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...