Cougher Hoxhas

It's been a long couple of weeks, and I've gone from employed to unemployed, car-expectant to not, to new driver (honda civic, dull-but-indestructable). I've also found out I need to put in a new kitchen - the very thought of which makes me want to light twenty cigarettes at once.

I can't say I've stayed smoke free for the duration of the last two weeks, but inhaling has been confined to periods of imbibing. the thing is, those periods have been fairly frequent.

I'm waiting on a job offer today. I could be in the back garden puffing away on these little darlings - Albanian smokes - but without the lubrication of alcohol, my lungs seem happy to go without.

And how did the Albanians get here? My old boss came to visit last Thursday. He kept up our tradition of bringing each other native cigarettes from wherever we've been to visit. Since his family nipped into Albania for the day during their Italian ten days, he remembered to nip in to a tobacconist to keep up the routine.

Of course I smoked them, with wine. Who could resist?

Oh no! Mini crisis!

The mini's not ready. There was rust under the wing and he needed to put on a new one. And the cream leather interior didn't materialise. The seat covers are a knacky black fabric. I can live with this, but it gets worse.

Claire says he didn't do that great a job on her bike.

It's not going to be ready till Friday. My car insurance started last Saturday.

And worse, I popped into see Sel, a Turkish garage owner I've known for years (he used to mend my car, regularly, back in the day) and he reckons I'm mad to go anywhere near an old Mini. He reckons it'll be a constant headache. "What about a nice little Rover Metro?" is his argument.

Sel's coming over to take a look at my new car on Friday and made me promise not to hand over any more cash till he's seen it.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Spotted this on the way back from the cinema. Chinese Triads? Surely they can do better than that...

I always take flowers when I go to a house party, so yesterday I took Glads. it was only when I sat on the tube to go all the way to Walthamstow that I noticed these Glads are a bit tired. Still, they're cheery enough.

There was a young East European couple in the supermarket, she was about six months pregnant and they had another pal with them. One of them (I think the Dad-to-be) was taking photos of the other two on the largest iron curtain-looking old camera i've seen in a while. They were choosing potatoes in Morrissons in Peckham. They looked so excited, it was heartwarming to see.

Have I mentioned how much I love this time of year? Probably. Apple pie and figs on the tree. And don't Bert's zinnias look lovely? A little old lady persuaded me to buy greengages in the supermarket, and she was right, they're sweet.

Raising teenagers is taking its toll though. Last night I came in around 9.30. Me: "Have you eaten?" Them: "You didn't tell us to..."

Lord help me.

Oh yeah. I haven't smoked, nor do I desire to smoke. Except when there's alcohol around. So last night was a right off. And the night before. But at any other time, I'm a non-smoker.

I think it's a progress of sorts.

Purple fingers

Boots, brisk walks and blackberries. They're lush in the cemetery and the crumble's now cooling on top of the oven.

My very own Harvest Festival.

And it was all going so well...

Except that last night, I found myself in an empty house, and instead of doing the sensible thing and stretching out with a new book, I rang Maria to see if she fancied a pint. Despite being Ikead up to the eyeballs, Maria was keen - As soon as I get home I'll call you to come round, she said - and I've got a friend with me. With hindsight, there was a whiff of urgency about it.

As soon as I knocked on the door, Maria was out in a flash to the shop to get fags. I'd barely introduced myself to the friend, and within moments was knee deep in Maria's IKEA purchase pile and up to my neck in Avril's life story.

I couldn't possibly - but it can be tagged thus: love, death, police, ripper, fraud, fire, insurance, breakdown, harrassment, inspector, father, Gambia, gnome.

Avril is 62, she's an ex-cop, and she talks. Maria seemed to be smoking a great deal of dope - so out of loyalty I joined her. Avril didn't mind the green fug - she was hell bent on wringing the sweat from her life story, so I did the merciful thing and picked up the instruction booklet for the bathroom cabinet. Maria made her excuses to head out to the shop again. I know for sure, she nipped into the pub for a brief respite.

I've always maintained that Ikea holds the alum key to continued male domination - as long as we have flat pack furniture, women will never rule the world. Still, they were desperate moments at 10.30 last night, so I got started (the pic is proof). Avril carried on and Maria gazed into the middle distance.

Avril doesn't go home to Yorkshire till this evening, and she wants to get on the London Eye. Maria wants to get her new curtains up. I've done my bit, and smoked like a lunatic in the process.

I will now retire to the sofa with that book.

Mmmm. Green suede...

The marvellous thing about going for interviews and coming out of them feeling good is that you get to buy lots of pairs of new boots. Especially when it's nearly autumn.

Here are today's new boots. Very denim skirt. Very walk-in-the-woods.

They make me want to go pick blackberries. I'm actually going out to pick a new camcorder with the boys - trying to get two 14 year olds out and up the Old Kent Road is harder than climbing a hill with a donkey, but I'm still not inclined to have a shifty smoke outside while I wait.

Whew... Now, where was I?

It was an eventful weekend, on the edge of the Pyrenees. I won't go into details, but suffice to say that leaving my luggage in the boot of a car, by a lake, undiscovered until I was checking in at the airport, scored so low down the incident list as to barely warrant a mention.

Hopefully I'll get it back before the end of the year.

Catalonia has a radical history, and I was taken with this bit of graffiti - especially with the bouncy castle in the backround. I smoked a bit in the evenings with vin rouge, and once at home again with vin blanc.

But that was Monday night and I've been puff-free since then, even though I've found out I didn't get my dream job, I got turned down for another, and had a surreal interview this afternoon.

I think I'm doing well. I'm virtually a "non-smoker".

It's been a week, bar one

The kids have gone again and I'm pleasantly alone.

But as I sit here mooching about, looking through my news headlines, I listen to Jeff Buckley singing Lilac Wine and I suddenly get the urge for a cigarette.

So I smoke the last one in the left-over packet of ten i found on the top shelf in the kitchen.

Then Hallelujah comes on, and I'm done. I was hoping to do an audio link, but no joy.

Off to France for the weekend. No job yet, but early days.