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.