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.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
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.
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