We had front row seats, and it was very entertaining. The most boring of the Destiny's Children, Michelle Williams, played Roxie Hart. She was an okay singer, but she was a) too skinny and b) not vixeny enough to be Roxie. Every time she tried to be even a little bit kittenish or sexy, she would mug and roll her eyes like she was a character in a high school musical. Fail.

I was especially offended as Roxie is one of my "must play before death" roles. For information, the others are, in no particular order, Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd (done! Can die happy on that score), Marion Halcombe or Laura Fairlie in The Woman in White (either one would be great but preferably both), and Eva Peron in Evita (also still on the list). Anyways, I watched Michelle Williams with my arms crossed, eyes narrowed, smarting the whole time, thinking, "I could do this better. It's just because she's one of Destiny's Children that she's in this."

Anyhow.

I've spent an hour tonight singing a few of Roxie's songs: "Funny Honey of Mine," "Roxie," and "Nowadays" into my computer, and posted them on my MySpace page: www.myspace.com/daniellelemon. Have a listen, try not to picture Renee Zellweger or that boring Destiny's Child girl, and then write a letter to the producers of Chicago asking them for a re-cast starring yours truly. Many thanks.

These Things Are Sent to Try Us.

Day One at work today, after giving notice on Friday. As-what-is-becoming-usual, I danced down to the dock, danced onto the boat, and then danced my way to Monmouth Coffee, where I had to pick up my weekly espresso fix. Then, off to the office for a leisurely start. I had nothing to do. All day. So, lunch with friends, and then a little afternoon jaunt over to Spitalfields Market, to do a little shopping. "I could get used to this," I thought.

Well, the universe probably thought I was resting on my laurels a little too easily, as wouldn't you know it, on my way home on the Tube tonight, someone nicked the shopping bag that contained all the afternoon's purchases. Nevermind that I don't particularly want to spend the money to buy it all again, one of my little goodies was a beautiful necklace that I've had my eye on in a particular boutique-it was one of a kind.

I like to call this type of event, "the karmic pie in the face." I've obviously spent up my quota of crowing-in-delight time; it's time to focus on getting some good work done before it's time to leave London.

Dammit, that necklace was really cute...

Yes, It Really Is That Simple.

As part of Transport for London's initiative called "Art on the Tube" (an unsuccessful attempt to render our daily stampedes through the underground tunnels of London a little less dreary), I have been regularly passing a huge poster that exhorts, "If you don't like your life, you can change it!" In fact, here it is:

My consistent reaction has been to mutter under my breath and remind myself of all the reasons I couldn't just change my life: "When I commit to something, I commit. I chose this life in London, and dammit, I just have to make it work. I have to make it a success. And oh, yeah, it's so easy to just change your life, isn't it? I bet that goddamn artist didn't have student loans they had to pay off," I'd think, storming up the escalator in a worse mood than when I'd descended.

On Friday I gave my notice at work. And, epiphany time: yeah, it really is that easy to change your life. And although I know it sounds really Pollyanna and nauseating, and closely resembles an Oprah soundbite, once you choose to recognize unhappiness for what it is, consciously choose to seek the alternative, and refuse to compromise in the quest for a life that satisfies you, the results are profound and immediate. Here is my testimonial (I am imagining a Baptist congregation standing behind my desk at the moment, waving tambourines and jubilantly urging me on - "

Testify,

Sister Lemon!"):

1. My shopping mojo has returned in full force. No, look, you don't understand. I've felt so gross and disgusting from sitting behind a desk for a year, I haven't been able to bring myself to shop. At all. This has been a loss.

Call me shallow, call me superficial, I'll agree. But I freaking love to shop. And express who I am with clothes. And have felt no inspiration.

Well. Saturday morning I wandered out to get some things for Currie Cat and ended up coming back to the flat loaded up with two new boyfriend blazers, a very vintage-y dress that simply called to me and said, "I'll look amazing with your forest green patent leather shoes and that gorgeous patent leather green belt," a lovely, mod-ish red winter coat fully in keeping with my whole "I love the sixties and I just can't help it" aesthetic, new earrings, a few new tank tops, a funky blingy necklace, and some serious fabulous shoes.

Ohhhhh yes. I'm like a parched traveller finding their way out of a desert.

2. I blog, therefore I am. Seriously, haven't I blogged more in the last week or so than, err, a year? My friend Ben and I wandered all over Oxford in the sunshine today, talking about every subject under the sun (to be more precise, God, gay rights, ice cream, adoption, biological clocks, sex, architecture, our childhoods, parenting, Canadian identity, the extinction of the Beothuks, Jewish culture, California, Kabbalah, Pierre Trudeau, tourists and real estate, although not necessarily in that order), and I said at one point, when he asked how I found the energy to blog, given how I've been working, I said 'I have to write. If someone said, "You can't sing anymore, but you can write," I could take it, but the reverse would be unthinkable.'" And as I said it, I realized how true this statement was. So...ahhhh. It feels nice to be inspired by my own life again, to have the energy to wish to reflect upon and share my experience with all 4 of you who read this.

3. Inspiration cylinders are beginning to fire again. I'm drunk with ideas, about just about everything. In Oxford, I made a pilgrimage to the Oxford University Press bookstore, which Ben patiently endured (note: I made a similar journey to the Cambridge University Press store last week, with similar disastrous effects on my chequing account). As usual, I came out loaded up with critical texts on my two favorite stand-bys, Jane Austen and John Donne. I tried to explain to Ben how I could love a repressed spinster English novelist and a metaphysical lawyer/poet turned religious zealot who wrote about sex or God, or, frequently both in the same breath. I wistfully said, "If and when I do my PhD in literature, my dissertation will be on one or the other, although I love them both, and they're so totally different." And then, WHAM! My mind was racing with thoughts about how these writers could be compared, and what kind of research I'd need to do, and then the title of the dissertation hit, and then, several excited Facebook posts with a friend and fellow literature student later, and, I can't stop thinking about it.

4. Fuck the sad ballad and bring on the up tempo. My iPod is smoking: all I want to do is listen to music that makes me dance. Waiting for the boat on my way out these past few days, I've been skipping past the melancholy melodies that have reflected my mood, instead hitting repeat on the songs that put a spring in my step and bring a smile to my face, dancing on the dock, waiting, literally, for my ship to come in. Here are some highlights that should be on your playlist, too:

- MGMT: "Time to Pretend"

- Sam & Dave: "Hold On, I'm Comin'"

- Vampire Weekend: "Walcott"

- Matt Costa: "Mr. Pitiful"

- Alphabeat: "10,000 Nights"

- Badly Drawn Boy: "Something to Talk About"

- Billy Elliott Soundtrack: "Shine"

- The Coasters: "Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart"

- Chicago Soundtrack: "We Both Reached for the Gun/The Press Conference Rag"

- Yann Tiersen: "A Quai" (from Amelie)

- Dean Martin: "Ain't That a Kick in the Head"

OK, that might be enough joy for now. Must dole it out in doses you know. I'm a little breathless. Until tomorrow's gleeful update!

Return from Exile

Big changes ahead. I've followed my intuition, and quit my job here in England to return home to Vancouver, a new job, and my family and friends. This new job, in fact, fell into my lap when a friend, without me knowing about it, took the initiative to suggest to her former bosses that they look me up and consider whether I'd be a good addition to their team, an act of kindness that has really meant so much to me. I have always hoped that my friends know that I will do anything I can to support them, whenever and however they need me. To have someone do the same for me, to make the effort that I couldn't seem to make myself...well, it makes me speechless, wordless, with gratitude. So, in one sense, I am at peace with my decision to return home to Vancouver, and to the warm and generous people who are a part of my life there.

However, this was not an easy decision and it will not be a move that I make without a sense of wistfulness and, to a lesser extent, trepidation and insecurity about whether I can really go home again. Although I know in my heart it is what I need to do to be happy and healthy, part of me is already grieving for London, despite how difficult it has been for me here. I feel, in some ways, that I have failed to accomplish whatever it was I thought I came here to do (which I can't even articulate, really). It feels like the giving up of a dream that didn't quite come true. Also, my work colleagues here, with whom I have been essentially quarantined in the office for the better part of a year, have become my war buddies, my close friends, and to abandon them now does grieve me, no matter how hopeful and grateful I am for the future in Vancouver.

I went for drinks with a work friend tonight to celebrate my decision. He sent me the following message, after we had parted ways:

"One year on, who will you be? What will have happened? So exciting! Forgive me if that has eclipsed my sadness at your leaving. Guess excitement takes precedence, for me at least, as I hope it does for you. Hope you can and do act to keep that so. Congrats again! Yippee!"

So. Despite the pangs of homesickness I will feel for London, I look forward to returning to the Left Coast, where I belong, to finding some balance in my life so that I have time to run and write and sing and dream, to be surrounded by people who know me, have always known me. That has perhaps been the most tiring thing about moving here, to a new country, alone: always having to explain who I was, and what I was about.

Tonight I am grateful for my friends in both homes who will always play a much-valued role in my journey. And I will do my best to take my friend's advice: I'm going to let excitement eclipse sadness, and choose to look forward rather than back.

Cambridge Days.

Have just gotten back from a week-long professional development course in Cambridge where I behaved, I'm proud to say, very badly, and had rather a lot of fun.

 The past few holidays I have had were very frenetic and I returned to work feeling more stressed than when I had left.  Mostly this is because trips have been spent flying 10 hours home, and then trying to see as many friends and family as possible in a ridiculous amount of time.  I barely have time to get over jet lag, let alone take a breath, when I'm scheduling 5 "meetings" a day, and inevitably I offend someone when I don't get around to them.  If I haven't been flying home, I have had people coming here to London, where I play tour guide, setting itineraries, providing commentary, and generally fretting that people have a good time.  In short, I have been in desperate need of some "me" time, haven't had any, and didn't see any on the horizon.

 I reluctantly packed up my things last Monday to head to this course.  It wasn't that I didn't want to go-a week out of the office is, after all, a week out of the office-but I didn't have the energy to expend the extra effort of packing a bag and getting on a train.  Somehow, however, I managed to get myself to Liverpool Street for the 7:28 am train, and off I went to Cambridge.

 I emerged from the train station and looked around for a taxi to take me to the college where my course was taking place.  "You look like you're on holiday," remarked a driver as I approached the taxi rank.  I sighed.  "I wish," I said.  

 But from the minute I arrived at the campus of the college, with rolling expanses of green lawns, impeccably maintained gravel walks, and yellow stone buildings, I DID feel like I was on holiday.  Even when the course organisers loaded me down with a huge textbook and binder of materials to study for the week, I wasn't phased.   It was so tranquil and peaceful.  "Perfect," I thought.  "I'll go to bed early every night, and return to London refreshed and ready for more work.  It'll be like a spa.  I'll run every morning early, and go to bed as soon as it gets dark."  I would be professional, reading a chapter of my text each night before bed and making notes of questions to ask in the next day's session.

 Oh, if only it had turned out to be so.  However, I forgot to keep in mind that I was on a course full of other lawyers.  Lawyers like to do two things when gathered together: 1) talk over each other, and 2) drink.  And, although it took some time for us to warm up, warily eyeing each other from our conference tables, by the end of the first night's welcome drinks, we had all made fast friends and we were well stuck into the college's "own label" merlot and chardonnay by 6 p.m. each night.

 On the first evening we had a quiz night.  I bonded with two very tall boys from a rival firm as we swept to first place-okay, tied for first place-okay, came second after we lost the tie-breaking round, and we commiserated over our near-win and heartbreaking loss at a local pub (I had unfortunately lost us the tie-breaker round by over-estimating the time it took the first Eurostar train to travel from Paris to London by 17 minutes or so).  Using their on-board PPS (pub positioning system), the rest of the lawyers on the course seemed to find us, and the pub became our "home base" every night after the day's educational events had ended.  So, there were no early evenings, really.  And, by consequence, no early morning runs either, unless you count the frantic hurry to make it to the college's dining hall in time for breakfast each morning.  I felt like I was 17 again.

 By our last night in Cambridge, we had visited a number of the city's finest drinking establishments, rented punting boats and travelled lazily down river in the August heat, taken walking tours of the other colleges, formed gossipy cliques, and, oh yes, managed to attend a few lectures...

Me on a punt boat, heading down the river Cam (self-portrait by BlackBerry)

Julia, me and Sarah: 3 girls in a boat.

Tom navigates, Joe punts, and Alex begs us to let her off at the dock...

Downing College, Cambridge, where I stayed for the week.

Downing College.  BlackBerry shot, not postcard (although I could understand the confusion).

"I'll Pray For You"

I've always liked Apple products-because they look shiny and cool and in my industry, they earn you a small amount of techno-geek cred.  Mostly I like 'em because they are shiny and cool.  I remember reading about the first iPods in Wired in, I think, 2001, and asking my dad for one for Christmas.  He looked into it; it was $800.    Yeah.  Anyways, now that I'm a grown-up, I can have not only one but TWO iPods.  And a MacBook.  Ah, beloved white shiny MacBook.  If I could carry you around like a purse, I would.    There are two things that accompany me in my travels around the world, two things I would pull out of a burning house: Currie Cat, and MacBook.

You can imagine my distress when my MacBook appeared to contract swine flu last week.  I was installing some software updates, and for some reason MacBook hiccuped halfway through the process, and from that point on, I couldn't log into the computer.  I panicked; of course I hadn't backed up anything in a very long time, and was desperate not to lose all my music, photos, and writing projects.   Yes, I have a work laptop, but it's a Dell.  'Nuff said.

I spent most of Saturday on the phone with Apple's UK (read: Mumbai) helpline, where I was helpfully assisted by Kiran, Ranjit and Adnan, respectively.  Kiran helped, but then gave me a reference number and told me to call back if the process he had me undertake didn't work.  It didn't.  Onto Ranjit, who spent more time putting me on hold in order to speak to his superior than actually speaking to me.  Finally, around 5:30 p.m., I got Adnan.  Adnan made many sympathetic clucking noises as I tried to express to him how much I loved MacBook, how it was a part of my family.   We bonded.  Adnan won my trust.  He had me start another utility, which he said would take about 20 minutes.  

There was an awkward silence on the other end of the phone as I started the utility.   I sensed Adnan hesitating.  "Adnan," I said.  "What is it?  What's wrong? Just tell me straight out."

"Well ma'am," he said.  "It's just that, our centre closes at 6 p.m.  And the queue ends at 5:45.  So...if this process does not work, I'm afraid I won't be able to help, ma'am.  You'll have to do a system restore and lose all your information, ma'am.  And this would be so, so bad.  I would feel so so sorry if that happened."

I sighed heavily, trying to think of what to say next, formulating some snarky remark about AppleCare really being AppleDon'tCare.  How could I go another day without MacBook?! Adnan interjected though:

"But I am really hoping this will work for you ma'am.  I am really going to pray for you.  I am really really praying that this is going to work and your MacBook will be fine.  I really pray for this."  

Well.

How could I be snarky when the guy was praying for me?!

"Uh, thanks Adnan," I said.  "Um, so, I'll just try this archive and repair, and uh..."

"Yes, yes, that's right, ma'am" Adnan assured me.  "You do that, and I will pray for you that it will work."

Right.

At that, we signed off, and I started the archive and repair, and, uh, I guess Adnan prayed.  Because you know what? It worked.

I told my mother this.

She thinks I should phone Adnan back and get him to pray for me on a regular basis.  She's had worse ideas, I think.

Housekeeping Jackpot

Now, I know I have a reputation as a bit of a shopper.   Friends have been known to remark that "all my money goes on handbags."  Well, I've discovered that it's not that my money goes on handbags, it goes in handbags.

I went for a long run this afternoon, and then came home absolutely wired with endorphins and decided it was time for not only a good houseclean (to be fair, my house is usually clean-the joy I get from this is genetic, inherited from my mother) but an organise-and-throw-away, too.  There's nothing like filling up a garbage bag with crap you don't need anymore, and hauling it out to the dumpster.  To spread the blame, this particular personality quirk is inherited from my father, who takes great delight in going to the dump...more than any reasonable person should.  Part of this exercise involved going through the four or five handbags that I tend to have in steady rotation, to throw away receipts, put lipsticks, etc, back in my make-up drawer...generally restore order to my universe.  

Going through my handbags was like a very fun version of turning over the sofa cushions to find spare change.  I found a tenner, a few fivers, umpteen pound coins, 50 pence coins, and a veritable mint of smaller change.   

It added up to about 42 pounds.

And this was only in the five or so bags I've used in the past few weeks!  Imagine if I went big-scale with this organise-and-throw away operation!   If you multiply this by the number of bags I actually have...well, I'll be rich I tell you, rich!

Next up will be consolidating the balances of all the Starbucks cards I start in the intention of keeping my weekly coffee budget in check, and then promptly lose in the bowels of one of the aforementioned handbags...I'll probably have free decaf soy lattes for the rest of the year.

Little Gifts.

A few weeks ago I had a horrendous London-commute morning.  I arrived about two minutes late at Greenland Pier, only to see my boat (which is normally at least 5 minutes late) sailing away to Canary Wharf without me.  

Another 20 minutes, another boat-this one packed full so I had to stand, all the way to Tower Pier.  This especially hurts as the reason I pay a premium to take the boat (rather than bus and Tube) is so I can have a civilised, comfortable commute where I sip my coffee (now a decaf soy latte since I've given up caffeine and gone vegan) and flip through the morning paper.  

Standing and steadying myself on the outside deck as we bounced down the river, I reached into my bag to distract myself with my Blackberry, only to find...I'd forgotten my Blackberry at home.  Just then, a crew member came by to check my pass only for me to realise I'd forgotten my pass at home too.  I had to fork out another 10 pounds to pay for a full-freight boat ticket.  

When we docked at Tower Pier, I strolled up to Tower Hill tube station, to go two stops on the Circle Line, to Liverpool Street.  As I stood on the platform waiting for my train, the shoulder strap on my leather bag snapped, and the contents of my bag spread all over the platform, conveniently just as the train was arriving.  Commuters stepped on and off and train, and all over my things at the same time.  I managed to gather what I could together, and hop on the train, but when we got to Aldgate, the train mysteriously re-routed to Aldgate East (note: NOT in the direction of Liverpool Street), and I had to take a bus back in the direction of my office.   I arrived 40 minutes late, panting and disheveled, and the harried rush of the morning stayed with me all day.

Later that night, as I made my way home through Tower Hill station, an unfamiliar pamphlet stacked on the usual racks of Tube maps and rail schedules caught my eye.  It was a small white booklet, titled "London: Poems on the Underground."  There were maybe a handful on the rack, and so I picked one up.  It was a lovely little bound book, not a pamphlet at all, and it full of poems about London, with entries by Blake, Wordsworth, and Wilde, as well as modern poets like Grace Nichols and Patience Agbabi.  I flicked through the little book in wonder, smiling to myself.  "I hope that these poems inspire you," read the foreword by Mayor Boris Johnson, waxing a little poetic himself about "the capital's diverse and endlessly fascinating story."

That little book of poems, which I tucked into my (broken) bag, made my day.  I have looked every day at the brochure racks, keeping my eye out for another copy to give to a friend, and have not seen one since.  It never ceases to amaze me how this universe somehow manages to always give us what we need.  I am trying to remember this lesson, to bank it for those moments to come where I rail at the universe and the events that cause me grief and frustration.  We always get what we need, and not anything more.  And for this we should be grateful.

Go where we may - rest where we will,

Eternal London haunts us still.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Death Flu Update

Well, it just gets better, really.  Because now we've added insomnia to the mix.   I'm glued to the computer trying to bore myself to death while Currie snoozes away...and oh look, the sun's coming up!  Joy!

Ugh. Attractive.

I've been off work for several days now with a yucky bug.  Given that swine flu has infiltrated my office building, I've been told to stay away in case it is swine flu.  I don't think it is swine flu, but it is one of those gross bugs where washing your hair feels like a day's worth of effort so you start to cultivate flu-dreadlocks, and, really, you're OK to stay in the same PJs for three days.  Super attractive.

Yucky bug is also boring me to death.  Here's what my days are like:

-  Wake up.  Sit up.  Too much effort, roll over and go to sleep.

-  Wake up with Currie Cat standing on my face.  Get up and feed Currie Cat.  Too much effort, go back to bed and go to sleep.

-  Wake up mid-afternoon during coughing fit.  Half-heartedly read novels and peruse gossip sites on the internet for the next 10 hours while working my way through an entire box of Kleenex due to runny nose.  Optional: afternoon fever.

- Feed Currie Cat dinner after she stands at bedroom door yelling.

- Sleep, with ice pack on head for headache, and propped up on 5 pillows to avoid coughing to death.

- Repeat.

Please provide suggestions for sicky amusement.  I may die of boredom if the swine flu doesn't get me first.