I was told a desperately funny story the other day. It was Stephen in fact. We have these little chats at the appropriate times. You'd think it would be hard to orchestrate, with the thirteen hour time difference, but it's quite an adroit exercise.
I said to him, "I haven't told you about the fox". He said to me, "I haven't told you about the moth..."
We were discussing fish, actually. Too many animals, I know. Keep up though. And he'd arrived at a little barbecue, to which he'd brought some freshly caught and smoked fish, and was strumming away at the guitar, whilst his friend with the nice voice sung along, with an intimate little crowd amongst a wider group of barbecuees. All at once, instead of the sonorous tones of his friend's voice, it was a moth he heard and it bumbled straight into his ear!
Now, I can just imagine it - Stephen has long arms, imagine a monkey, and when they flail, they do so quite madly. I can just picture it now. When he told me the story, I laughed and thought, surely that's it - the moth flew in and then out and that's the end of that. No, no. It was a two day saga of moth in ear antics. How did he know it was a moth? There were apparently some quite telling clues, for example, the sound. Imagine that frantic flutter of dusty wings. Like a helicopter in a bubble perhaps? He toyed with the idea that it was a mosquito but discounted it on account of the level of a hum. Bug-in-ear connoisseur? Probably not. Probably just common sense.
Someone kindly suggested that they vacuum it out. Another rather sweet suggestion was to put his ear next to a light and it would be drawn out.
I like that.
In the end, one helpful person drowned it with a bottle of expired ear drops. But, the ex-moth was still in his ear. He wandered around with the little corpse in his head for another day! It was causing him considerable distress as he was having trouble hearing people.
On Monday morning, he took a detour to the doctor on his way to work and told the GP of his troubles. The GP wiped his hands of it and sent him to an ear specialist. The ear specialist had trouble believing his story but agreed in the end to suction it - like they would do for glue-ear or old men with excessive wax production. And, oh my stars, what pops out but that fated little moth - much to the horror of the specialist who kept repeating, "I can't believe it, I just can't believe it..."
He kept the moth. And the doctor's certificate.
How to you claim this back on medical insurance? Or would they tell you to claim it back on the accident compensation scheme?
In other news...
Life has been ticking along well enough for the most part. I've been to a number of seasonal events - dressing up as a cat, as I have done every year since I was thirteen, for Halloween and then playing with some fireworks (two sparklers to be precise). I finally took that day off from work on Friday and with every intention of using it wisely - I had two naps, read two books and did my accounting.
I went to a very interesting evening at the Shoreditch Church. What an amazing space! So cavernous. I recommend that you pop your head in if you're out that way. It was the premier of an independent film named for "Dirty Old Town". And who should be singing that same tune for us? Why, it was MacGowan himself! He looks well! I take that to mean that there's hope for us yet so keep heart.
I wore my fox fur scarf out last night. Ha! You'll rue the day, you dirty little beast.
One of the barristers at Chambers told me that she'd started jogging. Apparently I'd inspired her one night at the pub when I was lauding its benefits. I can't remember the conversation myself, but barristers do tend to ply you with more wine than they would think to consume themselves. She lives in the countryside and it's not foxes but deer that obstruct her path. I'm not sure whether they are as ferocious but perhaps they are a cause for concern to the jogger. I can't see her parading around in a deer hide on account of them. Not like this dastardly avenger, yours truly. Goodness, though, it's a warm little scarf. Next time you see a little fox darting around forlornly on a cold night, don't, on any account, feel sorry for it - they're snug as a bug under there.
This was the animal edition (bar the Pogues). I'll bring the human interest element next time.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Saturday, 16 October 2010
16 October 2010
It's Saturday today and I'm heading into the office. Oh, the dedication! It's been like this for a while now... Me, the office, very little else. I'm not too sore about it, most of the time. But it can make me rather dull.
Perhaps, I did do something a little out of the ordinary. For example, on Thursday, I was wandering along Euston Road, with every intent to go to work. I had on my little, silk, grey shirt that I picked up at the second hand store, coupled with a black woollen skirt and then some boots. It's been cold recently, so I pulled out my heavy grey coat and to add a bit of colour to it, I wrapped by bright purple, woolly scarf around my neck. I never did have much of a sense for fashion. I'd love to employ someone to dress me chicly.
And just as I rounded the corner, at St Pancras International, I turned from my route - surprising myself - and strode up to the ticket booth requesting a round trip ticket to Paris for the day. And I went. And I saw some Rodin and ate some foie gras and sat in the jardin des tuileries watching the tourists and the pickpockets. And then I got back on the train and was in London in time for the ten o'clock evening news. It was quite a lonely little trip but it was nice, I think, on account of the pointless spontaneity.
I'm listening to Belle and Sebastian and waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle so that I can hang up my whites before I leave for the office. I've laid out all my little chores on the bed so that I can tackle them over the weekend. I do this every weekend and it seems I always face the same chores, since I never actually get them done. My guitar is lying there, sans one string. The mail for the previous tenants and the landlord waits for redirection and I have some local elections to vote in.
Far cry from a surprise Parisian day trip. I can transport myself with my Balzac though. Perhaps he's the reason why Paris is on my mind.
Those of you who saw me in London on Thursday head down in a pile of paperwork or sneaking up to the Council cafe for some greasy spoon - I assure you, it was my doppelganger. Her resemblance to me is uncanny. I'm afraid if we find ourselves in the same place, at the same time, I'll spontaneously combust! Isn't that the science behind the phenomenon?
Perhaps, I did do something a little out of the ordinary. For example, on Thursday, I was wandering along Euston Road, with every intent to go to work. I had on my little, silk, grey shirt that I picked up at the second hand store, coupled with a black woollen skirt and then some boots. It's been cold recently, so I pulled out my heavy grey coat and to add a bit of colour to it, I wrapped by bright purple, woolly scarf around my neck. I never did have much of a sense for fashion. I'd love to employ someone to dress me chicly.
And just as I rounded the corner, at St Pancras International, I turned from my route - surprising myself - and strode up to the ticket booth requesting a round trip ticket to Paris for the day. And I went. And I saw some Rodin and ate some foie gras and sat in the jardin des tuileries watching the tourists and the pickpockets. And then I got back on the train and was in London in time for the ten o'clock evening news. It was quite a lonely little trip but it was nice, I think, on account of the pointless spontaneity.
I'm listening to Belle and Sebastian and waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle so that I can hang up my whites before I leave for the office. I've laid out all my little chores on the bed so that I can tackle them over the weekend. I do this every weekend and it seems I always face the same chores, since I never actually get them done. My guitar is lying there, sans one string. The mail for the previous tenants and the landlord waits for redirection and I have some local elections to vote in.
Far cry from a surprise Parisian day trip. I can transport myself with my Balzac though. Perhaps he's the reason why Paris is on my mind.
Those of you who saw me in London on Thursday head down in a pile of paperwork or sneaking up to the Council cafe for some greasy spoon - I assure you, it was my doppelganger. Her resemblance to me is uncanny. I'm afraid if we find ourselves in the same place, at the same time, I'll spontaneously combust! Isn't that the science behind the phenomenon?
Monday, 11 October 2010
11 October 2010
Today is the 11th of October.
Yes, I know that you can see that from my heading.
Did you know that I was chased by a fox? Well, I've told some of you - and you laughed. It was no laughing matter during that instant when I was determining whether she was going to lunge at me. She seemed quite fierce. I was out for my run at the time and I hate to run faster than a light jog. I had to run like the clappers though, because she was swift and she growled and I let out a little yelp as I quickened my pace.
Can you imagine me heaving along down Camden Road at 6am being chased by a fox? It's slapstick in the extreme.
In other misfortunes, I fell over into the road on Friday evening after a good wining with Sandra and I scrapped my knees off. It was truly unfortunate, because it was amongst the height of traffic and in front of a car that had stopped to let me cross. I had to wave him on, because it was going to take me sometime to pick myself up again.
It seems that my clumsy side is back in business. Let's hope it continues. It's the only matter which inspires me to turn to this blog and relay some of my happenings and thoughts lately.
Thoughts. It's October. It's unseasonably warm. My social calendar is perfectly empty until Christmas. And so, I thought I might book myself on a flight to Budapest, avoiding the toxic sludge of course. "Toxic sludge" - what a phrase. Who on earth coined it and why did it stick? Could it have been called anything else?
And quietly, down here at the end (so soon? yes, I must get into bed with book and tea), by way of explanation, I've had guests to entertain recently and they've taken my attention away from you.
Forgive me and wish me well on the roads.
Yes, I know that you can see that from my heading.
Did you know that I was chased by a fox? Well, I've told some of you - and you laughed. It was no laughing matter during that instant when I was determining whether she was going to lunge at me. She seemed quite fierce. I was out for my run at the time and I hate to run faster than a light jog. I had to run like the clappers though, because she was swift and she growled and I let out a little yelp as I quickened my pace.
Can you imagine me heaving along down Camden Road at 6am being chased by a fox? It's slapstick in the extreme.
In other misfortunes, I fell over into the road on Friday evening after a good wining with Sandra and I scrapped my knees off. It was truly unfortunate, because it was amongst the height of traffic and in front of a car that had stopped to let me cross. I had to wave him on, because it was going to take me sometime to pick myself up again.
It seems that my clumsy side is back in business. Let's hope it continues. It's the only matter which inspires me to turn to this blog and relay some of my happenings and thoughts lately.
Thoughts. It's October. It's unseasonably warm. My social calendar is perfectly empty until Christmas. And so, I thought I might book myself on a flight to Budapest, avoiding the toxic sludge of course. "Toxic sludge" - what a phrase. Who on earth coined it and why did it stick? Could it have been called anything else?
And quietly, down here at the end (so soon? yes, I must get into bed with book and tea), by way of explanation, I've had guests to entertain recently and they've taken my attention away from you.
Forgive me and wish me well on the roads.
Monday, 6 September 2010
6 September 2010
Time flies when you're not blogging. I've had many bloggable thoughts, but without carrying around a notebook with me, they're lost in the ether.
I used to carry a journal around with me when I realised that I couldn't go on writing all my thoughts down on post-its. I've got a wonderful post-it collection. But, one day, the post-it musings just dried up. I've collected them into my intended magnum opus which is as yet, unfinished.
It hasn't been notably busy recently. But I did manage to get along to the Glyndbourne screening down at Somerset House. They were doing the Rake's Progress. Stravinsky is very "plink, plonk". A note up here, and a note down there, and then up again perhaps... But these were the times, weren't they? The set was a Hockney creation. Perhaps you'll be shocked to know that I don't enjoy Hockney. I see what he's doing, but it reminds me of something that one can too easily write an essay at art school about and there's little flare to it.
Do I mean flare? I'm not sure I do.
Strike that. I do mean flare. I even mean the X-factor.
No, now I think I mean beauty. Don't complain to me that beauty was never the point. Why do I think that Rothko is beautiful? Boy, isn't he though?
And, once again, I was able to sit back and let some Auden swim past me. He was responsible for the libretto. The rain also swum past me, but only a little. Only enough to make my hair go curly which I can't stand. Andy and I sat on a pile of blankets eating truffles and drinking some sort of fantastically awful chocolate-bar-inspired drink which we decided to relabel Yuck. It was all bad. So bad, that it swung right back round to good through that meeting of dimensions. It's hell like that, hanging out with Andy. Hell in the sense that it swings right back around to heaven. We always eat these terrible, indulgent items that should never have been produced in the first place - not in a well-functioning society.
Recently, we've managed to replace "road futon" with some new couches. "Road" in the sense that we found it on the road and "new" in the sense that they weren't in our lounge before - they were in Darren's. And house suddenly feels like home rather than student flat. Although, we still have Johnny Cash on the wall flipping us the bird and a postcard of "farmer cat" courtesy of Chloe. This cat is simply smashed into a pair of dungarees and looks like he's been fed wholly on Yuck drinks. It's a nice touch to the decor. Thank goodness for Chloe's "LOL Cats" phase.
So now you can come around and sit on a couch, rather than starting on a couch which slowly falls apart under you until you're half sprawling on the floor. Many of you learnt to just start on the floor from the start of the evening - it being the more comfortable choice in the end. No more!
We've been playing this awful game recently. I'd call it a drinking game, but it's only association with drinking seems to be that one is only inclined to play it when drinking and one continues to drink throughout its duration. And one suffers. Not from the drinking, but from the contortion. I'm sure you've played it. The game involves a cardboard box, generally of the variety that houses beer at the beginning of the night. You cannot touch the ground, except with the soles of your feet and you must pick up the box with your teeth before ripping off a piece and throwing it back to the floor in a defiant manner.
Well, by the time this piece of box is teensy, it's quite the struggle to bend in such a fashion that will enable you to pick it up with your teeth. And you bend and then sink and suddenly, your on the floor. I suffer the next day with terrible pulled muscles in my posterior which stems from a very strong conviction that I can still gracefully sink to the floor the way I did when I was a little ballerina. I can't and it's especially not graceful. All I can say is, thank goodness for this tights-phase that the fashion is going through. I ended up handing them out to all the girls one night so that they could up their game. And then I lost. Altruism is what it is.
It's not quite the Withnail and I drinking game, is it? Probably less dangerous but also less inspired.
There's a lovely exhibition at the British Library at the moment and I would encourage you to go. It is a collection of old maps gathered from all over depicting spoils and triumphs and journeys to make the world larger. There's an incredibly big atlas. We imagined what it would be like to pull that out on the streets in place of an A to Z. It's much larger than me. And perhaps you.
The exhibition will take a mere forty minutes and is free.
I'm unsure whether I've told you that I've started running again. It's been mildly disastrous. Last Tuesday morning, as the sun rose, I tripped over again on another of those uneven paving stones and flew across the sidewalk ripping my poor hand to pieces. Poor old hand. It's taking an age to recover. Last week I had to shower in a glove. It's very hard to wash my hair in such a state and showering became an emotional experience. Finally, at the weekend, I'd given up washing altogether - too much of a chore. Such a dirty little urchin with a seething wound which wouldn't heal. But it was back to the office today so I picked myself up, I even hit the pavements again, more carefully this time, washed myself off and I'm almost whole again. They say that you should always get back on the horse, but I resent this feeling that I have that I will inevitably end up on the pavement again hardly knowing how bad it shall be next time...
It's autumn now. Definitely autumn. This is fine. I like the feeling of winter coming although it turns me upside down a little because my mind still responds as if it's April. I shan't be buying a new coat this year and will have to make do with whatever is in the wardrobe. If only I had a kind benefactor who would buy me a coat. I insist on buying these silly Vogue magazines and seeing all the lovely fashions that other people will be wearing. How nice for them.
Back to autumn, and we are planning an outing to the beach, having not seen one in quite some time. We've settled on Margate of which I've heard good things. And what of the weather, really. An outing is an outing, whatever the weather. If we end up sheltering in a stale pub playing scrabble and watching the rain, it is the good intentions that will make the day. I think we'll take one of those exorbitantly priced trains that they run.
I'm in the middle of putting together a batch of blueberry muffins. They have buttermilk in them. I always think of Charlotte's Web when I'm confronted with buttermilk. The farmer's wife washed the pig in buttermilk and he came up so shiny and won the show. And then they didn't eat him. A fair is a veritable smorgasbord, my friend... but a pig, covered in lashings of buttermilk, is not.
I take my leave and return to the muffins.
I used to carry a journal around with me when I realised that I couldn't go on writing all my thoughts down on post-its. I've got a wonderful post-it collection. But, one day, the post-it musings just dried up. I've collected them into my intended magnum opus which is as yet, unfinished.
It hasn't been notably busy recently. But I did manage to get along to the Glyndbourne screening down at Somerset House. They were doing the Rake's Progress. Stravinsky is very "plink, plonk". A note up here, and a note down there, and then up again perhaps... But these were the times, weren't they? The set was a Hockney creation. Perhaps you'll be shocked to know that I don't enjoy Hockney. I see what he's doing, but it reminds me of something that one can too easily write an essay at art school about and there's little flare to it.
Do I mean flare? I'm not sure I do.
Strike that. I do mean flare. I even mean the X-factor.
No, now I think I mean beauty. Don't complain to me that beauty was never the point. Why do I think that Rothko is beautiful? Boy, isn't he though?
And, once again, I was able to sit back and let some Auden swim past me. He was responsible for the libretto. The rain also swum past me, but only a little. Only enough to make my hair go curly which I can't stand. Andy and I sat on a pile of blankets eating truffles and drinking some sort of fantastically awful chocolate-bar-inspired drink which we decided to relabel Yuck. It was all bad. So bad, that it swung right back round to good through that meeting of dimensions. It's hell like that, hanging out with Andy. Hell in the sense that it swings right back around to heaven. We always eat these terrible, indulgent items that should never have been produced in the first place - not in a well-functioning society.
Recently, we've managed to replace "road futon" with some new couches. "Road" in the sense that we found it on the road and "new" in the sense that they weren't in our lounge before - they were in Darren's. And house suddenly feels like home rather than student flat. Although, we still have Johnny Cash on the wall flipping us the bird and a postcard of "farmer cat" courtesy of Chloe. This cat is simply smashed into a pair of dungarees and looks like he's been fed wholly on Yuck drinks. It's a nice touch to the decor. Thank goodness for Chloe's "LOL Cats" phase.
So now you can come around and sit on a couch, rather than starting on a couch which slowly falls apart under you until you're half sprawling on the floor. Many of you learnt to just start on the floor from the start of the evening - it being the more comfortable choice in the end. No more!
We've been playing this awful game recently. I'd call it a drinking game, but it's only association with drinking seems to be that one is only inclined to play it when drinking and one continues to drink throughout its duration. And one suffers. Not from the drinking, but from the contortion. I'm sure you've played it. The game involves a cardboard box, generally of the variety that houses beer at the beginning of the night. You cannot touch the ground, except with the soles of your feet and you must pick up the box with your teeth before ripping off a piece and throwing it back to the floor in a defiant manner.
Well, by the time this piece of box is teensy, it's quite the struggle to bend in such a fashion that will enable you to pick it up with your teeth. And you bend and then sink and suddenly, your on the floor. I suffer the next day with terrible pulled muscles in my posterior which stems from a very strong conviction that I can still gracefully sink to the floor the way I did when I was a little ballerina. I can't and it's especially not graceful. All I can say is, thank goodness for this tights-phase that the fashion is going through. I ended up handing them out to all the girls one night so that they could up their game. And then I lost. Altruism is what it is.
It's not quite the Withnail and I drinking game, is it? Probably less dangerous but also less inspired.
There's a lovely exhibition at the British Library at the moment and I would encourage you to go. It is a collection of old maps gathered from all over depicting spoils and triumphs and journeys to make the world larger. There's an incredibly big atlas. We imagined what it would be like to pull that out on the streets in place of an A to Z. It's much larger than me. And perhaps you.
The exhibition will take a mere forty minutes and is free.
I'm unsure whether I've told you that I've started running again. It's been mildly disastrous. Last Tuesday morning, as the sun rose, I tripped over again on another of those uneven paving stones and flew across the sidewalk ripping my poor hand to pieces. Poor old hand. It's taking an age to recover. Last week I had to shower in a glove. It's very hard to wash my hair in such a state and showering became an emotional experience. Finally, at the weekend, I'd given up washing altogether - too much of a chore. Such a dirty little urchin with a seething wound which wouldn't heal. But it was back to the office today so I picked myself up, I even hit the pavements again, more carefully this time, washed myself off and I'm almost whole again. They say that you should always get back on the horse, but I resent this feeling that I have that I will inevitably end up on the pavement again hardly knowing how bad it shall be next time...
It's autumn now. Definitely autumn. This is fine. I like the feeling of winter coming although it turns me upside down a little because my mind still responds as if it's April. I shan't be buying a new coat this year and will have to make do with whatever is in the wardrobe. If only I had a kind benefactor who would buy me a coat. I insist on buying these silly Vogue magazines and seeing all the lovely fashions that other people will be wearing. How nice for them.
Back to autumn, and we are planning an outing to the beach, having not seen one in quite some time. We've settled on Margate of which I've heard good things. And what of the weather, really. An outing is an outing, whatever the weather. If we end up sheltering in a stale pub playing scrabble and watching the rain, it is the good intentions that will make the day. I think we'll take one of those exorbitantly priced trains that they run.
I'm in the middle of putting together a batch of blueberry muffins. They have buttermilk in them. I always think of Charlotte's Web when I'm confronted with buttermilk. The farmer's wife washed the pig in buttermilk and he came up so shiny and won the show. And then they didn't eat him. A fair is a veritable smorgasbord, my friend... but a pig, covered in lashings of buttermilk, is not.
I take my leave and return to the muffins.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
14 August 2010
I like a good Saturday morning blogathon. I put on some good Saturday morning, preparing for the weekend music, like Passion Pit, and write away. Actually, this may turn out to be a short one because I'm just about to pick up the paint brushes again. It's a rainy day outside, which I think will make the paint already on the canvass rather more moist and easier to work with.
I've been duly chastised for not updating my blog enough. I promise I'll try harder.
I popped to the theatre this week to see Jeff Goldblum in The Prisoner of Second Avenue. It's a sweet, querky little script. Why does it remind me of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?? It's much tamer. And it ends on an up-note. I shrug. Perhaps he's a fan of Albee.
After the theatre, we made our way to that fantastic little cellar bar under the Embankment tube. Gordon's? I think that's the name. Whilst my associate was off at the bar, an odd American man with a large smile came up to me and produced a handkerchief from thin air.
"Would you like to see another one?" I nodded. He then made the handkerchief disappear and sat down to show me a card trick. Mine was the seven of hearts. He lay the pack against the salt shaker and my card, all of its own accord, raised itself from the pack. I was more than tickled at this display.
He shook my hand and was off before my associate returned. Was it a dream? It was terribly surreal. I love a good magician.
Yesterday, I booked my flights to New York. I'm joining Penny and Dianne for Christmas and New Years in the Big Apple. I've just flicked through my Lonely Planet which I bought for that fateful trip to Coachella, and I'm starting to get excited. New York makes me think of Patti Smith and the MoMA and the Statten Island ferry. I want to eat a bagel and bring back an I heart NY t-shirt. It's nice to be a tourist.
But that is the future and too far away. In the present, I've just finished tarting up my toenails in readiness for the cocktail party at my boss' house tonight up in Crouch End. The weather is frightful, but so long as my hair stays straight, it will be great fun. This is an excuse to put on that dress that I reserve for the races and weddings... I'm not sure that I'm happy attending horse races. It doesn't sit too well with my conscience. What do you think?
When I went to Ascot last year, one of the horses had a nasty fall. I didn't place a bet. In my style, I knocked over half a bottle of rather expensive champagne. It was particularly fraught.
Weddings on the other hand. My favourite kind of event. What with the dancing and the drinking. Did I mention the dancing? I love dancing. And then there's the love. It's all so nice. I want to go to more weddings. I went to one in Winchester with Jon last year and I pulled out the dress. I must have been the first one up on the dance floor. I was certainly the last one.
I can't see any weddings on the horizon at present.
A man propositioned me this morning outside the supermarket. It's nice to feel desirable, but this was the Big Issue seller. Go on, laugh away. I spent the walk home wondering what would happen if I'd agreed to go out for coffee with him. Well, certainly I'd be buying. What could he do? Use his morning's takings? What a thought.
I'm teasing! Of course I wouldn't go on a coffee date with the Big Issue man who ostensibly wants me to be his. He says as much every Saturday morning. Gasp! I will buy his magazine though. I didn't quite have the change today, so another shopper helped top me up with the difference and I walked away with a magazine that I didn't want and has been caste atop my bed to join the mail which I'll be recycling. Production and demand - I hate to perpetuate it.
I've just finished another Hesse. Have you read Hesse? This was Rosshalde. What a depressing book. I know Steppenwolf can have such an effect that you might want to lie in a warm bath with a razor, but this takes the cake. Oh, I know. Stop protesting. It's all allegorical. The book, that is. No one is drawing a bath.
I haven't had a bath in eons. But with our plumbing, I do believe that it's out of the question.
I've been duly chastised for not updating my blog enough. I promise I'll try harder.
I popped to the theatre this week to see Jeff Goldblum in The Prisoner of Second Avenue. It's a sweet, querky little script. Why does it remind me of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?? It's much tamer. And it ends on an up-note. I shrug. Perhaps he's a fan of Albee.
After the theatre, we made our way to that fantastic little cellar bar under the Embankment tube. Gordon's? I think that's the name. Whilst my associate was off at the bar, an odd American man with a large smile came up to me and produced a handkerchief from thin air.
"Would you like to see another one?" I nodded. He then made the handkerchief disappear and sat down to show me a card trick. Mine was the seven of hearts. He lay the pack against the salt shaker and my card, all of its own accord, raised itself from the pack. I was more than tickled at this display.
He shook my hand and was off before my associate returned. Was it a dream? It was terribly surreal. I love a good magician.
Yesterday, I booked my flights to New York. I'm joining Penny and Dianne for Christmas and New Years in the Big Apple. I've just flicked through my Lonely Planet which I bought for that fateful trip to Coachella, and I'm starting to get excited. New York makes me think of Patti Smith and the MoMA and the Statten Island ferry. I want to eat a bagel and bring back an I heart NY t-shirt. It's nice to be a tourist.
But that is the future and too far away. In the present, I've just finished tarting up my toenails in readiness for the cocktail party at my boss' house tonight up in Crouch End. The weather is frightful, but so long as my hair stays straight, it will be great fun. This is an excuse to put on that dress that I reserve for the races and weddings... I'm not sure that I'm happy attending horse races. It doesn't sit too well with my conscience. What do you think?
When I went to Ascot last year, one of the horses had a nasty fall. I didn't place a bet. In my style, I knocked over half a bottle of rather expensive champagne. It was particularly fraught.
Weddings on the other hand. My favourite kind of event. What with the dancing and the drinking. Did I mention the dancing? I love dancing. And then there's the love. It's all so nice. I want to go to more weddings. I went to one in Winchester with Jon last year and I pulled out the dress. I must have been the first one up on the dance floor. I was certainly the last one.
I can't see any weddings on the horizon at present.
A man propositioned me this morning outside the supermarket. It's nice to feel desirable, but this was the Big Issue seller. Go on, laugh away. I spent the walk home wondering what would happen if I'd agreed to go out for coffee with him. Well, certainly I'd be buying. What could he do? Use his morning's takings? What a thought.
I'm teasing! Of course I wouldn't go on a coffee date with the Big Issue man who ostensibly wants me to be his. He says as much every Saturday morning. Gasp! I will buy his magazine though. I didn't quite have the change today, so another shopper helped top me up with the difference and I walked away with a magazine that I didn't want and has been caste atop my bed to join the mail which I'll be recycling. Production and demand - I hate to perpetuate it.
I've just finished another Hesse. Have you read Hesse? This was Rosshalde. What a depressing book. I know Steppenwolf can have such an effect that you might want to lie in a warm bath with a razor, but this takes the cake. Oh, I know. Stop protesting. It's all allegorical. The book, that is. No one is drawing a bath.
I haven't had a bath in eons. But with our plumbing, I do believe that it's out of the question.
Monday, 9 August 2010
9 August 2010
I took a little tour around the Olympic sight this weekend. Nicholas signed us up to be taken about the place to see the developments and hear a little of the history and the future plans and these kinds of things. It's looking great and the plans to be look truly magnificent. I would recommend that everyone takes the time to do it. And how nice is it to be out and about on a Saturday morning in a new part of the city.
I've been down that way before. When I first arrived in London we were seriously considering taking a nice house in Bow which is very much up and coming now but back then was a bit of a fright. In the end we decided that the walk to the tube was a little too far and it was through a lot of estate parks which were mildly unsavoury. Why then did we choose White City which posed the same problems? It can be hard to get the work/house balance right when first settling in a new city. You need to know that you have the employment to fund the rent and that you can commute to work easily and so on. I did not get it right. But it was on account of my deference. I am actually quite a deferential soul, although you might jump to exclaim that I'm not. In this decision, I was at least.
Our house was a half hour commute across London to get to the train station which took me out to Chelmsford. The whole journey was pushing two hours each way. Oh my stars, I look back and wonder how on earth I managed it. And to travel so far to get to Chelmsford of all places. Did you know what Mr Dickens said of Chelmsford? "If any one were to ask me what in my opinion was the dullest and most stupid spot on the face of the Earth, I should decidedly say Chelmsford." Well, I might agree with him. If you ever find yourself there, I urge you to get straight back onto the train.
Having said that, I remember the lovely butcher there at the markets who let me try all the different types of ham that I might order in readiness for our hotchpotch Christmas that year where we cobbled together a family out of very little and drank champagne for breakfast and ate Chelmsford ham. It was good ham. I remember my colleagues. Korah was on some fantastic diet where she was allowed to drink this powdered muck three times a day. She did lose the weight. I wonder if she's kept it off. John remonstrated when I said summer takes place in December in New Zealand. "You mean winter!" he cried. "No, no, I'm quite sure that is the way the seasons work on the other side of the equator, John."
"Oh, yes." Then a pause for thought. "Oh, yes of course."
It's hard to consider a world outside Essex.
So, whilst out in the Pudding Mill area, we took the train one stop to Stratford. It'll be such a monstrosity with the new Westfield mall. They had designs for it back when I used to get stuck there because the train would terminate early for engineering works or suicides... I never left the station.
But one must leave the station, of course! Saturday morning in Stratford is a thing of charm and vibrancy. Walking through that mall with myriad forms of Poundland-type shops and market stalls spilling through the centre selling everything from bedsheets to whelks - rather unwholesome looking whelks, mind... yes, just too charming. We found a little greasy spoon down the way and popped in for some baked potato goodness.
Yesterday I made an apple pie with blueberries. How homely. And we chose the best kind of apple pie music to accompany it. Daddy always used to put on "dinner music" for our nightly family dinners when I was young. It was generally something from the Romantics... a little Debussy. Sometimes a bit of Schumann. Apple pie called for some Johnny Cash couples with Creedence Clearwater followed by some Gram Parsons. Is that what you'd choose? Add some vanilla ice-cream into the mix and you've got yourself a postcard.
I'm listening to Tom Waits. This is good blog music, I think. It reminds me that I haven't bought the strings for my guitar yet. Especially because he's playing Gin Soaked Boy right now. Incidentally, I'll also need one of those mechanisms that wind them on. I'm not too hot on guitar paraphernalia yet. Give me time. I'll be a rock and roll suicide - just you wait and see. Or a folk suicide.
It was a lonely, old day today without my work wife in the office. She did send me a few emails over the course of the day to remind me that she was thinking of me. She'd even left a banana on my desk. My colleagues tease us because we're quite inseparable. What do you expect when you throw us into an office alone together? Of course this engenders a special bond. They're all horribly jealous, I'm sure.
She's back tomorrow. A longer separation than that is quite unbearable.
I've been down that way before. When I first arrived in London we were seriously considering taking a nice house in Bow which is very much up and coming now but back then was a bit of a fright. In the end we decided that the walk to the tube was a little too far and it was through a lot of estate parks which were mildly unsavoury. Why then did we choose White City which posed the same problems? It can be hard to get the work/house balance right when first settling in a new city. You need to know that you have the employment to fund the rent and that you can commute to work easily and so on. I did not get it right. But it was on account of my deference. I am actually quite a deferential soul, although you might jump to exclaim that I'm not. In this decision, I was at least.
Our house was a half hour commute across London to get to the train station which took me out to Chelmsford. The whole journey was pushing two hours each way. Oh my stars, I look back and wonder how on earth I managed it. And to travel so far to get to Chelmsford of all places. Did you know what Mr Dickens said of Chelmsford? "If any one were to ask me what in my opinion was the dullest and most stupid spot on the face of the Earth, I should decidedly say Chelmsford." Well, I might agree with him. If you ever find yourself there, I urge you to get straight back onto the train.
Having said that, I remember the lovely butcher there at the markets who let me try all the different types of ham that I might order in readiness for our hotchpotch Christmas that year where we cobbled together a family out of very little and drank champagne for breakfast and ate Chelmsford ham. It was good ham. I remember my colleagues. Korah was on some fantastic diet where she was allowed to drink this powdered muck three times a day. She did lose the weight. I wonder if she's kept it off. John remonstrated when I said summer takes place in December in New Zealand. "You mean winter!" he cried. "No, no, I'm quite sure that is the way the seasons work on the other side of the equator, John."
"Oh, yes." Then a pause for thought. "Oh, yes of course."
It's hard to consider a world outside Essex.
So, whilst out in the Pudding Mill area, we took the train one stop to Stratford. It'll be such a monstrosity with the new Westfield mall. They had designs for it back when I used to get stuck there because the train would terminate early for engineering works or suicides... I never left the station.
But one must leave the station, of course! Saturday morning in Stratford is a thing of charm and vibrancy. Walking through that mall with myriad forms of Poundland-type shops and market stalls spilling through the centre selling everything from bedsheets to whelks - rather unwholesome looking whelks, mind... yes, just too charming. We found a little greasy spoon down the way and popped in for some baked potato goodness.
Yesterday I made an apple pie with blueberries. How homely. And we chose the best kind of apple pie music to accompany it. Daddy always used to put on "dinner music" for our nightly family dinners when I was young. It was generally something from the Romantics... a little Debussy. Sometimes a bit of Schumann. Apple pie called for some Johnny Cash couples with Creedence Clearwater followed by some Gram Parsons. Is that what you'd choose? Add some vanilla ice-cream into the mix and you've got yourself a postcard.
I'm listening to Tom Waits. This is good blog music, I think. It reminds me that I haven't bought the strings for my guitar yet. Especially because he's playing Gin Soaked Boy right now. Incidentally, I'll also need one of those mechanisms that wind them on. I'm not too hot on guitar paraphernalia yet. Give me time. I'll be a rock and roll suicide - just you wait and see. Or a folk suicide.
It was a lonely, old day today without my work wife in the office. She did send me a few emails over the course of the day to remind me that she was thinking of me. She'd even left a banana on my desk. My colleagues tease us because we're quite inseparable. What do you expect when you throw us into an office alone together? Of course this engenders a special bond. They're all horribly jealous, I'm sure.
She's back tomorrow. A longer separation than that is quite unbearable.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
1 August 2010
Oh, Blogosphere, where does the time go? What have we been doing with it? Clearly, we haven't been doing it together. I caste my mind back over the last week or so and I piece together a couple of interesting affairs and I would like to spread forth for you here.
Firstly, Nicholas is now engaged in the employment with one of the London boroughs and he came home with an extremely intriguing story about a piece of software which is used in local government and which gathers data from news reports and council tax information and presumably other sources that I can't fathom and applies some equally unfathomable algorithm to characterise particular postcodes, right down to the specific household. The benefit of this is found in the delivering of services and probably also could be found in marketing and other such things...
Well, can you believe it, he typed in our postcode and what bounced back at him but the fact that we are young, well-educated professionals, who have a tendency to excessive drinking and smoking! But isn't that just exactly who we are at our least profound level? It really hits you... goodness, one says, that is me! I've just had the mirror held up. And do I like what I see? I would never have described myself like that but now that I think about it... How entirely apt.
And who are you then? Take some time to reflect... Are you a blue-collar worker with a young family? The people to the left of our flat could be characterised in such a manner. Are you a single middle-aged female with two teenage boys who will leave home soon but in the meantime they have a sneaky smoke in your unkempt garden when you're out of the house? That's the woman below us. Or are you a freaky Big Brother type who sits at their computer and crunches the numbers that pop out of the software that tells you who people are and what they're likely to do next? That's Nicholas now then, isn't it.
Which brings me to my next point. I've been ordering the Terry Gilliam's on Love Film recently. Why do I insist on watching his back-catalogue when I know that I dislike him as a director? I happened into a conversation with a young Hungarian man at Koko on Friday - what an odd predicament - in which we discussed why I have such a dislike for Gilliam and, incidentally, also Lynch. I do like Kubrick. I'm not going to lay my thoughts about Lynch down for you, suffice to say that the Hungarian and I agreed to disagree, and I was saved from continuing the conversation by his drunken brother falling through the crowd toward us in his awful jeans up to his shoulders and what can only be described as a swanndri - positively gasp! This Hungarian's brother then pulled himself up onto a post and sat there like a golden buddha, swaying softly to the tune of his own drunkenness and presiding over the roof terrace... Where am I going with this...
So, I watched Brazil. What a movie. Jade and I had a lovely meal of melon and grilled halloumi which are good friends and settled in to what we assumed would be another example of clunky script and fantastical landscapes thrown together in a disjointed way. Such is my opinion of Gilliam's films. But, surprise, it was not that at all! Being one of his earlier films, it was quite alright. And Gilliam appears to be a seer. He describes almost exactly what the current bureaucratic regime is. It's the same regime that makes me a glorified paper pusher in the local government machine. Our postcode software fits his comment well. It's a classic and rightly so. If you do decide to see it, don't, what ever you do, get the director's cut. Too indulgent for words, Mr Gilliam. For shame.
Last night, Jesse celebrated his thirtieth birthday down in the Shepherd's Bush. He and Nicola live in a converted mansion block with one of those old elevators behind the cages that you pull across. What a delight. Nicola had organised a little surprise party. And she'd baked a cake! Oh, it was nice. We all went into Soho to the Comedy Club and the highlight of the evening was Shazia Mizra. I laughed until I cried. But it was only the highlight by a small margin on account of the fact that Nicola had purchased one of those great big rockets which blows confetti all over everything! They're brilliant. A must have at any party, I should think. Rockets and Shazia... Nicola throws a good party.
There was a little flooding on the York Way last week. The rain hurled itself out of the sky that day like one of those tropical thunderstorms and so my beautician had to shut themselves down for the afternoon on account of the risk of electrocution. If this is the effect of global warming, I'm downright incensed. London's storm water system coupled with heavy downpours will have everyone frying in their basements.
I rebooked with the same outfit in Holborn, but the change ruffled me. The woman in King's Cross doesn't speak with me except to exchange niceties at the beginning and end. I don't believe that we have anything to say to each other so why would engage in conversation. Well, the Holborn beautician is just lovely but she talks and so I talk and we really shouldn't bother because we both have these thick accents - I believe that she's Romanian - and we both have a tendency to speak fast. By the end we're just nodding and smiling at each other's comments because it's the safest way forward... She really could be talking about anything from ingrown hairs to the state of the economy and I wouldn't have a clue.
I'm listening to the Velvet Underground. I was listening to Joanna Newsom but I had to turn her off because she was hurting my head which is delicate on account of last night festivities. Sigh. I do like Joanna. I wish she wouldn't screech at me so.
I'm reading Ford Maddox Ford, that smelly old drunk, I love him to bits! It's nice to read a book that you can giggle the whole way through. This made me laugh:
"Do you know the story? Las Tours of the Four Castles had for chatelaine Blanche Somebody-or-other who was called as a term of commendation, La Louve--the She-Wolf. And Peire Vidal the Troubadour paid his court to La Louve. And she wouldn't have anything to do with him. So, out of compliment to her--the things people do when they're in love!--he dressed himself up in wolfskins and went up into the Black Mountains. And the shepherds of the Montagne Noire and their dogs mistook him for a wolf and he was torn with the fangs and beaten with clubs. So they carried him back to Las Tours and La Louve wasn't at all impressed. They polished him up and her husband remonstrated seriously with her. Vidal was, you see, a great poet and it was not proper to treat a great poet with indifference.
So Peire Vidal declared himself Emperor of Jerusalem or somewhere and the husband had to kneel down and kiss his feet though La Louve wouldn't. And Peire set sail in a rowing boat with four companions to redeem the Holy Sepulchre. And they struck on a rock somewhere, and, at great expense, the husband had to fit out an expedition to fetch him back. And Peire Vidal fell all over the Lady's bed while the husband, who was a most ferocious warrior, remonstrated some more about the courtesy that is due to great poets. But I suppose La Louve was the more ferocious of the two. Anyhow, that is all that came of it. Isn't that a story?" - The Good Soldier
Oh, I almost forgot! I've made a decision. I'm going to become a folk singer. Thank you for all your input over the last few weeks as to what my new hobby should be. Although, you didn't suggest folk singing, I think I'll give it a try. The next step is to tune up that guitar in the lounge and revisit some of the basic chords because I'll need something to do with my hands whilst I'm on stage. I'll be auditioning lead guitar and might consider forming a full band of keyboard, bass and drums. You can log your interest with me. It would also be helpful if you have a bit of songwriting talent, because I'm not sure that I do myself.
Nicholas suggests that I should form a folk/funk fusion band. Nicholas says a lot of things. Things that you can safely disregard. Last night, I told him that I thought "Richard" is a nice name. He disagreed and explained that it's not a nice name on account of the fact that it doesn't splice nicely with his own name, that is "Nichard". His reasoning is surreal.
But it's this surreal mind that has come up with the very sensible idea of making a batch of pizza dough this afternoon and throwing together some culinary delights of the Italian ilk to be accompanied by a nice bottle of red. Well, doesn't that just sound like a nice Sunday afternoon?
And so, I sign off again, until anon.
Firstly, Nicholas is now engaged in the employment with one of the London boroughs and he came home with an extremely intriguing story about a piece of software which is used in local government and which gathers data from news reports and council tax information and presumably other sources that I can't fathom and applies some equally unfathomable algorithm to characterise particular postcodes, right down to the specific household. The benefit of this is found in the delivering of services and probably also could be found in marketing and other such things...
Well, can you believe it, he typed in our postcode and what bounced back at him but the fact that we are young, well-educated professionals, who have a tendency to excessive drinking and smoking! But isn't that just exactly who we are at our least profound level? It really hits you... goodness, one says, that is me! I've just had the mirror held up. And do I like what I see? I would never have described myself like that but now that I think about it... How entirely apt.
And who are you then? Take some time to reflect... Are you a blue-collar worker with a young family? The people to the left of our flat could be characterised in such a manner. Are you a single middle-aged female with two teenage boys who will leave home soon but in the meantime they have a sneaky smoke in your unkempt garden when you're out of the house? That's the woman below us. Or are you a freaky Big Brother type who sits at their computer and crunches the numbers that pop out of the software that tells you who people are and what they're likely to do next? That's Nicholas now then, isn't it.
Which brings me to my next point. I've been ordering the Terry Gilliam's on Love Film recently. Why do I insist on watching his back-catalogue when I know that I dislike him as a director? I happened into a conversation with a young Hungarian man at Koko on Friday - what an odd predicament - in which we discussed why I have such a dislike for Gilliam and, incidentally, also Lynch. I do like Kubrick. I'm not going to lay my thoughts about Lynch down for you, suffice to say that the Hungarian and I agreed to disagree, and I was saved from continuing the conversation by his drunken brother falling through the crowd toward us in his awful jeans up to his shoulders and what can only be described as a swanndri - positively gasp! This Hungarian's brother then pulled himself up onto a post and sat there like a golden buddha, swaying softly to the tune of his own drunkenness and presiding over the roof terrace... Where am I going with this...
So, I watched Brazil. What a movie. Jade and I had a lovely meal of melon and grilled halloumi which are good friends and settled in to what we assumed would be another example of clunky script and fantastical landscapes thrown together in a disjointed way. Such is my opinion of Gilliam's films. But, surprise, it was not that at all! Being one of his earlier films, it was quite alright. And Gilliam appears to be a seer. He describes almost exactly what the current bureaucratic regime is. It's the same regime that makes me a glorified paper pusher in the local government machine. Our postcode software fits his comment well. It's a classic and rightly so. If you do decide to see it, don't, what ever you do, get the director's cut. Too indulgent for words, Mr Gilliam. For shame.
Last night, Jesse celebrated his thirtieth birthday down in the Shepherd's Bush. He and Nicola live in a converted mansion block with one of those old elevators behind the cages that you pull across. What a delight. Nicola had organised a little surprise party. And she'd baked a cake! Oh, it was nice. We all went into Soho to the Comedy Club and the highlight of the evening was Shazia Mizra. I laughed until I cried. But it was only the highlight by a small margin on account of the fact that Nicola had purchased one of those great big rockets which blows confetti all over everything! They're brilliant. A must have at any party, I should think. Rockets and Shazia... Nicola throws a good party.
There was a little flooding on the York Way last week. The rain hurled itself out of the sky that day like one of those tropical thunderstorms and so my beautician had to shut themselves down for the afternoon on account of the risk of electrocution. If this is the effect of global warming, I'm downright incensed. London's storm water system coupled with heavy downpours will have everyone frying in their basements.
I rebooked with the same outfit in Holborn, but the change ruffled me. The woman in King's Cross doesn't speak with me except to exchange niceties at the beginning and end. I don't believe that we have anything to say to each other so why would engage in conversation. Well, the Holborn beautician is just lovely but she talks and so I talk and we really shouldn't bother because we both have these thick accents - I believe that she's Romanian - and we both have a tendency to speak fast. By the end we're just nodding and smiling at each other's comments because it's the safest way forward... She really could be talking about anything from ingrown hairs to the state of the economy and I wouldn't have a clue.
I'm listening to the Velvet Underground. I was listening to Joanna Newsom but I had to turn her off because she was hurting my head which is delicate on account of last night festivities. Sigh. I do like Joanna. I wish she wouldn't screech at me so.
I'm reading Ford Maddox Ford, that smelly old drunk, I love him to bits! It's nice to read a book that you can giggle the whole way through. This made me laugh:
"Do you know the story? Las Tours of the Four Castles had for chatelaine Blanche Somebody-or-other who was called as a term of commendation, La Louve--the She-Wolf. And Peire Vidal the Troubadour paid his court to La Louve. And she wouldn't have anything to do with him. So, out of compliment to her--the things people do when they're in love!--he dressed himself up in wolfskins and went up into the Black Mountains. And the shepherds of the Montagne Noire and their dogs mistook him for a wolf and he was torn with the fangs and beaten with clubs. So they carried him back to Las Tours and La Louve wasn't at all impressed. They polished him up and her husband remonstrated seriously with her. Vidal was, you see, a great poet and it was not proper to treat a great poet with indifference.
So Peire Vidal declared himself Emperor of Jerusalem or somewhere and the husband had to kneel down and kiss his feet though La Louve wouldn't. And Peire set sail in a rowing boat with four companions to redeem the Holy Sepulchre. And they struck on a rock somewhere, and, at great expense, the husband had to fit out an expedition to fetch him back. And Peire Vidal fell all over the Lady's bed while the husband, who was a most ferocious warrior, remonstrated some more about the courtesy that is due to great poets. But I suppose La Louve was the more ferocious of the two. Anyhow, that is all that came of it. Isn't that a story?" - The Good Soldier
Oh, I almost forgot! I've made a decision. I'm going to become a folk singer. Thank you for all your input over the last few weeks as to what my new hobby should be. Although, you didn't suggest folk singing, I think I'll give it a try. The next step is to tune up that guitar in the lounge and revisit some of the basic chords because I'll need something to do with my hands whilst I'm on stage. I'll be auditioning lead guitar and might consider forming a full band of keyboard, bass and drums. You can log your interest with me. It would also be helpful if you have a bit of songwriting talent, because I'm not sure that I do myself.
Nicholas suggests that I should form a folk/funk fusion band. Nicholas says a lot of things. Things that you can safely disregard. Last night, I told him that I thought "Richard" is a nice name. He disagreed and explained that it's not a nice name on account of the fact that it doesn't splice nicely with his own name, that is "Nichard". His reasoning is surreal.
But it's this surreal mind that has come up with the very sensible idea of making a batch of pizza dough this afternoon and throwing together some culinary delights of the Italian ilk to be accompanied by a nice bottle of red. Well, doesn't that just sound like a nice Sunday afternoon?
And so, I sign off again, until anon.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
17 July 2010
It's the seventeenth! I've just turned the page on my St Columbans Mission Society calendar twice because it was still on May. It's almost as if June never happened. My calendar is great because it tells me all the feast days. Daddy buys me one every year from St Patrick's shop. Yesterday was "Our Lady of Mt Carmel" and it was a day of penance. However, it feels more like a day of penance today because I'm currently paying my dues for last night.
I behaved rather frightfully and looking back I think I can draw a lesson from it - the lesson being that I shouldn't start drinking immediately afterwork on a Friday. It's a hard rule to follow when you work with such brilliant and fun women who have a taste for wine. I'm blessed really. Or cursed. I really don't know from which angle to look at it.
Today, I feel less than healthy and I'm pleased that the sun isn't shining too much because I'd feel compelled to go out to see it. The summer has been so nice, the feelings that it gives rise to are reminiscent of those that one had years ago. These good summer odes are associated with being in New Zealand in my mind and I feel the odd pang of regret that I'm not there. Silly really - it's wintertime in the antipodes and the grass is not as green. Last year I felt this way and booked a flight back, didn't I? What a mad cow... chasing a whim, seizing a feeling, throwing caution to the wind and tossing the money after it with too much insouciance to seem to be a reasonable being at all. How anarchic.
There is a football game afoot this afternoon. Shall I go and watch? I'd say it will be more interesting than the World Cup final. Hopefully I'll see some histrionics and a bit of rough and tumble. It's taking place in our local park which is called Paradise. I've never been, but I'll report back to you on the quality of the ambrosia and the adeptness of the punkah wallahs.
Or I could stay here, watch the minutes tick by, read a little, make some tea perhaps ... that does sound like a good Saturday. Perhaps I'll even take hold of that paintbrush there to pass the time. Speaking of time, tomorrow is the sixteenth Sunday in ordinary time...
My thanks to the Mission for keeping me informed of this.
I behaved rather frightfully and looking back I think I can draw a lesson from it - the lesson being that I shouldn't start drinking immediately afterwork on a Friday. It's a hard rule to follow when you work with such brilliant and fun women who have a taste for wine. I'm blessed really. Or cursed. I really don't know from which angle to look at it.
Today, I feel less than healthy and I'm pleased that the sun isn't shining too much because I'd feel compelled to go out to see it. The summer has been so nice, the feelings that it gives rise to are reminiscent of those that one had years ago. These good summer odes are associated with being in New Zealand in my mind and I feel the odd pang of regret that I'm not there. Silly really - it's wintertime in the antipodes and the grass is not as green. Last year I felt this way and booked a flight back, didn't I? What a mad cow... chasing a whim, seizing a feeling, throwing caution to the wind and tossing the money after it with too much insouciance to seem to be a reasonable being at all. How anarchic.
There is a football game afoot this afternoon. Shall I go and watch? I'd say it will be more interesting than the World Cup final. Hopefully I'll see some histrionics and a bit of rough and tumble. It's taking place in our local park which is called Paradise. I've never been, but I'll report back to you on the quality of the ambrosia and the adeptness of the punkah wallahs.
Or I could stay here, watch the minutes tick by, read a little, make some tea perhaps ... that does sound like a good Saturday. Perhaps I'll even take hold of that paintbrush there to pass the time. Speaking of time, tomorrow is the sixteenth Sunday in ordinary time...
My thanks to the Mission for keeping me informed of this.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
10 July 2010
Hello sunshine, and hello to you, readership. It's just the most darling day outside and here I sit in the sun, in the lounge, having dissembled laptop from all its various appliances that it's linked too, in order to write you a note. It's actually so nice outside, that a little tear forms in the corner of the eye...
Or perhaps I should put that down to the Iron and Wine that I'm listening to. Or to the couple of pints of Guinness that I've put away here by myself. The effect of them is ever so much more potent because there are no carbohydrates in the house. Who needs carbohydration? I, for one, assuredly do not.
And how have I been making the most of this divine weather? Why, by accomplishing chores, of course. Oh, cleaning products, how I've missed you - it's been too long! Not to mention the fact that the house was a sty. An absolute sty... We should be ashamed...
But, we're not. With such a lovely summer, how could we stay at home and clean? If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I am a little demon. No, WAS a little demon. Now, the house is so clean, I might as well sprout some feathered wings. Just like Nights at the Circus. Oh, that was a good book. You haven't read it? Criminal.
Recent events could be summed up in a word... wine. Nicholas and I have been hosting a familial house guest and seem to be going to great lengths to demonstrate how insouciant we can be about sleep and sobriety. But, we're young, no?
No. Probably not. But I was asked for ID at Waitrose today. I could be seventeen? Again, probably not. The nice looking young man behind me let out a little laugh of surprise when the assistant asked me for proof of my elderliness. Up turns to down so thick and fast, it's hard to stay on an even keel sometimes.
Back at the house, it's an afternoon of The Guardian and steak and my aforemtnioned "Saturday playlist". And yes, that's right - I bought meat. Following which, I cooked it and I ate it. Depending on your definition of normalcy, I might be returning to a sense of it.
...
I've just taken a pause to put on a new load of washing and lost my train. More of a fog, than a train, upon reflection. Like a swamp. Cixous, one of the great proponents of French thought in the last century, discussed the feminine in terms of swamps as a contrasting type to the patriarchal phallus. I'm quite the fan of her writing. Have you read her?
This week saw the sale of my Latitude tickets. It was emotional. I guess that, apart from the obvious loss of the opportunity to see B & S and enjoy the festival atmosphere, it was a reminder of another loss that I've had of late and brought it back into the forefront of my mind. I had nice little plan set out for the rest of my days and it was quite thrown asunder, wouldn't you agree?
No doubt for the best. For everyone.
I sold my tickets at a little profit (capitalising like a capitalist) to a girl who works for an artist in Angel (Boheminising like a bohemian). She had a beautiful gap-tooth smile.
Tomorrow, I'm going to a "Hog Roast" at Jenny's house. She's one of the lawyers on our team. Her invite was an apology for roasting a pig on a spit and a wish that we would join her to eat it anyway. Her man is a chef down in the Mayfair-ish parts of town and therefore I expect to be dazzled by the pig roasting efforts.
When I read over the last paragraph, I feel like a wild animal.
I've bought some lemon sole for dinner. With the house to myself, I'm being quite the homebody and finally indulging in some home-cooked food. It's disconcerting and because it's out of recent character and that makes it all the more enjoyable and new.
Lemon sole? It's not such an odd choice. It's that Stephen was telling me the other day how he'd speared one out on the East Coast which is a rare event in the North Island. The poor creature strayed so far from his home in the south, then was speared senseless by some great hunter-gatherer-type before heinous crimes of cookery were inflicted upon it in Stephen's new oven which he doesn't know how to use. The horror! On the contrary, my little feast was packaged up nicely after being caught carefully in accordance with good practice fishing and I will be wrapping it up in some tinfoil with lemon, rapeseed oil and capers and quietly baking it to perfection.
Again, regardless of the civility of my approach, I feel like a wild animal.
Do you remember my limerick about cricket? The review section of the Guardian is a veritable smorgasbord of sport poetry. How awful! I feel sorry for Duffy, myself. She may be the Laureate, but the trade-off is quite extreme, surely. Well, I would draw your attention to one of my early posts, if you haven't read it. Or perhaps, you could revisit it on account of the fact that it is Mr Mabey's favourite poem, which is not high praise, but it makes me feel warmish... no, probably just tepid. My heart is a tepidarium as a result of his praise.
Would you like some more verse? Well, I've been remiss. I can't even say that the painting is coming along. The undercoat is bone dry and I've done naught but look at it. I think it's time for another hobby anyway. Someone was suggesting kickboxing? Too uncouth! I welcome suggestions. My only criterion is that you make sure that it's something that I can leave half finished...
Or perhaps I should put that down to the Iron and Wine that I'm listening to. Or to the couple of pints of Guinness that I've put away here by myself. The effect of them is ever so much more potent because there are no carbohydrates in the house. Who needs carbohydration? I, for one, assuredly do not.
And how have I been making the most of this divine weather? Why, by accomplishing chores, of course. Oh, cleaning products, how I've missed you - it's been too long! Not to mention the fact that the house was a sty. An absolute sty... We should be ashamed...
But, we're not. With such a lovely summer, how could we stay at home and clean? If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I am a little demon. No, WAS a little demon. Now, the house is so clean, I might as well sprout some feathered wings. Just like Nights at the Circus. Oh, that was a good book. You haven't read it? Criminal.
Recent events could be summed up in a word... wine. Nicholas and I have been hosting a familial house guest and seem to be going to great lengths to demonstrate how insouciant we can be about sleep and sobriety. But, we're young, no?
No. Probably not. But I was asked for ID at Waitrose today. I could be seventeen? Again, probably not. The nice looking young man behind me let out a little laugh of surprise when the assistant asked me for proof of my elderliness. Up turns to down so thick and fast, it's hard to stay on an even keel sometimes.
Back at the house, it's an afternoon of The Guardian and steak and my aforemtnioned "Saturday playlist". And yes, that's right - I bought meat. Following which, I cooked it and I ate it. Depending on your definition of normalcy, I might be returning to a sense of it.
...
I've just taken a pause to put on a new load of washing and lost my train. More of a fog, than a train, upon reflection. Like a swamp. Cixous, one of the great proponents of French thought in the last century, discussed the feminine in terms of swamps as a contrasting type to the patriarchal phallus. I'm quite the fan of her writing. Have you read her?
This week saw the sale of my Latitude tickets. It was emotional. I guess that, apart from the obvious loss of the opportunity to see B & S and enjoy the festival atmosphere, it was a reminder of another loss that I've had of late and brought it back into the forefront of my mind. I had nice little plan set out for the rest of my days and it was quite thrown asunder, wouldn't you agree?
No doubt for the best. For everyone.
I sold my tickets at a little profit (capitalising like a capitalist) to a girl who works for an artist in Angel (Boheminising like a bohemian). She had a beautiful gap-tooth smile.
Tomorrow, I'm going to a "Hog Roast" at Jenny's house. She's one of the lawyers on our team. Her invite was an apology for roasting a pig on a spit and a wish that we would join her to eat it anyway. Her man is a chef down in the Mayfair-ish parts of town and therefore I expect to be dazzled by the pig roasting efforts.
When I read over the last paragraph, I feel like a wild animal.
I've bought some lemon sole for dinner. With the house to myself, I'm being quite the homebody and finally indulging in some home-cooked food. It's disconcerting and because it's out of recent character and that makes it all the more enjoyable and new.
Lemon sole? It's not such an odd choice. It's that Stephen was telling me the other day how he'd speared one out on the East Coast which is a rare event in the North Island. The poor creature strayed so far from his home in the south, then was speared senseless by some great hunter-gatherer-type before heinous crimes of cookery were inflicted upon it in Stephen's new oven which he doesn't know how to use. The horror! On the contrary, my little feast was packaged up nicely after being caught carefully in accordance with good practice fishing and I will be wrapping it up in some tinfoil with lemon, rapeseed oil and capers and quietly baking it to perfection.
Again, regardless of the civility of my approach, I feel like a wild animal.
Do you remember my limerick about cricket? The review section of the Guardian is a veritable smorgasbord of sport poetry. How awful! I feel sorry for Duffy, myself. She may be the Laureate, but the trade-off is quite extreme, surely. Well, I would draw your attention to one of my early posts, if you haven't read it. Or perhaps, you could revisit it on account of the fact that it is Mr Mabey's favourite poem, which is not high praise, but it makes me feel warmish... no, probably just tepid. My heart is a tepidarium as a result of his praise.
Would you like some more verse? Well, I've been remiss. I can't even say that the painting is coming along. The undercoat is bone dry and I've done naught but look at it. I think it's time for another hobby anyway. Someone was suggesting kickboxing? Too uncouth! I welcome suggestions. My only criterion is that you make sure that it's something that I can leave half finished...
Sunday, 4 July 2010
4 July 2010
Right. I'm here. I'm at the kitchen table with a Guiness in my hand taking this opportunity to use Nick's laptop whilst he creates a culinary masterpiece. It's a joy to watch him cook and so I hang around the kitchen pretending to be engrossed in something else kitchen-area-oriented so that I might do it mildly surreptitiously. He probably thinks that I do it for the company. No, no... just for the entertainment. We've decided recently that slapstick is the highest form of wit - sexual innuendo being at the bottom of the spectrum and sacrasm being somewhere in the middle in consideration of the fact that it is verging on irony, although not literary irony (pseuds) - and his kitchen antics are just the trick if you want a bit of humour. He also has an innate talent when it comes to flavours and experimental designs so the outcome of his kitchen antics are just the trick too. He makes lasagne for tomorrow. He'll make pork loin afterwards for our dinner tonight. We haven't done this in an age. Probably on account of pig welfare and my odd extremism when it comes to animal products.
Of course, a lot has happened since my last post. I can't recall it all. I've missed this though... me rambling, you skimming through... I'll start by letting you know that tomorrow I have a date at the Apple store and I will be purchasing my new laptop. So, there will be a lot more from me on this site very soon. I bemoan the laptop catastrophe so that I think everyone is sick of hearing about it, but it has been rather dire lately, not having a work space. I have little incentive to be at home.
I'm eating gorgonzola with olives and cheese biscuits (not unlike crackers).
I'll work backwards...
Yesterday, Raj and I went to Hop Farm festival. What an experience! It was the first and also probably the last time that I'll see Bob Dylan live. You might mosey on over to my facebook page to see a little of the experience. If you look up, you'll see the brilliant blue sky, turning azure and slowly becoming pocked with stars. If you look down you'll see my feet covered in magic brown festival dust. If you look directly ahead, you'll see a group of stoned boys. Oddly enough, that was the theme of the first song - I know that you know the one. But if you look at some sort of 45 degree perspective you'll see some dots on the stage, one of which is Bob. He's just wonderful. Although, his voice is more akin to Tom Waits these days.
Bob was the draw card and so we were happy just to spend the rest of the day in the sun which is a nice way to enjoy a festival. It's the same way that I enjoy all my travel. One might miss things but one can't push one's self. How do you travel? I like to have low expectations and take things slowly. I missed a number of good acts at Rockness for example, but what can you do? If they all play at the same time, it's a matter of taking the good with the bad.
I'm listening to Muddy Waters now.
Another highlight of Hop Farm was Ray Davies. He sang, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, Lola and You Really Got Me. And I sang along too. And at the top of my voice, much to the dismay of the people around me. And I sang with insouciant abandon like it did when I sang to my Kinks cassette tape in my car when I was a teenager. Chloe made it for us to listen to as we drove to the Mezze Bar or on our road trips. And standing there in the middle of that field in Kent, listening to Ray, all the memories flooded back.
I also enjoyed Devendra Banhart but by that point I was sleepy and some girl next to me was using up too much dancing space and was wearing an Indian Chieftan-type feathered headpiece get-up and the feathers kept poking me. Not only had it been a long day, but also I was running on three hours sleep because of the charming night that I had the night before.
And what happened the night before... Nicola and I went to the midnight show of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe. I'd managed to get some seated tickets a couple of months ago and I'm so pleased because it was the best performance that I've seen of it so far. What a great company.
Oh, I could go on but...
I'll move on instead. I went to see Joanna Lumley in La Bete. It was very funny and clever - in the same vain as Chaucer, I'd suggest. Also funny was the manner in which we got to the theatre with less than a minute to spare. It was too fraught! Well, the weather this week has been a fright, hasn't it? I've been sitting in my office in a terrible fog every afternoon as the ardent sunshine beats upon my back and the temperature rises. The fan is futile. The window might as well be stopped up. The degree is touching thirty and my brain just packs up into a vegetable jam... a brain chutney, perhaps.
So, that is the nature of the weather.
Now, I'm on Carnaby Street perusing shoes and I suddenly realise that the time has flown and I should be at Leicester Square station meeting Nicola. Goodness, the show starts in twenty minutes! The walk from Carnaby Street is longer than that, even if I swap my stilettos for my jandals and by the time I get there I won't merely have a healthy glow, I'll be a sweaty, heaving beast of a girl. What is there to do by hop into a bicycle rickshaw?
There are probably other options flying through your mind. Taxi, might be one. Oh, don't be so unadventurous. I found a bicycle man, who incidentally was clad in bright orange shorts, and told him to ride like the wind. We careered down to Leicester Square and Nicola jumped on before we flew over the cobbled stones and screeched to a halt outside The Panton. I'm exaggerating the speed of course. These rickshaws are particularly slow and uncomfortable. Not to mention the humiliation one might feel as they lurch along the streets.
Ah, what a delight to be bereft of shame in the face of the poloi...
One day I might be blessed with children and then just imagine how they'll feel when we're out in public and I'm ranting about the ill-treatment of chickens whilst we're in the supermarket or perhaps I'm falling over on the high street. Surely these habits get worse with age? If I'm right about that, and these habits do develop further, I doubt that anyone will find me endearing enough to hop on the children band wagon with me.
And at the last sentence, I intend no pun, as that is the lowest form of wit.
La Bete. One of the mains was that man who plays Niles on Frasier. Just now, whilst checking the spelling of "Niles" on wikipedia, I found that Frasier was a spin-off of Cheers. And you're probably all saying, yes, of course, we all know that... well, I'm of a different generation. One that didn't really watch Cheers, but would sing the theme song because it was kitsch. In fact, I was a little late for the Seinfeld craze. I remain unapologetic for the things I don't know and unabashed in the face of your shock and your ridicule.
Have you read The Unbearable Lightness of Being? It was a great discussion on the use of the word kitsch and its origin. I haven't used it correctly. You might consult Kundera.
Now, I'll tell you about the work drinks that might have ended in tears if I didn't end them with a laugh, a small shake of the head and a sigh.
We went to Camino to celebrate Jonathan's leaving the Council. He's in my client department and also worked with me back in Auckland. And how did we celebrate? It happened to be the Spanish game that night. The Spanish played well, I hear. I couldn't see the screen. Actually, to stay on the soccer for a bit, oh, the silly histrionics of it all. I much prefer watching Germany for a nice clean technically proficient game. Germany are brilliant, aren't they? I'd like to see them in the final. Although, they've already had that Eurovision win.
Does the comparison irk you? I hope so.
Back at Camino, we, a little worse for wear, and wearing Spanish flags painted on our faces care of some boozy Spaniard in the crowd, decided to move to the next pub. Oh dire decision! Once there, I managed to knock my bosses glass of red wine all over one of my client's laps. For shame.
He was too nice about it really.
I went back to Camino on Tuesday with Michelle. They do very nice tapas. Then, goodness me, I found myself eating more tapas on Thursday with Jade at another lovely place in Barnsbury. And now, I feel like one of those awful girls who knows all about tapa joints and eats out all the time and has clients... what an awful world. Seeing it written here in black and white makes me rather sore. World weary even? Perhaps a little nauseated? Although that might be all the gorgonzola and guiness.
Did you ever read that Ogden Nash poem about the Gorgons? And the gorgonzola? Well, you can already tell that it's a hit. You'll have to look into it yourself if I've piqued your interest. And that poem goes on to say that she is the "Big Cheese."
I've eaten too much cheese of late. I think it's time for another fruit diet.
Yes... another whim... I think that's what's in order...
Of course, a lot has happened since my last post. I can't recall it all. I've missed this though... me rambling, you skimming through... I'll start by letting you know that tomorrow I have a date at the Apple store and I will be purchasing my new laptop. So, there will be a lot more from me on this site very soon. I bemoan the laptop catastrophe so that I think everyone is sick of hearing about it, but it has been rather dire lately, not having a work space. I have little incentive to be at home.
I'm eating gorgonzola with olives and cheese biscuits (not unlike crackers).
I'll work backwards...
Yesterday, Raj and I went to Hop Farm festival. What an experience! It was the first and also probably the last time that I'll see Bob Dylan live. You might mosey on over to my facebook page to see a little of the experience. If you look up, you'll see the brilliant blue sky, turning azure and slowly becoming pocked with stars. If you look down you'll see my feet covered in magic brown festival dust. If you look directly ahead, you'll see a group of stoned boys. Oddly enough, that was the theme of the first song - I know that you know the one. But if you look at some sort of 45 degree perspective you'll see some dots on the stage, one of which is Bob. He's just wonderful. Although, his voice is more akin to Tom Waits these days.
Bob was the draw card and so we were happy just to spend the rest of the day in the sun which is a nice way to enjoy a festival. It's the same way that I enjoy all my travel. One might miss things but one can't push one's self. How do you travel? I like to have low expectations and take things slowly. I missed a number of good acts at Rockness for example, but what can you do? If they all play at the same time, it's a matter of taking the good with the bad.
I'm listening to Muddy Waters now.
Another highlight of Hop Farm was Ray Davies. He sang, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, Lola and You Really Got Me. And I sang along too. And at the top of my voice, much to the dismay of the people around me. And I sang with insouciant abandon like it did when I sang to my Kinks cassette tape in my car when I was a teenager. Chloe made it for us to listen to as we drove to the Mezze Bar or on our road trips. And standing there in the middle of that field in Kent, listening to Ray, all the memories flooded back.
I also enjoyed Devendra Banhart but by that point I was sleepy and some girl next to me was using up too much dancing space and was wearing an Indian Chieftan-type feathered headpiece get-up and the feathers kept poking me. Not only had it been a long day, but also I was running on three hours sleep because of the charming night that I had the night before.
And what happened the night before... Nicola and I went to the midnight show of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe. I'd managed to get some seated tickets a couple of months ago and I'm so pleased because it was the best performance that I've seen of it so far. What a great company.
Oh, I could go on but...
I'll move on instead. I went to see Joanna Lumley in La Bete. It was very funny and clever - in the same vain as Chaucer, I'd suggest. Also funny was the manner in which we got to the theatre with less than a minute to spare. It was too fraught! Well, the weather this week has been a fright, hasn't it? I've been sitting in my office in a terrible fog every afternoon as the ardent sunshine beats upon my back and the temperature rises. The fan is futile. The window might as well be stopped up. The degree is touching thirty and my brain just packs up into a vegetable jam... a brain chutney, perhaps.
So, that is the nature of the weather.
Now, I'm on Carnaby Street perusing shoes and I suddenly realise that the time has flown and I should be at Leicester Square station meeting Nicola. Goodness, the show starts in twenty minutes! The walk from Carnaby Street is longer than that, even if I swap my stilettos for my jandals and by the time I get there I won't merely have a healthy glow, I'll be a sweaty, heaving beast of a girl. What is there to do by hop into a bicycle rickshaw?
There are probably other options flying through your mind. Taxi, might be one. Oh, don't be so unadventurous. I found a bicycle man, who incidentally was clad in bright orange shorts, and told him to ride like the wind. We careered down to Leicester Square and Nicola jumped on before we flew over the cobbled stones and screeched to a halt outside The Panton. I'm exaggerating the speed of course. These rickshaws are particularly slow and uncomfortable. Not to mention the humiliation one might feel as they lurch along the streets.
Ah, what a delight to be bereft of shame in the face of the poloi...
One day I might be blessed with children and then just imagine how they'll feel when we're out in public and I'm ranting about the ill-treatment of chickens whilst we're in the supermarket or perhaps I'm falling over on the high street. Surely these habits get worse with age? If I'm right about that, and these habits do develop further, I doubt that anyone will find me endearing enough to hop on the children band wagon with me.
And at the last sentence, I intend no pun, as that is the lowest form of wit.
La Bete. One of the mains was that man who plays Niles on Frasier. Just now, whilst checking the spelling of "Niles" on wikipedia, I found that Frasier was a spin-off of Cheers. And you're probably all saying, yes, of course, we all know that... well, I'm of a different generation. One that didn't really watch Cheers, but would sing the theme song because it was kitsch. In fact, I was a little late for the Seinfeld craze. I remain unapologetic for the things I don't know and unabashed in the face of your shock and your ridicule.
Have you read The Unbearable Lightness of Being? It was a great discussion on the use of the word kitsch and its origin. I haven't used it correctly. You might consult Kundera.
Now, I'll tell you about the work drinks that might have ended in tears if I didn't end them with a laugh, a small shake of the head and a sigh.
We went to Camino to celebrate Jonathan's leaving the Council. He's in my client department and also worked with me back in Auckland. And how did we celebrate? It happened to be the Spanish game that night. The Spanish played well, I hear. I couldn't see the screen. Actually, to stay on the soccer for a bit, oh, the silly histrionics of it all. I much prefer watching Germany for a nice clean technically proficient game. Germany are brilliant, aren't they? I'd like to see them in the final. Although, they've already had that Eurovision win.
Does the comparison irk you? I hope so.
Back at Camino, we, a little worse for wear, and wearing Spanish flags painted on our faces care of some boozy Spaniard in the crowd, decided to move to the next pub. Oh dire decision! Once there, I managed to knock my bosses glass of red wine all over one of my client's laps. For shame.
He was too nice about it really.
I went back to Camino on Tuesday with Michelle. They do very nice tapas. Then, goodness me, I found myself eating more tapas on Thursday with Jade at another lovely place in Barnsbury. And now, I feel like one of those awful girls who knows all about tapa joints and eats out all the time and has clients... what an awful world. Seeing it written here in black and white makes me rather sore. World weary even? Perhaps a little nauseated? Although that might be all the gorgonzola and guiness.
Did you ever read that Ogden Nash poem about the Gorgons? And the gorgonzola? Well, you can already tell that it's a hit. You'll have to look into it yourself if I've piqued your interest. And that poem goes on to say that she is the "Big Cheese."
I've eaten too much cheese of late. I think it's time for another fruit diet.
Yes... another whim... I think that's what's in order...
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
15 June 2010
It's the laptop issue that's really devastating this blog. What's holding me back from making this purchase? Money probably. And time? No. Not time. I've found time to write this, haven't I? I'm not sure where the blame lies. With me, generally and ostensibly.
I'm reading a wonderfully melancholy book which Chloe sent to me for my birthday. It's Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys. I enjoyed Wide Sargasso Sea when I was 18. Midnight is more devastating than Plath, I would say. Rhys has taken me through the weekend, which was a long one, on account of the fact that I took Friday and Monday off to haul myself up to Inverness for the festival there. I made a little promise to myself to take it easy last week, in the days leading up to the trip, but it wasn't to be. I've had far too many dinners out. Far too many. I felt a quiet longing the other day for someone to make me a home-cooked meal. But, with no food in the house and scant inclination on my part, I think it will be to the restaurant again tonight. Doesn't that sound like a romantic life? It's like A Moveable Feast, except that I don't live in a hotel and I don't spend my days at the horse races...
I'd love to live in a hotel for a spell, wouldn't you?
Let me tell you about the festival. It was sublime! Disregard the weather, and the Scottish, and the lack of clean ablutions and the mud. Only consider the aspect of the lake and the mountains and the sound of the music and that great feeling when you're just dancing for hours and you've had too much wine. We had a ball. I especially enjoyed, to my surprise, Fat Boy Slim, Leftfield and The Strokes.
I new that I'd enjoy Blondie. She looks fantastic and she still gives a great show. I was not quite sober during her performance. At the end of each song, I yelled "Go Debbie" with desperate glee. I don't think she heard me. Nick thought perhaps she could because she has a Debdar - a radar only found in people with the name Deborah - I acknowledge that this isn't particularly witty, but I will admit that I was the one who came up with it.
It's football mild-fever at the moment. No one's too crazy about it. I was taken to lunch today but we sat too far from the screen for me to see New Zealand's goal. I had to ask the waitress who had won. She said that "the team in white" had scored a goal in the final minutes and that it was a draw. Okay, fine. They've done well.
We watched South Korea on a screen at the Drambuie tent on Saturday. I think they're a great team to watch. Perhaps it was the Drambuie, but I was charmed.
In other news, I haven't written you any poetry, painting is looking neglected on the easel and perhaps the dust gathers so much that it will add texture to the execution. I'm here at work rather too late tonight, on account of my long lunch on the agency's credit card (some are accustomed to these perks which are not to be had in public service). I'm taking this little break now, to indulge myself in a post and ease some of the unease that has grown out of the lack of writing lately, but breaks end.
And this one ends here.
I'm reading a wonderfully melancholy book which Chloe sent to me for my birthday. It's Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys. I enjoyed Wide Sargasso Sea when I was 18. Midnight is more devastating than Plath, I would say. Rhys has taken me through the weekend, which was a long one, on account of the fact that I took Friday and Monday off to haul myself up to Inverness for the festival there. I made a little promise to myself to take it easy last week, in the days leading up to the trip, but it wasn't to be. I've had far too many dinners out. Far too many. I felt a quiet longing the other day for someone to make me a home-cooked meal. But, with no food in the house and scant inclination on my part, I think it will be to the restaurant again tonight. Doesn't that sound like a romantic life? It's like A Moveable Feast, except that I don't live in a hotel and I don't spend my days at the horse races...
I'd love to live in a hotel for a spell, wouldn't you?
Let me tell you about the festival. It was sublime! Disregard the weather, and the Scottish, and the lack of clean ablutions and the mud. Only consider the aspect of the lake and the mountains and the sound of the music and that great feeling when you're just dancing for hours and you've had too much wine. We had a ball. I especially enjoyed, to my surprise, Fat Boy Slim, Leftfield and The Strokes.
I new that I'd enjoy Blondie. She looks fantastic and she still gives a great show. I was not quite sober during her performance. At the end of each song, I yelled "Go Debbie" with desperate glee. I don't think she heard me. Nick thought perhaps she could because she has a Debdar - a radar only found in people with the name Deborah - I acknowledge that this isn't particularly witty, but I will admit that I was the one who came up with it.
It's football mild-fever at the moment. No one's too crazy about it. I was taken to lunch today but we sat too far from the screen for me to see New Zealand's goal. I had to ask the waitress who had won. She said that "the team in white" had scored a goal in the final minutes and that it was a draw. Okay, fine. They've done well.
We watched South Korea on a screen at the Drambuie tent on Saturday. I think they're a great team to watch. Perhaps it was the Drambuie, but I was charmed.
In other news, I haven't written you any poetry, painting is looking neglected on the easel and perhaps the dust gathers so much that it will add texture to the execution. I'm here at work rather too late tonight, on account of my long lunch on the agency's credit card (some are accustomed to these perks which are not to be had in public service). I'm taking this little break now, to indulge myself in a post and ease some of the unease that has grown out of the lack of writing lately, but breaks end.
And this one ends here.
Monday, 7 June 2010
1 June 2010
Politically-themed sandwiches sounds like a great idea for Mr Mabey's sandwich cart. How could you push the limits? What about a Ghengis Khan sandwich where the meat is cooked between one's thighs... That could be a myth about Khan but it's something I read somewhere about him and his compadres. It could be true though. There was this awful scene in the latest Murakami novel that I read where some Mongolian soldiers skinned a Japanese soldier alive. It was horrific. The image still sits in my mind and it makes me shudder.
What a good writer.
He also wrote What I Talk About When I Talk About Running - or some such title - and that's been recommended to me on the basis of my running which, by the way, I'm still not doing. And I've definitely deflated. I think I'll deflate some more. I've taken up walking instead. I walk to and from work which takes me around half an hour. Today, I'm afraid that I didn't walk on account of the fact that I rubbished myself yesterday trying to pack as much fun into the long weekend as possible and I was dog-tired this morning.
Still going strong though and would do it all over again tonight if I had the chance. And the company.
The painting is taking some serious shape. It's been likened to a vase full of celery which didn't please me particularly, but at least the viewer likened it to flora of some kind. I've attached a photo of the latest. It's still at undercoat stage so the hue isn't perfect but it will get there. Yesterday I picked up some sable brushes so that I can do some teeny work on the petals. I went to Soho to Cass Art and also picked up a sketch book which was dire because I managed to start my first sketch whilst playing cards at midnight after a couple of bottles of red wine. What a nerd I must have looked, scribbling away like that.
Down on Regent Street yesterday, the ipad was in the throes of its just-on-the-market celebration. I was considering getting a mac, especially because they do finance deals, but I just couldn't do it. You should have seen this place - it was rammed full of people. It was suffocating. I looked around in a confused manner for a couple of minutes, wandered up and down the great glass staircase and then left. The horror of it all.
I'm not sure about the mac idea anymore. It'll cost twice as much as a PC and I really don't use my laptop for anything but word processing and internet. I'm getting conflicting advice.
Back to that fateful day.
I turned on lappy, the trusty little guy that I've been using since 4th year university (you just can't do law school without one, I think), and up came the dreaded blue screen. I've had this problem before. It was during my professionals course, when I'd almost finished drafting my statement of case and all my notes ready to devastate opposing counsel at the mock trial, and then the blue screen tells me that I've lost all my work. Boyfriend of the day managed to restore the previous settings, but the trial notes were lost and I had to start again with time fast running out. How dramatic. Obviously it all worked out because here I am, sitting at my desk, being a lawyer. Well, no, I'm taking a lunch break and writing my blog post, but I was being a lawyer this morning. And I will be again right now if the phone rings.
I took lappy to the shop last Saturday and discussed the problem with the man behind the counter and the outcome of the conversation was that it was time to get a new laptop. He showed me an IBM. I thought about it and walked out, promising to return.
Part of the reason that it's now unsalvagable is because of that time that I was a little drunk and I knocked water all over it. Lucky for me it wasn't damaged, but for the fan which makes a terrible whirring and grinding noise every now and again.
It's a very good thing that I have the iphone. It's also a bad thing when it comes to posting random thoughts and photos on facebook. It's like making that drunken phone call but worse because your calling the world and laying your thoughts on display. Splash! All over the newsfeed. Irrevocable.
I've started this post in such an awkward place, it must be diabolical to read. Back to the beginning.
Its been a tiring couple of weeks. Fraught with the loss of lappy, amongst other things, as some of you will know. And you've offered your condolsences, which are appreciated. Some things just aren't meant to be, huh? Even with the best of intentions.
Work has been mad! But I did manage to get out to the Portrait Gallery after work on Thursday. What a great permanent collection! I only managed half, once again. I've still the third floor of the Tate and the second wing of the Tate Britian to do. It seems that I have a tendency to leave galleries half-finished. I took off to meet Nicola for a drink and she was nice enough to hop on my iphone and order Daddy's birthday present which I had been meaning to do for days and just hadn't managed to get round to because of the computer disaster. I would have much prefered to have seen the book with my own eyes and wrapped it up with the card I was yet to buy but it wasn't to be. And it will get there late. I've bought him the Bolano, 2666. Hopefully the translation isn't rubbish because it's supposedly a dense read. Nothing like the Pynchon I bought him for Christmas, of course.
I called him on Monday morning. We'd been out inordinately late the night before but I woke up early, duly, and managed to reach him as he was drinking his champagne and eating his roast chicken. Sounds like a brilliant birthday to me.
I can hradly remember what had happened the night before that. I think it involved Rock Band. Ugh. I can certainly remember the night before that though. On Saturday, it was Eurvision night. We'd decided to throw a BBQ, regardless of the fact that we have no outdoor space, save the entrance balcony, and we have no BBQ. We bought one of those instant party size disposable ones and managed to smoke the whole neighbourhood out by placing on a vinyl stool with scant insulation. The stool melted, the smoke alarm went off and there was a late night clandestine trip to dump the stool in a skip or some such receptacle.
I'm sure that it can't be healthy to eat sausages which are cooked in plastic fumes.
I was much surprised by the Eurovision voting. It's as if everyone had forgotten the world wars one night. Well, that's not strictly true because Israel didn't vote for Germany for example. But what about the Baltics. They supported their neighbours as if the devastation of the end of last century never happened.
Last Friday was the Greenwich Jazz and Beer Festival. We went along because Nick has an insatiable love for the Fun Loving Criminals, who were headlining that night. I don't drink beer, but I made an exception and I was plesantly surprised. Especially by the chocolate flavoured one. My word, did they make a tasty brew. It was a nice night. I was impressed by FLC. They conjure up memories of listening to 96.1 when I was thirteen or fourteen.
We happened upon a tapas bar on the way back to the tube and instead of getting home before the tubes stopped running, we bought a nice bottle of wine, ordered tapas and following it by dessert and yelled at eachother across the table in an enthusiastic manner. Nick and I carefully avoid talking about the nature of positivism. It gets ugly.
Then we passed out on the night bus and were kicked off in Russell Square.
And good times were had by all.
I'm sure there's more. I have a lot of musings that I haven't laid bare for you here because my lunch break is swiftly coming to its end.
Roll on the era of the new laptop.
Friday, 4 June 2010
4 June 2010
I have a post all ready for you. We'll have to live in the past for a while as I catch up on previous musings and we re-engage. I'm very much trying to get the new laptop organised so don't despair. We have the rest of our lives to post/read/laugh.
I'm going to try to post a photo from my iPhone in order to satiate you in the meantime...
Oh. Goodness. I can't.
Things could be worse for us.
But, boy, couldn't they be better?
I'm going to try to post a photo from my iPhone in order to satiate you in the meantime...
Oh. Goodness. I can't.
Things could be worse for us.
But, boy, couldn't they be better?
Sunday, 16 May 2010
16 May 2010
And I know that it was only yesterday that I posted the last, but I just feel like putting off the work that I've brought home for a teensy bit longer. And besides, I feel inspired, and surely one should seize such an opportunity.
Some of you may know and some of you will not know, that I have been running most days since the beginning of the year. Well, it transpires that I have to take a short hiatus from running because I'm actually too fit. How can one be too fit, you might ask. Just picture that woman who won the London Marathon recently. That is surely too fit, wouldn't you agree? It's definitely not sexy in any way.
No. Stop me here. That's a serious opinion statement.
I don't find that sexy, and I did ask Nick whether he would find that attractive, and he agreed that he didn't. Imagine making love to her... why, you'd just bounce right off those muscles. They gleam like shiny rubber boots. I don't find that attractive. But it's not, of course, the bounce-factor that would make one shy away from loving her physically, but the aesthetic displeasure. Having made this opinion statement, I'll qualify it with the fact that someone out there, probably a woman of similar fitness and build who can see herself when she looks at our number one runner and likes what she sees, will love her. And they'll go running together in the mornings... and at night, they'll bounce off each other...
My point, somewhere along the way, is that I don't feel particularly attractive when my rear end is solid as a rock, and believe me, it's getting that way. I had to make a decision. There'll be no more running for at least a week, whilst I try to deflate, and after that, I'll reassess the situation and maybe try for a mere two runs a week.
I'm eating a mandarin and listening to Broken Social Scene. I missed tickets by a whisker to their show tomorrow night. I probably would have bought one and gone by myself, like I did with the sonatas and the Bennett and upon reflection, I think this shows how few friends I have in London. Especially, how few I have who have the same tastes. I know you're all out there. You're all springing to mind right now. But you're not here, are you?
What on earth am I doing in this city away from you all?
Not that you're all in the same place.
I've also procrastinated today by vacuuming the house(or is it vaccumming? Oh, what does it matter in England, where it's always hoovering) followed by a mop of the floor. I don't think it's the act of cleaning that I love... I was thinking about this whilst mopping the kitchen ... I don't mind cleaning and I do it quite often, more often than most, but I think it's the result that I like the best. Therefore, surely I'd feel just as satisfied if someone else did the cleaning for me? I'll test this theory one day by hiring a cleaner. So many people in London have them. A lot of my friends who live in those flats full of ex-pats have cleaners. I prefer living with fewer people myself.
And now I'm chewing on a teacup full of pumpkin and sunflower seeds. Gorgeous. I'm still trying this fruit diet, most of the time, so that I can see whether I really need that much sleep. I think I mentioned before that the sickness stymied the experiment? I'm still trying, although not too desperately, to see what the results of such an experiment will be. I did wake up at six this morning, having gone to bed at midnight, which might count for something? It's not a "fair test" yet. All's fair in love and war and experiments conducted upon my interior.
I'll keep you posted.
Oh, a blog pun! How fantastique!
Last night, I watched Sidney Pollack's Sketches of Franck Gehry and it was very good. I like Pollack. I like Gehry. Not everybody does. Did you know that his real name is Ephraim Owen Goldberg, but he changed it partly due to anti-semitism? I find that fascinating. Ephraim... what a name... like Finghin. A name to celebrate.
I went to see the Guggenheim in Bilbao with James. What a monstrosity. I love monstrosities. I don't think we have enough of them these days. Like the Sagrara Familia in Barcelona. Stupendous creations.
And then, can you imagine, we watched Die Hard, as it happened to be showing on Channel Four. Well, some of those lines! How undeliverable! It doesn't matter how good you are at acting when you're faced with a script like that. And then there are the gems:
"Yippe-ki-yay motherfucker".
This movie is actually based on a novel. I can imagine that it doesn't strictly adhere to the actual dialogue of the book.
And it is yet another good reason why, instead of blogging, I should be writing that action movie screen play and selling out.
Some of you may know and some of you will not know, that I have been running most days since the beginning of the year. Well, it transpires that I have to take a short hiatus from running because I'm actually too fit. How can one be too fit, you might ask. Just picture that woman who won the London Marathon recently. That is surely too fit, wouldn't you agree? It's definitely not sexy in any way.
No. Stop me here. That's a serious opinion statement.
I don't find that sexy, and I did ask Nick whether he would find that attractive, and he agreed that he didn't. Imagine making love to her... why, you'd just bounce right off those muscles. They gleam like shiny rubber boots. I don't find that attractive. But it's not, of course, the bounce-factor that would make one shy away from loving her physically, but the aesthetic displeasure. Having made this opinion statement, I'll qualify it with the fact that someone out there, probably a woman of similar fitness and build who can see herself when she looks at our number one runner and likes what she sees, will love her. And they'll go running together in the mornings... and at night, they'll bounce off each other...
My point, somewhere along the way, is that I don't feel particularly attractive when my rear end is solid as a rock, and believe me, it's getting that way. I had to make a decision. There'll be no more running for at least a week, whilst I try to deflate, and after that, I'll reassess the situation and maybe try for a mere two runs a week.
I'm eating a mandarin and listening to Broken Social Scene. I missed tickets by a whisker to their show tomorrow night. I probably would have bought one and gone by myself, like I did with the sonatas and the Bennett and upon reflection, I think this shows how few friends I have in London. Especially, how few I have who have the same tastes. I know you're all out there. You're all springing to mind right now. But you're not here, are you?
What on earth am I doing in this city away from you all?
Not that you're all in the same place.
I've also procrastinated today by vacuuming the house(or is it vaccumming? Oh, what does it matter in England, where it's always hoovering) followed by a mop of the floor. I don't think it's the act of cleaning that I love... I was thinking about this whilst mopping the kitchen ... I don't mind cleaning and I do it quite often, more often than most, but I think it's the result that I like the best. Therefore, surely I'd feel just as satisfied if someone else did the cleaning for me? I'll test this theory one day by hiring a cleaner. So many people in London have them. A lot of my friends who live in those flats full of ex-pats have cleaners. I prefer living with fewer people myself.
And now I'm chewing on a teacup full of pumpkin and sunflower seeds. Gorgeous. I'm still trying this fruit diet, most of the time, so that I can see whether I really need that much sleep. I think I mentioned before that the sickness stymied the experiment? I'm still trying, although not too desperately, to see what the results of such an experiment will be. I did wake up at six this morning, having gone to bed at midnight, which might count for something? It's not a "fair test" yet. All's fair in love and war and experiments conducted upon my interior.
I'll keep you posted.
Oh, a blog pun! How fantastique!
Last night, I watched Sidney Pollack's Sketches of Franck Gehry and it was very good. I like Pollack. I like Gehry. Not everybody does. Did you know that his real name is Ephraim Owen Goldberg, but he changed it partly due to anti-semitism? I find that fascinating. Ephraim... what a name... like Finghin. A name to celebrate.
I went to see the Guggenheim in Bilbao with James. What a monstrosity. I love monstrosities. I don't think we have enough of them these days. Like the Sagrara Familia in Barcelona. Stupendous creations.
And then, can you imagine, we watched Die Hard, as it happened to be showing on Channel Four. Well, some of those lines! How undeliverable! It doesn't matter how good you are at acting when you're faced with a script like that. And then there are the gems:
"Yippe-ki-yay motherfucker".
This movie is actually based on a novel. I can imagine that it doesn't strictly adhere to the actual dialogue of the book.
And it is yet another good reason why, instead of blogging, I should be writing that action movie screen play and selling out.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
15 May 2010
Sad times these are indeed. After Monday, things went progressively down hill for me. I've had an awful illness that's incapacitated me for most of the week. Tuesday was spent in bed; wholly in bed but for two hours when I managed to rouse myself to the office where certain matters were screaming for my attention. But they did not get the best of my attention, that's certain. Wednesday, again, I was in bed every moment that I wasn't at work, and again Thursday. Rubbish really. The exhaustion. It was uncanny.
But, we could imagine that my week actually went according to plan and I went to the Pie and Mash store with Andy on Thursday night for some real Eel Pie. It's down on Royal College Street and it's one of those traditional English style places where you all sit together on these stalls and demolish great plates of pie and, well, mash. And then I lifted a great wad of mash atop my spoon (because I imagine I have a spoon) and I say to Andy, "I'll ssss...mash you" or perhaps, "I'll give you the mash". And he guffaws and starts churning out a host of awful puns that wouldn't bear repeating (thank goodness, because I can't think of any - what an excellent escape from a sticky pun situation).
There's another Pie and Mash outfit that's acclaimed down on Goldhawk Road but, although I lived there for at least a year, I never tried it. Perhaps my time will come soon. Then I'll get ss...mashed.
I'm not even going to apologise for that one, even though I acknowledge how horrendous it is.
And so, Friday. Again, I managed work and Sandra made me promise her that I would take it easy this weekend. This is probably because she is sick of hearing my hacking old hag's cough ringing in her ears all day. I'm feeling much better, but for the cough. I even managed to stay awake last night long enough to use my ticket to the orchestra down at Cadogan Hall. And I'm so pleased that I did. Two very enthusiastic young men - one on the cello and one on the piano playing all the best songs written for the two instruments. Yes, they played the Chopin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnYYM_DMeOU
Love, Nelsova... just look at her billowing dress... But this man (Guy Johnston) was brilliant too. He actually broke a string in the Polonaise and threw up his hand to stop Mr Piano, (Finghin - what an exquisite name!) and turned to the audience with such a polite "I'm terribly sorry"... oh, the English. So refined.
And they played Mendelssohn which I adore! And the real thrill of the night happened to be, of all things, the Britten. It was very, very enjoyable to watch him plucking away whilst the piano banged a bit. Having just seen Britten (portrayed, not quite so dirty an old man as Auden, but dirty enough) in the Bennett last week, it was quite appropriate.
And today I went to work. Yes! Saturday at the office! Damn this illness which stymies my attempts to stay on top of my inbox - which, by the way, I always am. More than ten items in my inbox sends me into a panic. Upon reflection, and with a positive outlook in mind, I think that the illness was just the knock I needed. You know when you just keep on pushing yourself until you burst? And then one is forced to recoil for a spell to right oneself again. What is right. I don't know. But, it's been a week sans wine, I haven't fallen over once or made any silly decisions and I think I might just try to lay off it for a while. Again. Wish me luck, Lord knows, I'll need it.
I'm listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees singing The Beatles.
And, with such an uneventful week as this has been, and unless I set out the details of my feverish dreams that I had in my mammoth sleeping sessions - none of which are particularly interesting, but all of which were set in my parent's backyard for some reason - I really can't see that this post should go on any longer.
Why don't you set me a topic to muse about. Like cabbages. Why cabbages? Well, have you read Mrs Dalloway? Only the best of writers can use the phrase "musing amongst the cabbages" on the first page of their novel and still sound sonorous.
Long live Virginia in a posthumous manner!
But, we could imagine that my week actually went according to plan and I went to the Pie and Mash store with Andy on Thursday night for some real Eel Pie. It's down on Royal College Street and it's one of those traditional English style places where you all sit together on these stalls and demolish great plates of pie and, well, mash. And then I lifted a great wad of mash atop my spoon (because I imagine I have a spoon) and I say to Andy, "I'll ssss...mash you" or perhaps, "I'll give you the mash". And he guffaws and starts churning out a host of awful puns that wouldn't bear repeating (thank goodness, because I can't think of any - what an excellent escape from a sticky pun situation).
There's another Pie and Mash outfit that's acclaimed down on Goldhawk Road but, although I lived there for at least a year, I never tried it. Perhaps my time will come soon. Then I'll get ss...mashed.
I'm not even going to apologise for that one, even though I acknowledge how horrendous it is.
And so, Friday. Again, I managed work and Sandra made me promise her that I would take it easy this weekend. This is probably because she is sick of hearing my hacking old hag's cough ringing in her ears all day. I'm feeling much better, but for the cough. I even managed to stay awake last night long enough to use my ticket to the orchestra down at Cadogan Hall. And I'm so pleased that I did. Two very enthusiastic young men - one on the cello and one on the piano playing all the best songs written for the two instruments. Yes, they played the Chopin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnYYM_DMeOU
Love, Nelsova... just look at her billowing dress... But this man (Guy Johnston) was brilliant too. He actually broke a string in the Polonaise and threw up his hand to stop Mr Piano, (Finghin - what an exquisite name!) and turned to the audience with such a polite "I'm terribly sorry"... oh, the English. So refined.
And they played Mendelssohn which I adore! And the real thrill of the night happened to be, of all things, the Britten. It was very, very enjoyable to watch him plucking away whilst the piano banged a bit. Having just seen Britten (portrayed, not quite so dirty an old man as Auden, but dirty enough) in the Bennett last week, it was quite appropriate.
And today I went to work. Yes! Saturday at the office! Damn this illness which stymies my attempts to stay on top of my inbox - which, by the way, I always am. More than ten items in my inbox sends me into a panic. Upon reflection, and with a positive outlook in mind, I think that the illness was just the knock I needed. You know when you just keep on pushing yourself until you burst? And then one is forced to recoil for a spell to right oneself again. What is right. I don't know. But, it's been a week sans wine, I haven't fallen over once or made any silly decisions and I think I might just try to lay off it for a while. Again. Wish me luck, Lord knows, I'll need it.
I'm listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees singing The Beatles.
And, with such an uneventful week as this has been, and unless I set out the details of my feverish dreams that I had in my mammoth sleeping sessions - none of which are particularly interesting, but all of which were set in my parent's backyard for some reason - I really can't see that this post should go on any longer.
Why don't you set me a topic to muse about. Like cabbages. Why cabbages? Well, have you read Mrs Dalloway? Only the best of writers can use the phrase "musing amongst the cabbages" on the first page of their novel and still sound sonorous.
Long live Virginia in a posthumous manner!
Monday, 10 May 2010
10 May 2010
I've been duly admonished for not posting a blog of late. Thank you, Tom. It's nice to know that someone out there minds enough to mention it.
Today is a Monday, but I'm not at work. I've got remote access which is wonderful and means that I can email and draft in my slippers which is just a hoot. At the moment, I'm listening to the Magnetic Fields... another hoot. Just call me an owl...
Or don't, because I'll probably forget that I said that and it will perplex me.
Last week I picked up the easel! I took Friday afternoon off to bus myself up to Seven Sisters and actually finally managed to drop that amplifier back to Andy. It was heavy and awkward and I'm just so glad to be rid of it. The easel, on the other hand, was heavy and awkward and I love it to pieces. Andy found it at an antiques store once in the distant past. It has a little cardboard note dangling from it which says "Lady Bonham Carter with grateful thanks for the loan". Another hoot. Who knows whether it's a truthful representation as to the easel's past, but doesn't it touch up a nice story so well.
So, where are we at. I've sanded my pre-stretched canvas and I've applied two coats of gesso. Then, I managed to lay my first undercoat. This morning, now that the paint is mildly dry, I've sketched a charcoal of the vase and flowers which are my subject and then I mixed up the colour of one of the stripes on the vase but the undercoat wasn't dry and I had to abandon it. I can reuse the paint that I've mixed, so it's no matter. But I think that I've mixed the paint too thick and with too much oil. We'll see. I don't want the layers to come away from each other.
When will it dry? I hope soon. As with any of these hobbies, I need to start fast and enthusiastically. If the past is anything to judge by, as my enthusiasm wanes the hobby becomes a memory, an interesting talking point and another string on a rather useless bow.
Yesterday I started my "fruit diet". I'm interested to prove the theory that one need only sleep four hours a night on such a diet. I'll keep you updated on my progress. I would assume that it will take a few weeks to settle in and I'd base this assumption on the fact that I slept for nine hours last night. I had ruined myself with wine for the days running up to the diet so there's little more to be expected.
On Thursday I went to see The Habit of Art as I've mentioned. Oh... it was so good! Thomas has a couple of tickets for us so that I can go see it again in the extended season. Very, very enjoyable. I think I'll be purchasing a copy so that Daddy can have a read. Not the same as seeing Mr Griffiths in the flesh, but probably a fine enough way to experience it. I experienced Stoppard for the first time on the page, not to mention Wilde, and I don't feel any worse for it. I love them both. Even when Raymond Hawthorne stomps all over it with his direction. Yes, I'm referring to Rosencrantz at the Maidment all those years ago.
Back home from the lonely theatre, the election results were running up a storm. In fact, yesterday I lazed about, waiting for paint to dry, and watched the BBC, waiting for people to emerge from their respective houses. That's right... all-day door-watching and reports of people opening and closing them. Very boring. Everyone is so excited about forming a majority government. We do this all the time in New Zealand and we're fine. No riots. Sometimes it can take a couple of weeks to settle the numbers, ministers and such. MMP is the most democratic way, of course, and much more civilised.
Back to Friday afternoon, Andy and I had a greasy spoon. Actually, it wasn't greasy spoon breakfast but lunch, and we had lasagne and chips. My inside's are so terribly unhappy with me. I had tapas and cake for dinner that night at Raj's birthday and followed it on Saturday morning with Bloody Mary's and G&T's at the Hawley Arms. I chased it up with dinner at Satuma with Nicola. I love that place but you can see why the fruit diet is called for.
Poor little body.
And, really, that's why I haven't been blogging. Busy, busy, busy... as Vonnegut says. But, he refers to coincidences on a universal scale rather than the fact that I've been running helter skelter around the city falling, dancing, falling again... The dancing took place at Notting Hill Arts Club on Friday night after the tapas. It wasn't quite the same as our last visit. The live band was finishing up and the crowd was messy. I fought off an attempted rape by some drunken man whilst trying to get to Raj to say goodnight.
I've uploaded a photo because there's no reason to believe me without evidence. Not of the attempted rape which I could never prove because I'm using hyperbole in the first place, but of the painting. Hopefully you can make out the beginnings of an attempt at shading. I've used yellow ochre and cadmium yellow mixed with a large amount of titanium white and mineral spirits. Then I added some more of both colours to the palette to make the corners and shadows ready for the figure. I think I'll add some grey hue to the recesses because I can see some grey in the line of the walls meeting.
Incidentally, this is atop our heating unit - there is a boiler underneath it. Nick purchased the spoon that graces our wall whilst he was travelling in South America. Why did he buy a large spoon and cart it around South America with him? I'm still unsure.
Until the next riveting instalment of my life and times, adieu.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
2 May 2010
My love affair with the pavement continued this week. This time, I was on Oxford Street marching quickly to keep up with others. And there were these road works. Well, I caught my foot on a bollard, didn't I, and as I was none too steady on my stiletto, down I went. Face down. Ha! Hilarious.
I'm sporting a pretty little bruise on my chin, and some large grazes on my knee and hands. Oh, and I bemoan the loss of another pair of stockings! Life is such a struggle between trying to stay upright and laying oneself out flat. Next time I might actually do myself a mischief. It's almost reason not to venture out of the house at all. It's like the man who said that he would no longer own Siamese cats because, although he loved them dearly, the heartache was too much when they died. Who was he? I don't remember.
But, we must keep on! Taking care not to throw ourselves into the road as we hazard the world.
In other news, last night we all had tapas on Holloway Road. It was scrumptious! I am definitely going back there. Raj pretended that it was my birthday by striking up a song and the whole place started singing along. Isn't it nice when that happens? It's like living in a musical. I'd prefer it if everyone burst into Like a Prayer the way they did in the most recent episode of Glee.
I was flicking channels not watching it. I don't mind if you don't believe me.
And then we played foosball. Argh! I have to admit it. I've been to the local twice in as many days. I love that place. I need to take two wine glasses back to them though. If only people wouldn't insist on leaving when I haven't finished my drink, then I wouldn't have to borrow them.
In some ways, my birthday has been a little spread out this year. Yesterday Nicola gave me a present and it was David Foster Wallace. It's so brilliant! I can't wait to read it just as soon as I've finished the Muriel Spark that Chloe posted. I've been meaning to read Infinite Jest for so long now. Have you read it? Is it just as amazing as I imagine it is?
Stephen's present also arrived, having been delayed by the volcanic ash cloud, no doubt. He sent me the two Nudie Suits albums and by this point I was completely overcome. I'm blessed to have the best presents ever this year.
Tomorrow is a bank holiday. I think the plan is to sit inside tonight, watching the rain and the two DVDs that arrived in the post. Quiet and nice. And fair enough because this week will prove quite active. I had better watch my step lest I fall again. I've got two tickets to The Habit of Art and no one to go with. So, I'll take a big bag. Does anyone want to join me? Bag won't mind if you do.
I'm sporting a pretty little bruise on my chin, and some large grazes on my knee and hands. Oh, and I bemoan the loss of another pair of stockings! Life is such a struggle between trying to stay upright and laying oneself out flat. Next time I might actually do myself a mischief. It's almost reason not to venture out of the house at all. It's like the man who said that he would no longer own Siamese cats because, although he loved them dearly, the heartache was too much when they died. Who was he? I don't remember.
But, we must keep on! Taking care not to throw ourselves into the road as we hazard the world.
In other news, last night we all had tapas on Holloway Road. It was scrumptious! I am definitely going back there. Raj pretended that it was my birthday by striking up a song and the whole place started singing along. Isn't it nice when that happens? It's like living in a musical. I'd prefer it if everyone burst into Like a Prayer the way they did in the most recent episode of Glee.
I was flicking channels not watching it. I don't mind if you don't believe me.
And then we played foosball. Argh! I have to admit it. I've been to the local twice in as many days. I love that place. I need to take two wine glasses back to them though. If only people wouldn't insist on leaving when I haven't finished my drink, then I wouldn't have to borrow them.
In some ways, my birthday has been a little spread out this year. Yesterday Nicola gave me a present and it was David Foster Wallace. It's so brilliant! I can't wait to read it just as soon as I've finished the Muriel Spark that Chloe posted. I've been meaning to read Infinite Jest for so long now. Have you read it? Is it just as amazing as I imagine it is?
Stephen's present also arrived, having been delayed by the volcanic ash cloud, no doubt. He sent me the two Nudie Suits albums and by this point I was completely overcome. I'm blessed to have the best presents ever this year.
Tomorrow is a bank holiday. I think the plan is to sit inside tonight, watching the rain and the two DVDs that arrived in the post. Quiet and nice. And fair enough because this week will prove quite active. I had better watch my step lest I fall again. I've got two tickets to The Habit of Art and no one to go with. So, I'll take a big bag. Does anyone want to join me? Bag won't mind if you do.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Running out of reason...
No! Not reason to blog. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you with my latest title. I thought it was titularly titillating, that's all.
How do you titillate an ocelot?
...
Why, you oscillate its tit a lot, of course.
But, really, the reason that I'm running out of reason is all on account of Twitter. Now, I signed up to Twitter with a purpose. I use to trawl through my daily websites that I'd bookmarked, trying to keep up with the news, the gigs, the comment, et al...
But, I now find myself trawling through the last 24 hours events searching for something to read but being stymied by the fact that, in actual fact, the facts can be emitted through these two line headlines which still manage to fit in an incomprehensible link icon. There's no need to read on, mostly.
Good news for the busy woman. Bad news for anyone else. Surely a normal person wants to read an article? A "normal person". This isn't a rant blog. James hosts a rant blog. Read editingtheherald@blogspot.com. Or, if you've been following closely enough, you can go to the "Rest and Rant". They'll have you. Someone is bound to be ranting there.
I passed it again on the bus today. I pass it everyday, but today I found myself taking closer inspection. I should have been a detective. The place is an Ethiopian Restaurant or at least it appears to be for all intents and purposes, until you realise that the place has no windows. No - it has little to no windows. As in, the windows are little. They creep up the wall and they are spindly. What's happening in the Ethiopian Restaurant? I should try to obtain a meal from them in order to find out. Something terribly illicit. Something desperately illegal. Perhaps I'm missing out on the best Ethiopian in London. But, I doubt it because the best Ethiopian food has already apparently been acclaimed by Timeout magazine and it's on the other side of Camden. Do you disagree? What's the best Ethiopian you've had? I'm dying to know. Reading the Timeout makes me such a pseud, no?
Incidentally, and back to an idea I had at the top of the page, we already know that I started the blog without reason. I embrace the irrational every time I strike the keyboard. There was never a reason to start. There is equally no reason to stop. Have you ever seen The Holy Mountain? It's a film. Don't bother. Once shocking - once when it was made(Sorry Jon)- now, I'd argue vehemently that it's very closed-minded. Attacking something (organised religion) that should never exist for someone who was "open-minded" enough to bother sitting through the film. Artistic endeavour here is fraught with the limitations of the human condition. Here, the human condition is evidenced in the fact that the writer is so angry at humans. Oh, come now. If you're bigger than humans, be bigger than humans. The film takes us nowhere. You're lost? Perhaps you should see the film and then revisit this paragraph. Or better yet, see it and then give me a call. But first consider this: The argument propounded by the film is, to me, almost as closed-minded as positivism, I dare say. And we all know how vehemently I would argue that point. And if I was completely honest (because usually, I'm a flagrant liar), the argument bores me...
I forgot to mention. Something extraordinary happened on Saturday morning. I've lost the will to straighten my hair! What a surprise! I never thought it would happen. It's like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. Another set of burdens begins though. My hair is disfigured and wiry and never had any charm and now I have to consider it whenever I pass a mirror. I forced charm into it with the straighteners everyday until I realised that straightening had actually waned in fashion and insouciant and wild locks were on the wax. Waxing insouciance! I've embraced it but there is a lingering feeling of loss. Loss of a time when straight hair was acceptable and even demanded. I've also noticed the wedge heel return to fashion. If you knew me ten years ago, you'll remember that I would sport the wedge. I'd sport the platform. Oh, the days... The days!
I follow the fashion by purchasing a Vogue every now and again. I read a brilliant short story in the magazine whilst at the hair dressers one time... or perhaps I was at home on the couch... it doesn't matter. The story ends in two rather rich wives of old money sitting at an extremely expensive restaurant where a large bowl of chocolate mousse is placed in front of them in the centre of their table, once they've finished their salads, and they take a small bowl each of the mousse, then take another, then throw away the bowls and take large spoonfuls straight from the source. That cruel waiter! Oh, remember the days when you could order a torte with your tea and never see it on your hips the next day?! If life insists on ageing us, where is the reason to go forth into it... life wanes in the same way that straight hair does... Consider this: Penny used to straighten my hair on the ironing board before we went to a party. We were sixteen. My goodness, life wanes.
I should spout a verse. Goodness knows, it's been I while since I've written one - even a limerick! I've been working rather avidly at my screenplay, so in order to satiate your desire to read some poetry - as we all know, it should be consumed at regular intervals so as to remind ourselves of progress and hope in a despairing climate - I'll just cut and paste a little that I wrote last year after I went to see Waiting for Godot. Some fools, of course, walked out at half time, which reminds us of how despairing the climate truly is. It's just a trick to see the play in the flesh and, boy, did they do it by the book! Flailing on the ground and so forth. Here goes...
When I said goodbye
And went to the Beckett,
I exited to the right but
Returned later on the left
And you were still there
Drinking, but you’d switched
From vodka to gin and
I knew something was awry, but
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Yada, yada... You don't want more from me tonight, do you? I've never reflected on my absent audience overtly. Until now, perhaps. It's a sad wonder that I can go on like this, and nothing ... ever ... comes ... back.
How do you titillate an ocelot?
...
Why, you oscillate its tit a lot, of course.
But, really, the reason that I'm running out of reason is all on account of Twitter. Now, I signed up to Twitter with a purpose. I use to trawl through my daily websites that I'd bookmarked, trying to keep up with the news, the gigs, the comment, et al...
But, I now find myself trawling through the last 24 hours events searching for something to read but being stymied by the fact that, in actual fact, the facts can be emitted through these two line headlines which still manage to fit in an incomprehensible link icon. There's no need to read on, mostly.
Good news for the busy woman. Bad news for anyone else. Surely a normal person wants to read an article? A "normal person". This isn't a rant blog. James hosts a rant blog. Read editingtheherald@blogspot.com. Or, if you've been following closely enough, you can go to the "Rest and Rant". They'll have you. Someone is bound to be ranting there.
I passed it again on the bus today. I pass it everyday, but today I found myself taking closer inspection. I should have been a detective. The place is an Ethiopian Restaurant or at least it appears to be for all intents and purposes, until you realise that the place has no windows. No - it has little to no windows. As in, the windows are little. They creep up the wall and they are spindly. What's happening in the Ethiopian Restaurant? I should try to obtain a meal from them in order to find out. Something terribly illicit. Something desperately illegal. Perhaps I'm missing out on the best Ethiopian in London. But, I doubt it because the best Ethiopian food has already apparently been acclaimed by Timeout magazine and it's on the other side of Camden. Do you disagree? What's the best Ethiopian you've had? I'm dying to know. Reading the Timeout makes me such a pseud, no?
Incidentally, and back to an idea I had at the top of the page, we already know that I started the blog without reason. I embrace the irrational every time I strike the keyboard. There was never a reason to start. There is equally no reason to stop. Have you ever seen The Holy Mountain? It's a film. Don't bother. Once shocking - once when it was made(Sorry Jon)- now, I'd argue vehemently that it's very closed-minded. Attacking something (organised religion) that should never exist for someone who was "open-minded" enough to bother sitting through the film. Artistic endeavour here is fraught with the limitations of the human condition. Here, the human condition is evidenced in the fact that the writer is so angry at humans. Oh, come now. If you're bigger than humans, be bigger than humans. The film takes us nowhere. You're lost? Perhaps you should see the film and then revisit this paragraph. Or better yet, see it and then give me a call. But first consider this: The argument propounded by the film is, to me, almost as closed-minded as positivism, I dare say. And we all know how vehemently I would argue that point. And if I was completely honest (because usually, I'm a flagrant liar), the argument bores me...
I forgot to mention. Something extraordinary happened on Saturday morning. I've lost the will to straighten my hair! What a surprise! I never thought it would happen. It's like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. Another set of burdens begins though. My hair is disfigured and wiry and never had any charm and now I have to consider it whenever I pass a mirror. I forced charm into it with the straighteners everyday until I realised that straightening had actually waned in fashion and insouciant and wild locks were on the wax. Waxing insouciance! I've embraced it but there is a lingering feeling of loss. Loss of a time when straight hair was acceptable and even demanded. I've also noticed the wedge heel return to fashion. If you knew me ten years ago, you'll remember that I would sport the wedge. I'd sport the platform. Oh, the days... The days!
I follow the fashion by purchasing a Vogue every now and again. I read a brilliant short story in the magazine whilst at the hair dressers one time... or perhaps I was at home on the couch... it doesn't matter. The story ends in two rather rich wives of old money sitting at an extremely expensive restaurant where a large bowl of chocolate mousse is placed in front of them in the centre of their table, once they've finished their salads, and they take a small bowl each of the mousse, then take another, then throw away the bowls and take large spoonfuls straight from the source. That cruel waiter! Oh, remember the days when you could order a torte with your tea and never see it on your hips the next day?! If life insists on ageing us, where is the reason to go forth into it... life wanes in the same way that straight hair does... Consider this: Penny used to straighten my hair on the ironing board before we went to a party. We were sixteen. My goodness, life wanes.
I should spout a verse. Goodness knows, it's been I while since I've written one - even a limerick! I've been working rather avidly at my screenplay, so in order to satiate your desire to read some poetry - as we all know, it should be consumed at regular intervals so as to remind ourselves of progress and hope in a despairing climate - I'll just cut and paste a little that I wrote last year after I went to see Waiting for Godot. Some fools, of course, walked out at half time, which reminds us of how despairing the climate truly is. It's just a trick to see the play in the flesh and, boy, did they do it by the book! Flailing on the ground and so forth. Here goes...
When I said goodbye
And went to the Beckett,
I exited to the right but
Returned later on the left
And you were still there
Drinking, but you’d switched
From vodka to gin and
I knew something was awry, but
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Yada, yada... You don't want more from me tonight, do you? I've never reflected on my absent audience overtly. Until now, perhaps. It's a sad wonder that I can go on like this, and nothing ... ever ... comes ... back.
Monday, 26 April 2010
26 April 2010
There have actually been a couple of things on my mind lately. I'm just about to pick the pen back up and smash through a little more of this screen play - or the whole of the rest of it, hopefully. How likely it is that I'll ever finish something that I've started is an unknown but using past experience to generalise, I'd say it's about as likely as some really unlikely analogy...
Finding the man of my dreams at a speed dating night?
I use that analogy because I was talking about speed dating with Andy the other night. I think, as a result, I'm going to use the idea as the basis for the next scene that I write. Speed dating offers a lot of comic possibility and though I'm sure that I'm not writing a comedy, it's a realistic enough premise. I mean, there are a lot of people doing it and even more people signing up for internet dating.
These simply are not activities within the sphere of my reality. In order to write the scene, I'll probably have to do some field work. I only hope I have the gumption to go to a speed dating night. That would be mighty fun - especially with Mr Bird. Lordy, he is hilarious.
Kite flying. It's similar to speed dating in that it contains the same amount of syllables per word and uses a participle? Oh, it's been a long day. I can't get excited about grammar right now - I know you're shocked. It's also similar to speed dating in that it's been on my mind lately. An odd pastime? I think it is. The benefit? Well, Mary Poppins found it was good for the soul. But, probably it was more that it had a nice ring to it when it was laid next to the score of the film... much like spoonfuls of sugar. Since kite flying has been on my mind, and I've gone and written it down on the same post-it as speed dating, I think I'll just go ahead and bung it in my screen play too. It gives the director a chance to draw some lean, leaden cinematography out of the script. It might suit the tone.
Or they might just cut the scene altogether and overthrow the tone whilst they're at it by making it a comedy. That's okay. I'll still get a pay cheque... I haven't invested much love into the work. I think it's best not to. Investing love will only lead to heartache and that's true across the board of life, no? 'Tis a good block.
I was watching Gomorrah last night. That's a well-made film. There's been no end to well-made films lately, it seems. It drove me to write down a further idea on that aforementioned post-it. This time it was "enigma stripping".
Enigma stripping is the act of pole-dancing to Enigma and it's featured in the film. Boy, has it been a long time since I've heard Enigma. It never fails to bring a smile to my face. I'm not sure if that's the response that the musicians responsible were trying to elicit from me, but it's the one that they'll get. When I saw stripping coupled with Enigma, I thought "Of course! Enigma is the most appropriate music for stripping ever made!" Do you agree? You'll never think of Enigma in the same way. Goodness knows how you thought of Enigma in the first place. I'm sure that they can only elicit strange responses.
My voice is still absent. When I have to say something it resembles the honk of a goose. The rest of the time it's sotto voce. Or nada voce. Perhaps this is good for me? I don't know. I'm not too frustrated. Until someone tries to bait me. Or someone says something interesting and I want to engage. Sigh.
I'm listening to Mi Ami. They're punk-tastic. They're playing at Barden's Boudior next month and I have a couple of tickets and no one to take.
I think that's all I've got for you today.
For now...
Finding the man of my dreams at a speed dating night?
I use that analogy because I was talking about speed dating with Andy the other night. I think, as a result, I'm going to use the idea as the basis for the next scene that I write. Speed dating offers a lot of comic possibility and though I'm sure that I'm not writing a comedy, it's a realistic enough premise. I mean, there are a lot of people doing it and even more people signing up for internet dating.
These simply are not activities within the sphere of my reality. In order to write the scene, I'll probably have to do some field work. I only hope I have the gumption to go to a speed dating night. That would be mighty fun - especially with Mr Bird. Lordy, he is hilarious.
Kite flying. It's similar to speed dating in that it contains the same amount of syllables per word and uses a participle? Oh, it's been a long day. I can't get excited about grammar right now - I know you're shocked. It's also similar to speed dating in that it's been on my mind lately. An odd pastime? I think it is. The benefit? Well, Mary Poppins found it was good for the soul. But, probably it was more that it had a nice ring to it when it was laid next to the score of the film... much like spoonfuls of sugar. Since kite flying has been on my mind, and I've gone and written it down on the same post-it as speed dating, I think I'll just go ahead and bung it in my screen play too. It gives the director a chance to draw some lean, leaden cinematography out of the script. It might suit the tone.
Or they might just cut the scene altogether and overthrow the tone whilst they're at it by making it a comedy. That's okay. I'll still get a pay cheque... I haven't invested much love into the work. I think it's best not to. Investing love will only lead to heartache and that's true across the board of life, no? 'Tis a good block.
I was watching Gomorrah last night. That's a well-made film. There's been no end to well-made films lately, it seems. It drove me to write down a further idea on that aforementioned post-it. This time it was "enigma stripping".
Enigma stripping is the act of pole-dancing to Enigma and it's featured in the film. Boy, has it been a long time since I've heard Enigma. It never fails to bring a smile to my face. I'm not sure if that's the response that the musicians responsible were trying to elicit from me, but it's the one that they'll get. When I saw stripping coupled with Enigma, I thought "Of course! Enigma is the most appropriate music for stripping ever made!" Do you agree? You'll never think of Enigma in the same way. Goodness knows how you thought of Enigma in the first place. I'm sure that they can only elicit strange responses.
My voice is still absent. When I have to say something it resembles the honk of a goose. The rest of the time it's sotto voce. Or nada voce. Perhaps this is good for me? I don't know. I'm not too frustrated. Until someone tries to bait me. Or someone says something interesting and I want to engage. Sigh.
I'm listening to Mi Ami. They're punk-tastic. They're playing at Barden's Boudior next month and I have a couple of tickets and no one to take.
I think that's all I've got for you today.
For now...
Sunday, 25 April 2010
25 April 2010
I lost my voice last night. Which is fine, mostly. Until I find myself listening to Hole and wanting to sing along in an angry shouty fashion and I can't. I can merely internalise it.
Argh, it's torture. She's screaming; I'm screaming on the inside. It's enough to make you burst. I'm hopeful that the next song on the playlist is a quiet one.
I've got whisper capabilities but I think I'll avoid all forms of voice communication today. I have a meeting tomorrow at which I'd prefer not to sit in the corner quietly.
Last night, I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. I actually think that it is too cheesy for me. And, I'm generally a fan of cheese. But, this was on another level.
Speaking of cheese, I've threatened Andy that I'll sneak into his apartment and put stilton under his pillow and leave a note in his fridge to advise "the cheese is under the pillow". We were discussing ways in which we could repel each other so much that the friendship wouldn't be able to stand it. It's an impossibility - the friendship will even outlast clandestine stilton antics. That's love.
Nick is making a spaghetti bolognese this weekend. It's taken him quite a few hours already. He took a break to go to the Bowling Lanes and now he's back at it. It's at least another six hours apparently. I've had a craving for it for weeks. I even picked up one of those meal for one spag bols at Waitrose, but my conscience got the better of me and I put it down again. I've really gotten funny about animal products...
But, my lentil salad is just a dream, so...
Why is this spag bol taking so long? It's Heston's recipe - you know, Mr Science-meets-food. I threatened to make a regular bolognese in order to compare. I wonder if Heston's really outdoes Mother's bol in twenty minutes?
Hopefully, after a little bowl of bol, I'll have quenched this little craving and I can move onto the next one, which incidentally is fish. Having mentioned this, it seems that I can look forward to a fish stew replete with chorizo. It's a charmed life, living with an experimental chef.
There's nothing else. I'm supposed to have just arrived back in London from Las Vegas. Lover sent me a charming and lascivious photo of himself reclining in what was to be our hotel in the City of Lights. It's okay, I've come to terms with it. I hope he avoids the tornadoes in the South as he heads across the country. His journey is truly beset by nature's adversity. Between ash clouds and floods and being airlifted out of Machu Pichu, it really does seem as if something is throwing obstacles in his path. But, as I follow certain gnostic tendencies, obstacles are what bring us closer an understanding of the whole. He's leaping towards the zenith in great bounds.
And, as much as could go on, tangentially because I have no further news, I'm starved for breakfast and I've just cleaned up the juicer. I have a brilliant array of vegetables, including my favourite vegetable of all time - beetroot! Oh how I love thee!
Have a juice-tastic day! I know I will.
Argh, it's torture. She's screaming; I'm screaming on the inside. It's enough to make you burst. I'm hopeful that the next song on the playlist is a quiet one.
I've got whisper capabilities but I think I'll avoid all forms of voice communication today. I have a meeting tomorrow at which I'd prefer not to sit in the corner quietly.
Last night, I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. I actually think that it is too cheesy for me. And, I'm generally a fan of cheese. But, this was on another level.
Speaking of cheese, I've threatened Andy that I'll sneak into his apartment and put stilton under his pillow and leave a note in his fridge to advise "the cheese is under the pillow". We were discussing ways in which we could repel each other so much that the friendship wouldn't be able to stand it. It's an impossibility - the friendship will even outlast clandestine stilton antics. That's love.
Nick is making a spaghetti bolognese this weekend. It's taken him quite a few hours already. He took a break to go to the Bowling Lanes and now he's back at it. It's at least another six hours apparently. I've had a craving for it for weeks. I even picked up one of those meal for one spag bols at Waitrose, but my conscience got the better of me and I put it down again. I've really gotten funny about animal products...
But, my lentil salad is just a dream, so...
Why is this spag bol taking so long? It's Heston's recipe - you know, Mr Science-meets-food. I threatened to make a regular bolognese in order to compare. I wonder if Heston's really outdoes Mother's bol in twenty minutes?
Hopefully, after a little bowl of bol, I'll have quenched this little craving and I can move onto the next one, which incidentally is fish. Having mentioned this, it seems that I can look forward to a fish stew replete with chorizo. It's a charmed life, living with an experimental chef.
There's nothing else. I'm supposed to have just arrived back in London from Las Vegas. Lover sent me a charming and lascivious photo of himself reclining in what was to be our hotel in the City of Lights. It's okay, I've come to terms with it. I hope he avoids the tornadoes in the South as he heads across the country. His journey is truly beset by nature's adversity. Between ash clouds and floods and being airlifted out of Machu Pichu, it really does seem as if something is throwing obstacles in his path. But, as I follow certain gnostic tendencies, obstacles are what bring us closer an understanding of the whole. He's leaping towards the zenith in great bounds.
And, as much as could go on, tangentially because I have no further news, I'm starved for breakfast and I've just cleaned up the juicer. I have a brilliant array of vegetables, including my favourite vegetable of all time - beetroot! Oh how I love thee!
Have a juice-tastic day! I know I will.
Monday, 19 April 2010
19 April 2010
It's true that I've been too blue to blog. What a sorry state of affairs it has been. I mean really, volcanoes...
But, we must move on and count our blessings. I'm a big believer in fate. I think it's nice to recognise that there is plenty of existence that is unfathomable to the human mind. I had that very same argument with Nick over a burger at Big Red on Saturday. We were both extraordinarily hung over and it was hard to grasp that I couldn't take a positivist view on some matter. I spit on you, positivism!
I don't spit on science though... it's a brilliant pastime... full of wonderful theories...
That's what started it, now I come to think of it... I called physics a theory. Why were we talking about physics? I believe it was something to do with mayonnaise or something equally ridiculous. I think the moral of the story is, don't start a conversation about the wonders of science with me when we're desperately hung over.
Coachella. I've been going on about it for five years now. It wasn't a whim. It was a destination that I was going to make at least once in my life. We waited to see the line-up and then booked it. It was my birthday present from lover. Next year? Oh, I don't know.
What a drama queen.
On Thursday the news came through and for the next 36 hours I was glued to the BBC watching the cloud unfold over Northern Europe. Every eight hours or so another flight that I was on was cancelled and my travel agent called to say that I was on the next available one. Always, always choose Flight Centre in High Street Kensington. They are miracle workers.
Coachella took place in my lounge on Friday night. It started with Nick placing a glass of red in my hand as we discussed whether I actually wanted to listen to my Coachella playlist or whether that would be too emotional. After another couple of glasses I'd put the playlist on, but with no dinner in my stomach, that's about as far as my memory goes. I know we were at Big Red when my third flight was cancelled because that was the point when Jade, seeing a rather morose face on me, bought a Big Red singlet for me! And what does it say? "Bitch, you ain't shit!". It has a picture of two scantily women, one on hands and knees, the other atop the first, riding her like a horse. It's tres hot. We'd been joking the previous week that we'd get a matching pair. Well, I couldn't let her go without, so I bought one for her too. And now we're really cool.
Just bear in mind that Big Red services the woman who work at the Pentonville Prison.
So, after all that, we went to Martin's for some Rock Band action and staggered home at about ten o'clock in the morning. On the way, I called Flight Centre, called the trip off and went home to face the landlords who were making a visit to see if they could fix the cistern, the shower, the hot water and those other items that I've been complaining of recently. That was an ordeal. I can't even write about it - the memories that it stirs up are horrific. Why, oh, why couldn't they just call a plumber?!
But, whilst they were there, I did manage to produce some excellent Melonart. Nick bought me a large yellow melon on the way home from lunch and this melon resembled a lemon. A melemon. A lemelon?
And, as we sat around the kitchen table, waiting for them to be done with replacing some sort of something in the cistern, which ultimately didn't work, I picked up a pen and drew a lovely little lacrimose face on my lemelon.
Jacques had mentioned a book called Stuff on my Cat. I think that was the name - you get the picture regardless. It features, amongst other things, a cat with whipped cream and a cherry on top of its head. Cruel? I don't know. What kind of personality does the cat have? Some cats don't mind these things. Amusing? Seemed to be.
Well, this is Things on Fruit. Fruitart. Lemelonart? The fruit needn't be only drawn on. We were discussing sequins and glitter for our pineapple. I've taken a photo of the melonart for your viewing pleasure.
This weekend, I also introduced Nick to Look Around You. I've shown some of you already. Initially it was a show that Andy had introduced me to. And if you look it up on Youtube, you'll understand. I recommend that you start with Water and move to Iron. It's the ants and the scissors that take my fancy.
I tell you what though. The house looks amazing. When I'm vexed, I clean. Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle!
I've just finished a long chat about the woes of opportunities lost to a volcano with Tommy. I must say, it's hit us both hard. But, there were many more much greater tragedies. Bone marrow only lasts for 72 hours and often needs to be carried by air to its destination as the donor lives abroad. There are people who will not have their transplants.
Perspective.
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