trials and tribulations - Keeper becomes Prat

Errrrrrrr. Penned a blog last week in draft form only to discover it didn't save. Was so annoyed I blanked the blog for several days. Wonder if it got the message. Thus have learnt never draft. Be brave - post and publish in one swift movement.

So, life was going swimmingly well, all things considered until early this week, when suddenly things have nose-dived rather dramatically. The differences in the type of home that the Keeper and the Keepee have in mind simply do not match. This one not-exactly-insignificant difference has now illuminated all the other differences between us. The honeymoon, or actually the post-divorcemoon is over and now I think I remember why the hell we got divorced in the first place.

Quite simply he is a pompous British prat who thinks my entire role in life is to simply please him and his every whim. I'm supposed to dress for him - this rules out my fabulous furr which he deems not appropriate pub wear. Of course I dissagree vehemently - has he never heard of ironic chic. My fabulous furr and my beaten-up old jeans look great together; talk about topics of interest only to him i.e. the state of British cricket; go to restaurants only of his choosing - this gets incredibly tiresome as the man is willing and capable to eat thai food seven nights a week from the local around the corner that noone else seems to go to and has interrogation lighting - under which the Keepee then gets grilled on cricket.

Arrrrr. So I'm fed up and contemplating my next move. I have to take stock, write lists (something the Keeper has taught me, for which I am grateful) and then act. I think the most sensible thing, as well as where I would rather be anyway - well maybe not until it warms up - is to move back to New York.

Anyway before I start that list I have to take the Keeper's (whom from this moment on is going to be called Prat) shirts to the drycleaner and call the thai restaurant to make sure we can get our usual table - you can't be too sure, it is after all Friday and perhaps there will be the other odd diner.

Obsessed Property Purchaser Who Fancies Herself As Developer

Attacking the London property market with gusto has certainly been eye-opening. Racking up an impressive sixty-odd viewed properties I've definitely got a feel for the market. And the feeling is not good. Too many buildings with great bones have been laid to waste by developers with adopted taste from an Ikea catalogue. Not that there's anything wrong with plain vanilla Scandiness. It's just not want I want when spending close to a million of Keeper's pounds. Traipsing over pale blonde wood floors and marveling (not) at the fitted granite kitchen units.

Seriously fancy myself as a developer material. Tackling a derelict house, Georgian period perhaps and contemporise sympathetically - historic features noted. God I'm beginning to see not having a job leads to delusions on a grand scale. Next I'll be considering running for local mayor.

So, raised the idea of my property development aspirations at dinner last night and I do believe the Keeper inhaled his martini in one in-breath, swallowing the extra olives all at once. I guess I should take that as an indication of his lack on belief in the Keepee's architect slash interior designer slash building site managerial potential . I think my girlfriend, Gweebeart, also dining with us, thought it was great idea, although I can't always be sure as she has a lazy eye which can't express the same degree of enthusiasm as the other.

Seriously, though there is a lot of crap out there. I've only seen two properties I feel I'd want to buy. One, very cool converted printing house from the 1930's with printing paraphernalia still hanging from ceilings. Unfortunately it's not in the most pucker part of London, thus nixed by Keeper. He only had eyes for the council housing estate and the likes that mill about outside them i/e youths under 18, scowling and dressed in baggy tracky bottoms and hoodies pulled tight so that only lips and tip of nose is visible.

More promising is the traditional maisonette we are viewing for second time tomorrow. Should appeal to Keeper as it has all the attributes he desires - three bedrooms, separate sitting room, separate dining room (for all those local council meetings I could host). Biggest bonus is an unparalleled view of Primrose Hill - not a single council estate brick insight.

My only concern is the decor. Hopefully the Keeper will be able to look beyond the 1980's Playboy theme the place purports now. The current owner - Playboy lives in Miami and it was his when-in-London chick-pulling pad. Clearly he upset someone in the family as they have now taken it away from Playboy and want to sell it off. I wonder if the all-black tiled bathrooms and mirrored ceilings throughout bathrooms and bedrooms will put Keeper off?

New Job Description

Keeper has kept the Keepee (moi) v busy. Have spent the past three days looking at possible new accommodations for us. Have decided to label it my new job. Have unfortunately but not surprisingly discovered there is a mismatch in our ideals. The keeper would love to move to Fulham or Chiswich ie/ baby land and start filling the six bedrooms he has his mind set on. The Keepee on the other hand wants to find a uber-cool artists loft in either Notting Hill, Sth Ken, ie/ central London and pretend she's still 25. Was pleased to spot a trendy mummy pushing one of those 4WD buggy things in Notting Hill this morning, looking v smug in her locale. Note to self - tell Keeper of sprog sighting within M25 radius. I considered asking her if I could borrow her pram with babe and trialing the look for the day. Decided that with all the stair climbing - in and out of five house so far today and have five more for late this afternoon I wouldn't be a happy camper by afternoon's end.

Going to supper at happily-married with-twins and another-on-the-way friends tonight - so no doubt will bore them senseless with my new daily activities. Please god send a message advising how to not let brain dry up and fall out of my ears.

Dined last night at Club Gascon - fab SW French restaurant and bar in Smithfield market. Lots of yummy offally things. The Keeper chose the vegetarian menu. The Keepee plumped for the steak with bone marrow and kidney reduction. Need to keep my strength up for all those stairs. Wine selection was memorable too (I think, if I could remember).

Now have a new mobile. Keeper insisted I acquire one asap. With all the fancy technology available in UK and Europe (US is still light years behind in technology) I was offered a phone that not only duel-purposed as MP3 player but also had GPS ie/ satellite navigation capabilities. Refrained as there's only so much tracking I want the Keeper to be able to do. A girl needs to be able to disappear every so often - especially in the vicinity of Harvey Nich's.

Keeper keeps calling me throughout day to check up on my accommodation sourcing. Don't want to say house hunting as I'm worried a flat is all that's within our monetary parameters, unless I give in and move to the nice family home areas of London and start baking bread. Wish he wouldn't call - what am I supposed to chat to him about, over the home cooked roast chicken I've lovingly prepared after his hard day at the office?

Must dash - have an appointment with a rather cute estate agent. I guess this job does have it's perks. Saw a house with him on Saturday and have found another under his sales list that I've decided I really should look at, even if I don't like it.