The bad news: I got lost on the way to work this morning.

The good news: This is because I cycled all the way to the top of the hill, but didn’t know how to get to the correct building when I got there.

More good news: The seat no longer slips down, due to the application of my trusty adjustable spanner.

Feeling very smug now. I am almost a capable cyclist. Just the oiling to figure out now.

It being Sunday, I went to Church this morning (on my bike) and I really enjoyed it. It was the type of service I will remember once we move – plenty of good hymns, succinct and interesting sermon, laying on of hands for healing, and Communion. Lots of time for prayer during the laying on of hands.

I was feeling happy, so I smiled. I smiled during the hymns, I smiled during the sermon. Yup, that was me – smiling all the way.

The preacher came up to me afterwards and said “I noticed you were smiling a lot during the service”.

Now here is where I got confused. Following some thought, I can think of several explanations for this comment:

1) I was the only person smiling in church (I did not notice him challenging anyone else over this matter)
2) I am normally a miserable sod at that time of the morning and seeing me smile was so out of character that they thought someone ought to check if I was OK.
3) In a panic, he had forgotten all small talk and could only say the first thing that came into his head

The third option would be nice to cling to, but I really do think he came and found me specifically to comment. The first option worries me because I think it is good to smile in church – are we not meant to be there worshipping and enjoying fellowship with each other? The second option worries me because I think it may be true.

So anyway, I just mumbled something along the lines of yes, that is because I am happy today, and it was a good service. He had no further comment to make, so I am no clearer in what to do about it.

I am still smiling, but it is a more worried smile. I will try not to smile too much next time I go to church, or at least hold the hymn book up so no one else can see.

This weekend I have said goodbye, for good, to some friends. I will never hear what happens next for them and, although things look like working out OK, I was still in floods of tears as they packed up and walked out.

Yes, it was the final double bill episode of the West Wing. Sorry if you were actually starting to feel sympathetic there.

I won’t go into details as I seem to remember reading somewhere that someone is in the process of watching series 4. Suffice to say that it was a good end. I think it was the first time I have watched an episode for the first time on my own, which turned out to be a good thing due to the excessive waterworks that ensued. I was extremely impressed with David Tennant’s (*) knowledge of all things West Wing on Rory Bremner’s quiz, although there was some rather shoddy scorekeeping on Rory’s part.

In other news, a moving company has sent me a quote without requiring a 10 page exam. Things are looking up.

One question: Why is it that, as soon as I put washing out, the clouds roll in and it starts threatening to rain? I would have thought that, what with there being a heatwave and everything, this would not happen. I will not be toyed with in this fashion – the washing is staying out there until either it is dry, or we have to move, whichever is the sooner.

*Time passes*

I have just spent an hour on the phone and completely forgotten (the doubtless erudite and important) things that I was going to say. I will go and have coffee and return another time.

(*) Who?

Do you see what I did there?

My colleagues have been asking me for the last month if I have started packing for the move. I haven’t, mainly due to a lack of information on various points, but also because I WAS CLEARLY NOT TAKING IT SERIOUSLY ENOUGH. I discover that this is not meant to be easy or fun, but a challenge to sanity and stress levels.

I have never moved house properly. I contrived to be out of the country both times my parents moved (not intentionally out of the country you understand, just conveniently) and I have always shoved stuff in the back of a car or van (driven by a parent). I now own a sofa, among other items of furniture, and so much random stuff that this approach will not work. I need complicated things like removal men and boxes. This scares me. Mr Farli is on holiday, so is excused from assisting at the moment. I am in charge.
[quantum leap] Oh boy. [/quantum leap]

My future employers are paying for the move, (hurrah!), but require multiple quotes to be sure they are getting a good deal. It took them a while to get their act together and tell me how to sort the paperwork, so I am left with only just over 2 weeks to organise. This is not enough time for removal men to come and look round to give a quote, so last night I found myself sitting an exam on my furniture and belongings.

Questions 1 through 3000(*): How many of X item of furniture do you have?

I had already made a list of furniture, so this was not too bad, but of 40 things I ticked, I had to item 10 of them separately, since they weren’t on the list. What is a “tallboy, normal” and, more worryingly, what is an abnormal one? Does it matter that I don’t possess one?

Question 3001: If a box for books holds 2 feet of shelving, how many do you need? Add in extra boxes for food and other small, heavy items.

Answer 3001, obtained after an hour of wandering around finding all the books and small heavy stuff (NB, maybe I should have paid attention in applied maths classes – this taxed me more than it should): 45.

45? Forty five? FORTY FIVE? I never thought I would say this, but I may have too many books. The trouble is that a lot of the shelves are double stacked, so I had to count them twice, and then there are the shelves where the books are stacked vertically. Then there was my current reading pile, which will require a special box all to itself.

Note to future self (1): Buy bookcases with shelves that are 1 or 2 feet wide, not 15 inches. Multiples of 15 inches are difficult when you are hot and tired.

Note to future self (2): You weren’t ever planning to move the bulk of your book collection out of Parents’ house were you?

I have been cunning: when the next exam paper arrives, I will cheat and use the answers from this one.

I can do this, no problem.

(*) An exaggeration? Maybe a little bit.

I seem to have provoked a lot of responses regarding tea. Thank you – I now don’t have to think up anything new to blog about today.

Fineline – I confess to being too lazy to use tea leaves on a regular basis. When someone invents a self-cleaning/easy-cleaning teapot I may think again. Regarding gunpowder – I have not tasted it either and I imagine that Lapsang is somewhat more thirst quenching. Am I imagining it, or is there a type of tea that is called gunpowder?

Ian – Perhaps there should be a support group for people who can’t make tea.

Daisy – no I haven’t tried Dragonfly tea. I will look out for it. If I find that it has little wings in, I may pass.

Bimble – Hurrah! An ally in the crusade against fake tea.

Dith – (1) Snigger. Daft puns will always go down well here. (2) Kippers? If you say so. I have not had kippers for many years, due to a deep dislike of small bones.

In other news: I cycled to work today! I didn’t quite get to the office, which is at the top of a very steep hill, but I got to within 5 minutes walk of it where there are some cunningly placed cycle racks. On walking into the building with my helmet, I got lots of kudos. It only took about 10 minutes to get here so more sleep in the mornings for Farli.

Coming soon on Cabbages and Kings:
Life lessons I have yet to learn – adventures in moving house with a big van and some removal men. Help.

I decided to write something about tea, it being an important part of life. I offer the following pretty much unedited, despite some misgivings. I was not expecting to find so much to say, neither did I realise how strongly I feel.

Tea

I like tea. Generally, I am quite a tea-snob – give me fair-trade, organic tea with as pretentious a name as possible over your bog-standard cuppa any day. I like Lapsang Souchong, (a smoky tea, as Mr Twinings informs us), although I have yet to find an ethical version of it. Lapsang used to upset my previous work colleagues. They claimed it smelt of bacon, of smoke (well duh) and, on one memorable occasion, of horse lineament. I am not a horsey person, so I cannot vouch for that. I just know that it upset them.

Now fruit teas ARE NOT REAL TEA, I can put it no other way. I seriously object to beverages that smell a million times nicer than they taste. Apple and Cinnamon tea? Why? Have some hot apple juice with some cinnamon in. It will smell the same, and taste much, much nicer. Camomile? Do I look like Peter Rabbit? It smells as bad as it tastes, which, although more honest, is still not a good way to go.

So anyway, a nice Early G would be lovely. Weak and black for me please. If you make it too strong, I will have to put sugar in it which we all know would be a bad idea.

At work there are no nice teas and I have not, as yet, managed to bring in nice tea from home. I am therefore reduced to drinking the rather nasty tea in the kitchen. It is free, so therefore not to be sniffed at (metaphorically speaking, in fact, probably best not to sniff it literally either as it is heading towards the floor-sweepings end of the market).

Work tea, made at the right strength, with the right amount of milk and sugar is not altogether awful. “Hurrah”, I hear you cry, “she has come down off her high horse and is admitting that snobbishness about tea can be overcome with a good cuppa”. Not so fast – there is a problem: I can’t make tea the way I like it. My colleagues can make me tea perfectly and, because they are nice people, they frequently do. I can’t. They are very polite about my efforts to make tea, but I’m sure the cups I make for them taste as bad as the ones I make for me. What can I do? How can it be so difficult? Teabag in, sugar, hot water, milk, teabag out is my general method, but it doesn’t seem to work.

I enlisted the help of a colleague to find out what sort of tea I like – she says, after much experimentation, that I like very little milk, a little sugar and not too strong. Well, that is pretty much what I thought. She really couldn’t help much more than that.

For the summer I have resorted to making fruit squash for me when I do a round of drinks. I hope they haven’t noticed that I am still inflicting my tea on them, while escaping into the land of Orange and Barley (not to be confused with the Land of Green Ginger which is another thing altogether).

Right, I’m off for a coffee.

I was collected from work today by Roger the chauffeur. That sounds so grand doesn’t it? Alas, this is not a regular occurence – he is the nice man from the garage which was servicing the car.

Having surprised my credit card with a hefty service bill, I decided to buy a bike.

So I did. It is pink (*) and silver, with marvellous suspension and lots of low gears for going up hills. This last being very much the most important aspect of the purchase. It was also in the sale, with an extra 5% knocked off for having a miniscule scratch. To this I added a fetching red helmet (which I now realise clashes quite hideously with the bike) and a lock. All set to go. NB Must buy lights later, or get the ones I bought some years ago back from Sister.

I have just got back from taking it for a spin, including a very minor hill. I fear that I have a significant amount of practice to put in there before I can coordinate pedalling, changing gear and breathing enough to avoid collapsing in a heap.

Add to this the discovery that there was an episode of Friends on that I had never seen and this is definitely a good day.

(*) I should note here that I am not really a pink-loving person – little, in fact, could be further from the truth. This is a bright, almost purplish pink, not nasty sugary pink, so that is OK.

Well I am now really cross with that Thunderstorm I mentioned, so cross that I clearly feel it merits a capital letter. Sleep patterns are now very skewed and although I have been at work for 4 hours, it feels as if I should only just be waking up. Hopefully, if I can stay awake until 10, I’ll get a reboot and be back to normal. Meanwhile, I have been a very good customer at the coffee shop today.

On the plus side, while I was awake last night I completed a Samurai Sudoku (you know the ones, five puzzles all linked together in an x shape) for the first time. I may have to get it framed.

Weather rant over – in case you hadn’t guessed, I’m English!

It is Saturday and I am enjoying the sheer luxury of a whole day to myself. I am in the middle of a two week stint of being home alone at the moment, for the first time in about 4 years. Obviously, I am missing Mr Farli, probably increasingly so as the week goes on, but having this thinking space is lovely.

My perfect day of self-indulgence began somewhat earlier than I had intended. I was woken at 2.30am by the LOUDEST thunderstorm I have ever heard. In my rather befuddled state I staggered round unplugging modems and suchlike things, which woke me up enough to stay awake for the next hour. I wouldn’t mind, but I thought thunderstorms were supposed to clear the air. It is still just as oppressive today as it was before.

After a bit more of a snooze, I drove out to throw myself into battle in the Next summer sale. Oh how I hate clothes shopping, but when I do go shopping I end up buying most things from Next, so I feel that I really ought to make the effort with the sale. The only thing I really liked was a top I already owned and I was just too exhausted to make decisions so my wallet came home just as heavy as it went out. I am sure I will get brownie points for this at a later date.

So I had another snooze, having come home by this point. There weren’t any beds in Next, otherwise I might well have stopped to clock up a few Zs there and then.

I seem to have digressed somewhat. I’m sure I had something specific in mind to write. Ah yes, how the blog got its name.

On reflection, after having chosen Cabbages and Kings as the blog title, I thought I should perhaps explain that I am not intending to discuss the brassica family, or monarchy, on a regular basis. If I am stuck for what to write about, you never know – you might get lucky. I don’t know very much about either so it won’t be too much in depth. A friend of mine from about 10 years ago had the quote from the Walrus and the Carpenter as an answering machine message and it just stuck with me. So there you have it.

One thing that has been really bugging me recently is how to work out what to think about things.

Black and white
At school, teachers knew everything, although now that I have friends and relatives who are teachers, I am starting to doubt that a little bit . I remember the year Blue Peter really went for broke on Green Issues (1989? I will have to look it up when I am less than 200 miles away from my old Blue Peter annuals) and suddenly we all knew that CFCs were bad.

Shades of Grey
At University we discover that a lot of what we have been told before is actually wrong – the Pratchett/Stewart/Cohen lies-to-children concept from Science of Discworld. Journals are introduced as the source of all wisdom. All very well. Most questions can be dismissed with a ‘not my subject’ remark. Specialisation is all and once you are specialised enough you can keep saying it is complicated and that people are asking the wrong questions.

A big murky fog
But then real life comes along. Although I can get away with saying ‘I’m not sure’, I want to be able to say that I have opinions. Yes, this is what I think and why I think it. I may be wrong, but my reasoned conclusion is: blah.

I guess I’m thinking most about things that come up on the news: wars, politics, ethics, environmental stuff.

But where to look for input (a la Jonny 5)? There isn’t time to read everything. Who can you trust? As far as I can gather, pretty much no-one. Everyone is biased.

A quick question, just out of interest. Who do you trust to tell you the truth?

Lunchtime over – more on this another time, perhaps even with some specifics.