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.

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...

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...