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.

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...

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.

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.

15 April 2010

It's certainly a day like no other. I'm stranded in London due to a large volcanic ash cloud which has grounded my flight to Coachella. This morning, my boss texted me to tell me the news, so I jumped out of bed and switched on the tele. What horror. The story unfolded and slowly it became clear that I was not leaving today.

So, it seems an excellent reason to blog. I mean, what on earth else could I do with myself now that I've sorted my new flight and cancelled accommodation and what not?

Nothing. That's right. Nothing, but feel sorry for myself. But I won't. I will march on in the hope that I can fly out tomorrow. Please blow away ash, oh please! Incidentally, this means that I will miss Yeasayer, Passion Pit, Gil Scott Heron, LCD Sound System and the Specials. I'm displeased. Especially at Passion Pit who have recently lit my fire.

But the news! That's what you want to hear, no? Well I have plenty.

I turned older. Yes, me, old... wizened, saggy, hoary... all these things. I've decided that I'm going to give up law. Not because I dislike it so much but because I think that I'd make a really great architect. Stand aside Gehry! Imagine - I'd be so good at doing all the projects at university and then working painstakingly on design and doing crazy theoretical explorations into deconstructionism in relation to the built environment. Surely there's nothing to stop me changing career. I'm not that old, am I?

But, then I went to the beautician and thought that perhaps I should retrain as that. I would surely be good at ripping people's hair out of their skin - I'd get every last one of the suckers so that my client's will be glabrous and pristine...

I'm not dreaming. I'm quite serious. I'll start looking into courses now.

Last Saturday Jade and I celebrated our birthday's together. We'd been out to a little French cafe in Holloway and after two cups of coffee which left us very shaky, we decided that we needed to do something to mark our respective occasions. At nine that night we reconvened over a bottle of wine at my house and discussed smocking.

Did you ever see that sign next to Maungawhai which had community notices on it? Well, something made me think of a sign that once said "Interested in smocking?" And I thought, actually, I'm more interested to know what on earth it is more than interested in taking part in a team of smocksters... smockinators?

Anyway, we've decided that we should make a documentary extolling the beauty of smocking. Jade suggested the revolutionary aspects of smocking - smocking is the key to subversion of societal foundations to produce a new order of being. Smocking is the fabric of the world, smocking is the future for our children...

You can imagine the types of people who smock. These will be our interviewees. It seems that it will be more of a mockumentary. Perhaps one that, although it explores the smockination possibilities, never actually tells the audience what the sport is. Sport, pastime? Wasted time?

What do I know about wasted time. I spent my actual birthday drinking wine and doing a puzzle that I'd picked up from the opportunity shop. It's a photo of man on the canal with his canal boat in canal get-up. In a word, it's brilliant.

Smocking is similar to crocheting, it seems.

On Sunday, Jade and I moved between cafes and pubs in a dissatisfied and hungover manner. We were suffering from our lovely night at Big Red where we were surrounded by rather hardcore rockers with long hair and tattoos. Well, I have long hair and just the one tattoo. Therein probably lies the difference. We played foosball. It was a very short game. But a fast game is a good game. We applied this little mantra to Scrabble the next night at the pub. Yes, we took the Scrabble board to the pub, ordered wine and sat there until we'd run out of letters.

Then we pasted the letters to our faces until they rang the bell and turned on the lights.

And I woke up with a headache on my birthday. But boy did I have a great weekend.

In terms of presents, Jade found some free lamps in someone's front garden. We both needed lamps, so we swiped them. What luck.

In terms of poetry, I have none for you. But I do have a message from my birthday card from Stephen that is nicely poetic and so I've transcribed it here:

"You are there and we are here - but here and there only involve an extra letter, this being the letter "t". Letter with the letter "t" is still "leter" and quite frankly still understandable I am sure."

I like that. It's sweet.

Daddy's message was, on the other hand, Tennyson. Lyrical in a different way. Even lyrical regardless of the fact that the extract was a celebration of feet. Yes, that's right. Tennyson expounding the wonders of a pretty foot.

In terms of music, I'm not listening to any. I have the news blaring in the background for news of the volcanic cloud.

Oh, and Mos Def. Well, the silly man only played for an hour and wouldn't do an encore. But, he was brilliant whilst he was on. I had a lovely Thai dinner with Nicola and Jesse in She Bu since that was where I was seeing Mos. But, the waiter talked too much. I didn't want to talk to the waiter - I wanted to talk to Nicola and Jesse - did the waiter think that I didn't have enough to say to them without his aiding the conversation? Well, I think we all know that I don't run out of things to say to people. Quite the contrary - I didn't have enough time to spit it all out between mouthfuls. I generally overcome this by chewing and speaking at the same time. It's a charming way to converse and I do it because I care.

Nick couldn't come to the concert in the end as he was lying in bed, hugging his stomach and looking deathly pale. Food poisoning, so he alleges. So Raj and I went without him. Raj is a brilliant concert-going companion. He agrees that "I spy" is a good way to pass the time if you arrive at a gig at nine o'clock and Mos doesn't come on stage until ten. Never been so cool. I astound myself with my coolness.

Mos' real name is Dante. I love that! Unfortunately, Dante was no where to be seen at the stage door, so instead of partying with him after the gig, the way I did with Moby, I had to catch the bus home.

As no other events spring to mind, I'll stop here and return to my news vigil. If I don't make it to the States this weekend, Coachella will be subject to a change of venue. My house. As the bands won't be able to fly in due to the deathly ash cloud, I'll be breaking out the ipod, playing the set list that I assume they would play themselves and drowning in wine the thought that I could be finally seeing my lover... life's such a lonely affair without him.

You're most welcome to join but it looks so much more tragically despairing if I do it alone...

Let's call it 9 April 2010

Actually, I found an old post from last week that I never managed to upload so here goes:

The longer I sit here, the more likely it is that I will find something to say. I find that applies in most of my pursuits. Work, writing, conversation...

And so I've sat here for a minute, mildly terrified that the blog-fodder might be drying up and within a minute been able to get something down.

This week, the weather has turned. It's now officially British Summertime and it is good. Next week, I'll be in the States and I've been told that it will be 28 degrees there. Now I'm mortified at the fact that the weather will call for short shorts and I'm still shedding that blubber that I like to amass for the winter months. Tonight, I have grand designs. I'll be pulling out the tent which Briony left here, and in fact belongs to a man that she used to work with (how do we gather so much trash on our journeys?) and checking to make sure that it's suitable to the task of housing two of us over the course of the festival. I'm not sure that the decision to cart a tent all the way to Palm Springs is a sound one, but I'm pressing on as if it is.

Did you notice that I'm still working? Well, I am. Apparently, I have stable employment for another month or so. I'm not fussed. Instead I've plateaued at indifference at the whole affair. It's easier than getting all hepped up over things that you just can't change. That's quite Bokononian. Have you read Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut? If not, you must. Apart from being utterly hilarious, it leaves you with a nice taste of futility in man's endeavours.

I'm turning another year older on Monday. I've decided not to celebrate this birthday. The Chinese don't celebrate birthday's after the age of 21, or so I've heard. Well, I've stopped at 18, or so I say. Mother and Father sent me some Ohmar Pamuk. Three books even! Oh, that will be brilliant reading for the plane! What a good gift. Not a Mastodon, but it will do just fine.

I've got a couple of tickets to see Belle and Sebastian play at Latitude festival in July and I couldn't be happier. The credit card is maxed to the limit but I can assure myself that it is worth it. Two festivals in one year is quite indulgent, but I've got to smash through the last of my objectives whilst I'm still on this side of the world. I mean, the visa only lasts so long. I'll be out of here in 18 months. Mild panic.

This week has also seen the sewing of many holes. My clothes are falling apart in so many places and I'm loathe to replace them. I find it quite zen, sitting there, bent over a needle, mending. A quiet life is surely something to be treasured.

I desperately need to get out of the office. I'll post again soon, I'm sure.

12 April 2010

I have a lot to blog about. Be prepared. The next post will be turgid with events. For now though, it's half-written until I finish celebrating the birthday. I'll shift that event into the past and tell you all about it...

5 April 2010

April hasn't been too cruel so far. In fact, it's been swell. I've done practically nothing for four days straight. How nice.

I did actually go out on Friday night to the Notting Hill Arts Club. That was a good night. So good that I managed to down only three glasses of wine because the last one disappeared before I had a chance to drink it - thank goodness. I really was a little too insouciant about leaving it one a random ledge whilst I continued to dance. We must have danced for about four hours straight. By two in the morning, it was time for some dirty falafel kebab and a trip home on the night bus. Lucky for me there is a direct bus from my house to the club. It bodes well for repeating the experience. The journey home was fraught with discussions about the existence of God and whether atheists are closed-minded. I'd like to think that I won but, to be truthful, it ended rather abruptly once we'd arrived home and realised that we could be in bed instead of debating.

And that's it! That's it! I've lain in various places around the house, sat in different chairs and upon different sofas, picked up different books, watched different channels.

I did have fun with lentils and wild rice. I've eaten so much of them this weekend on account of the fact that I didn't quite get my amounts right and produced a ruddy great bowl of the stuff. The mixture also included pearl barley and brown rice and is divine hot or cold with roasted vegetables or salad greens and chickpeas with a little lemon juice drizzled atop.

And slowly the minutes tick by and each one brings me closer to the end of this most relaxing Easter...

There was a sore point however. This was when I decided to have a bottle of red wine with dinner last night and the cork fell apart. Why me? Oh woe. What is it with corks? It must be the bottle opener - the new one - that replaced the one that Jade and I broke that fateful night. Well, this time it was unsalvageable. It fell apart into little piece, so tiny that even a sieve couldn't remove them. The bottle is still sitting on the bench laughing at me. Perhaps, if I had a cloth, I could strain it? Who would have such a cloth? I certainly don't. Jamie Oliver would. I've seen him use it on home-made tomato sauce.

Mother says that the house is coming along nicely. The jib is up and it almost looks like a house on the inside as well as the outside. Stephen is moving into a house which has a yard for a pony. Father has made the assumption that I can fit a Mastodon in my front yard because he says that he's sending me one over for my birthday. Apparently it will chew on the foliage and generally be a charming and docile pet. Probably unnecessary, but let's wait and see.

I know all this because I checked in on the comings and goings of family last night with an Easter phone call, obviously.

I can't tell you any more. I can't even find more lies to tell you about soccer. Nothing interesting is happening with Arsenal except apparently that Spanish people hurt themselves whilst playing against them.

So, for now and until later...

1 April 2010

Stephen sent me a text to tell me that "April is the cruellest month ... "

I called him back and muttered something about hollow men. Then he meowed like a cat.

This is the link the the delightful piece that won this year's competition, although I will tell you now it's a bit too delightful for me. Delightful, shall we say, in the sense that it ticks boxes, and ticks them none too quietly.

http://www.bnz.co.nz/binaries/2009-KMA-The-Windmill-Premier.pdf

And I think that short stories are a charming art, but the form is too boring surely? I wonder what Chloe thinks. I've emailed her to find out. It was brilliant when Katherine did it. Only the other day I read The Signal Man by Mr Dickens, and that was brilliant, spooky and I recommend it. I found it in one of the second-hand stores down Mornington Crescent Way; it's in a collection of British short stories that cost me a pound. Speaking of Dickens, I'm working on an agreement in relation to the installation of a piece of public art down in Holborn. It's called the Harmonic Tree and it recalls Bleak House apparently. It's a great, swirling affair. One of the residents commented on the choice of design, pointing out that it would be much more appopriate to have a statue of the great man. Well, I don't know about that. Much more bleak, I suppose, but must we see his great Victorian figure bearing down upon us and the pidgeons. Surely it's enough to have that great thing in the yard of Buckingham Palace mounted by Victoria herself just down the road.

Back to short stories. I think I'll write one. I won't even have to look at the book on how to write short stories as I do for the screenplays (although you'd think that watching a few movies and putting two and two together could have sufficed). I just have to read the Katherine Mansfield back-catalogue. And perhaps the Penguin? Or are they a little more avant-garde? And now what springs to mind is that I read The Destructors by Greene recently. I bought his collected short stories the other day at the book shop (not for a pound). Moved me to tears actually. It's the one that they reference in Donnie Darko.

Yesterday, I went to the hairdresser. I asked for dark brown. Crazy, I know! Next time I'll be back to black. Why? Oh, I don't know - it's just not as nice and even when it's brown. I want people to see the infinite dark matter of the universe when they look down upon my head (that's generally the vantage point, isn't it?). Actually, I'm quite sure that my lovely hairdresser who I like so much and keep dreaming about, messed up. I guess no one is perfect. My hair is almost perfect though, so I mustn't complain.

And whilst I was sitting in the chair and he was ruffle-drying my hair and trying to figure out how to turn on the new straighteners which have supposedly surpassed the humble GHD, I composed some lines but, without a pen and paper to hand at the time, I forgot them. So, for your pleasure, I've composed some new ones and set them out for you here even though the meter is just a fright:

You pull my hair straight through the tongs,
I think your eyes are like a song.
Then you fiddle with the on-off button,
Whilst Vogue exposed a piece on stewing mutton.

You talk about the theory of lost socks,
But I just wish you'd focus on my locks.
You run your fingers through my hair as I,
Recall the ugly dips and lumps on high.

(Such is the formation of my scalp)

And I baulk at the fact that you are thinking about that too.

Does daylight saving mess with you as despicably as it messes with me? Alright, I've had some kind of illness. I keep getting an awful sinking feeling and find myself short of breath. I've discussed it with others and we're throwing around the idea of a chest infection. That's quite a debilitating problem and might be the reason for my nine hour long sleeping marathons every night and the chest pain. Probably nothing to worry about, but thank goodness there's four days of holiday to convalesce. I also intend to attend church this weekend. I'll throw in a prayer for you lot. There's one just around the corner from me off Cally Road. Speaking of the spiritual, I'm reading Hesse's Siddhartha at the moment. I just love where he's coming from. I also love that I can smash this book within days, it's so small. Perfect really. Discrete.

Tonight, I'm having dinner with Nicola. She likes Thai, so I've suggested Thai. But, there's the issue of my new dietry regime. As of Monday, I've been on an all non-processed food diet so lots of fruit and steamed vegetables and the like. I've looked at the menu. I can do rice, salad, tea (at a stretch)... there's a steamed broccoli side dish... the mouth waters... Tofu is, I think, off the menu because although I enjoy it, it's processed like cheese apparently and that seems like a lot of processing to me. Nick was kind enough to wiki it for me to find out just exactly how it was made - the subject line of his email to me read "It's kind of like cheese". What an intriguing subject line. Really tickles. Nick also mentioned that he had a hankering for some fried chicken. No, I think his exact words were "dirty fried chicken". I reminded him of the chickens and how they were treated and suggested that he buy some nicely treated chickens who had had a good run of it and were fed on actual food and bugs and things that chickens ought to eat and then he could make an extra special home-style coating for it out of natural ingredients. Well, I persuaded him in the long-term, but in the short term he's taking his chicken the dirty way. Apparently it was hard to enjoy once I'd reminded him of the terrible animal cruelty that he was supporting.

I'm sure I've already mentioned that I'm off animal products for the moment. And yes, I know you're wondering - it is hard being this pure of heart.

I've branched out though. I've managed to down some kiwifruit. Only a couple of slices, but it's enough to get my body responding - I'm mildly allergic so consumption brings on a slight redness of the skin and puffery around the glands. Why do I torture myself? It's just such a pretty fruit... sigh. I was at Borough markets one weekend and we picked up some kiwiberries. Miniature kiwifruit! So tiny! Argh! Swoon.

This weekend, I'm having fun with lentils and wild rice. I'll keep you posted on the results.

Oh, and well done Arsenal for smashing Barcelona in a brilliant come-back. Nicola's going to Barcelona this weekend. Have fun lady! Enjoy the Gaudi.

Sandra's considering Cuba this year. I piped up, quite randomly, that Tom was in Panama at the moment on a boat and so it sprung to her mind. Doesn't that sound fantastic? Better than sitting here in the office with the rain beating down. It's so late now, even the cleaners are leaving. Anyway - I told Sandra to just book it! Just do it! Whim follow!

That's a grand imperative.

She looked up a couple of deals and then decided to flag it for the moment. Not the way I roll, but each to their own, I guess. Cuba. How nice would that be? And that Panama traveller referred to above is on his way there too. I watched a smidgen of Che - Part I last night before I was too tuckered to continue. It's very lean cinamatography and it requires, I think, the right mood. I'll revisit it over the course of the weekend.

For now, I have a bus to catch and some tofu to avoid...