20 November 2011

This post has been a long time coming. It's a difficult thing packing up and moving to the other side of the world. Especially when one has a tendency to hoard as I do. These logistics are time-consuming to say the least. I had it in mind that my last two weeks in London would be made up of a few days of packing up and a number of days at the V & A or perhaps the Wellcome Collection. As it stands, I still haven't been to either. The many necessary trips down to the Holloway Road to organise and to post and to print have prevented me. I did however manage to get to Marrakech which has always been a high priority. However, once there, I found that the harassment on the streets by men quite unnerving. It was chilly and therefore my cleavage was in no way on display. On the contrary, it was hidden under two scarves. I found it wearying and sordid. The city itself was a city. I'm sure that I've made the right decision to leave off traveling when my capacity for or interest in describing the wonders of a city have ceased. I'm afraid that makes me sound bitter - but I'm certainly not. I'm grateful to have done it but also happy that it is over. Perhaps this is my way of accepting the change.

This reminds me of something that I just read... Here it is, an extract from the D.F. Wallace that I'm reading, where he takes an extract from DeLillo (which is ironic in itself if you consider the irony of the passage):

Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.

"No one sees the barn," he said finally.

A long silence followed.

"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."

He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.

We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."

There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.

"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."

Another silence ensued.

"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.

And that's traveling.

Here's another observation that illustrates the point: apart from the camels, the Ourika Valley in the Altas Mountains reminds me very much of the Gisborne Gorge, which I have driven through on innumerable occasions.

I'm in Thailand and I've just had breakfast and I'm stuck in this lounging restaurant because the rain is hurling itself out of the sky. My room is thirty second walk away but if I attempted it I would be soaked through. All I can think is that I left the window ajar and the hammock swinging with a pillow in it. I hope that my proprietress doesn't find me and my sodden linen out. There's no sign of relent in this storm.

The family of the proprietress are playing some sort of game involving taking a small red bucket out into the rain whilst under the protection of a small red umbrella. It seems amusing. I'm amused. Although the point escapes me. Thirteen more days of this for me, wherein hopefully I see some more sunshine so that I can restore this alabaster complexion to its natural colour before I embark on the final leg of this relocation effort.

Yesterday, the electricity went out for most of the day. In the afternoon there was also a great thunderstorm which hampered my efforts to wash and dry a bundle of clothes. The thunder was so loud that it produced some rather irrational butterflies within the stomach. So long as my primitive little bungalow doesn't get washed down the cliff, I'll be able to watch another sunset from this glorious vantage point (pictured above).

Further, I saw the biggest bug in the world last night. It flew at me whilst I was engrossed in Daphne du Maurier. She served me well. She helped me to swipe the behemoth away and then again smack it through the floorboards. I shall be pleased to be home where the bugs are of an acceptable size.

Excuse any mistakes above - I shall not be editing, let alone casting my eye over it.

29 August 2011

It's been a wee roller-coaster over the last couple of weeks or perhaps the last month say. Only a wee one. I don't like roller-coasters, dizzying heights or exhilarating experiences. But, I've come to a decision about my UK visa expiry which takes place at the end of November. I actually have the right to apply for two more years under my current visa allowances but recently my heart has sunk every time I thought about what the next year would bring. What a surprising reaction! Next year sees the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics in London. I've an extra-specially amazing team of colleagues and plenty of exciting work and the bank account is not likely to sustain me for long without employment. Not to mention the fact that the painting does not want a slap-dash finish. This was entirely not the plan. I'm sure when I left, I said to everyone, "five years or forever".

It's Bank Holiday Monday and I'm indoors having a Rolling Stones marathon whilst the rest of London attends the Carnival. I'm disinclined to join them. I've been every other year and I'm sure I'm still reeling from the Fruits de la Mer Fantasie of Saturday night (pun intended). It was a joyous occasion. Martin, Nicholas and Emily woke at the crack of dawn and headed to Billingsgate Fish Market for some early morning bargains which constituted a huge feast. That evening, we devoured almost every single morsel. The mussels and prawns went especially fast. It was like a pack of seagulls had descended on the coffee table.

Our house guest, Celia, is at the Carnival today. We've been looking after her effects more than her because she's such a get-about. As soon as her school term ended she was off, traveling everywhere. Terribly peripatetic. Speaking of the Greeks, one of the first places she went was Athens. Whilst there she was to take the trip up to Delphi and so when I sent her off one work-day morning, having just woken up and feeling very much still full of sleep, I summoned up for her the energy to do the "Navel of the World" routine. You probably know the one. It takes a very thick Mid-West American accent set at a piercing pitch.

When I was one in Delphi, when I was a good deal younger, my companions and I were particularly keen to see the navel of the world - a large stone affair which looks like half and egg on a plinth. It's the kind of belly-button one might get if the doctor hasn't tied their umbilical cord quite tight enough. When we found it, two very large American woman had parked their very large butts up against it which was prohibiting our getting a satisfactory photo of the thing. After a while, we managed to get their attention which was difficult, to say the least, because they were giving each other an in-depth account of the items that they liked to have for breakfast.

"I have my eggs once a week. And my oatmeal everyday, everyday."

"Oh, a photo! You want a photo? What is it? Oh the navel. The navel of the World? How do you know this?"

You've heard this one, no doubt. It's nice to be reminded. I'll do it again for you sometime. Anyway, with that, I sent Celia on her way, and I've hardly seen her since!

Granted, I was away myself, spending some time back in New Zealand to celebrate Mother's Sixtieth. It's a big occasion. I'm glad that I was there. I must admit, I was also using the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. I wanted to be clear on how I felt about leaving London and moving back home. It has been four years. I do think that's a good effort (although, I remain surprised at myself).

It wasn't life though. It was a holiday. I had a wild time full of parties and wanderings and ramblings and sitting and gazings... There was cider and wine and tea and long breakfasts. Is that really what it's like there? Certainly not. And if it was, I would be simply obese after a few months. But it was nice, nonetheless. Stephen and I sat in front of the tank at Kelly Tarlton's watching the great, old stingrays circle their tank. Why don't I just show you... here, I've added the video. Isn't it grand?

I was plagued by cake for the duration of the trip. Everywhere I turned, cake, right there! I must have eaten enough to be certifiably cake-product by the time I left. Needless to say, it's been a strict regime of vegetables since landing at Heathrow. You couldn't imagine how many times I had to do the "Cake or Death?" routine. I love it so.

Cake, or death?
Death, no! Cake, cake, I mean cake.
You said death.
Oh, but I meant cake.
Oh, very well.

So as cake plagued me, everyone else was plagued by me reciting this routine until it was done to death.

Routine or death?
Routine, no! Death, death, I mean death.
You said routine.
Oh, but I meant death.
Oh, very well.

I seem to have a few routines up my sleeve that I've been recycling lately - what with the fat ladies on the navel and pilfering from Izzard.

On moving: What if it's all a huge mistake!? London is a wonderful place to live (forget the riots for now). Emily and I were following the crowd between some very hip place in Shoreditch, with a brilliant rooftop where you can watch the sun go down over the sprawling buildings, and another very hip Pizza place. I felt far too trendy in this the very trendiest of districts. I'm practically a scene-ster. We revelled in the picture of the man that we glimpsed parking up his red double-decker quietly, having laid down his London Transport issue jacket as a prayer mat, because it was that time of the evening.

What do you think? Oh, don't tell me. You know that I'll book the ticket based on my whims and not any reasonable argument. It's the regret that frightens me. Of course, it will always feel a little like this, no matter when the packing up process starts - this year, next year. But start it must. I can't be here forever.

And it's definitive statements like that, which roll off the finger-tips, which tell me that somewhere, deep-down in the depths, the decision has already been made and the rest of me is just catching up.

15 June 2011

This made me laugh for a while, thank you:

Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.

-- Kingsley Amis "Lucky Jim"

14 June 2011

Hello readership.

That sounds lofty. Oratorial even. And yet, I have little to address here but a general moan about the state of things lately. I think you might find it quite out the ordinary because I generally view life's little obstacles as rather humorous. Sometimes, I might even go so far as to find them charming. I realise that there are bigger issues in the world to dwell on, but that shan't hold me back because, this week, I'm appalled by the snowballing of these little obstacles of late. I like to expect though, however irrational it might be, that this series of unfortunate occurrences might be rewarded with a series of fortunate events - or at least one mighty good thing.

I think, with my rational mind (although I'm unsure about it's true capacity for reason), that actually life draws itself more slowly than that and the cadences with their nadirs slump in long, fluid ups and downs rather than a sort of barcode affair. Like this, for instance: one short good, one long bad, two short goods, a pause, two short bads... and so on.

On with the events. I quite like starting the week well. Crisp, clean suit. Porridge well-soaked the night before (when did I turn eighty? Quite recently, I should think). But, hell, I arrived at work on Monday only to find that my stockings were in tatters up one leg and as the day swung into action so swiftly and didn't stop until I had been to three meetings, at each of which I couldn't seem to help crossing tatty leg over non-tatty leg so as to catch everyone's eye, I just couldn't find the time to remedy the problem. The day didn't seem to want to terminate. It went on and on in the office until the sun sank and the pollen finally settled... oh, my stars, don't start me on the pollen. It's that season again and I have an aversion to sneezes. Even my own.

My feet are also in tatters. It rained incessantly on Sunday yet I was due in Sloane Square for a late lunch baby-shower affair. I bought mother and bump Bob Dylan's Forever Young, in the form of a children's book with some lovely retro illustrations. Do you know it? It's a classic and a fabulous present. But having picked up the book on the way to the luncheon, I had yet to wrap it, and I found myself smashed up against rubbish bin in Bond Street station's Pret-a-Manger trying to write a nice message in the card and get it into the wrapping paper without it looking like a train wreck.

No, this is not my complaint, I assure you. Although, I should like to add that I would have picked the present up sooner if everything in the stores didn't have freaking teddy-bears all over it. I had to reassess my gift at the last minute having been let down by the High Street.

It was stiflingly hot on the tube, and I was beginning to glow. I was late, it was raining, and, you wouldn't believe it but, the glue on my shoe was coming unstuck! At first I thought that it couldn't be, it just couldn't be. But yes, the lesson is that you shouldn't buy your shoes in Thailand. I'd just had them reheeled to boot (I love puns). I also love haikus:

From South-East Asia,
Such cute shoes come to their end
In a bin on Bond.

Okay, well, the long and the short of it is, I stumbled over to the nearest shoe store, couldn't find anything but some stilettos and as you may know, stilettos have a mandatory breaking in period. Poor little footsies.

Yes, I hear you. It could have been worse. My shoes could have broken somewhere other than one of the largest shopping districts in the UK. I guess that I'm most mortified because of the expense. I could handle the lunch in the fancy gastro-pub, and the wine, and the present ... but new shoes! Come now. They are rather rather lovely and indulgent though.

Oh, shoot. I've just spilt my tea and it's going all cold and sodden on my duvet and up my leggings.

I've lost my train of thought. Let's move on.

I have some smashing syntax for you courtesy of Jade. She said:

"Imagine, not to be a party pooper but imogen if it rains on Saturday.... is there a plan or do we just turn up wearing black rubbish sacks and umbrellas?"

It's genius. You can just hear her plaintive voice. And I want to put commas everywhere!

Speaking of expression, the nice thing, looking back over this post, is that that the sentences are more like a breath of words rather than structured transactional points. I could go back and fix this but I don't think that I will. It's like Breton's Nadja. I read it twice and I still found that all it gave me was a sort of sense of something having happened but little else.

It also ended abruptly.

6 May 2011

We're out of the April woods. Thank goodness. It was all madness. There was far too little of the responsibility of work and the sense of reason that it entails and far too much of the revelry of a Royal Wedding atmosphere. What great, long, sunny days we had, with nothing but an expanse of time to fill however we wished.

And what did you do for the Royal day? I received reams of messages from home from people in pajamas, curled up on couches, with bottles of wine. But why not champagne?

Why did I get so festive about the occasion? It seemed that everyone in London had let their hair down for the day. We started at a pub in Marylebone, far too early. I'd never had an espresso martini before myself but it works just the trick to wake you fully from your slumber and give you that pep to see the day through to its likely endpoint. The possibilities weren't endless. The endpoint was invariably another pub. I managed to get to the park where another party was happening. The rest is a little hazy.

I love weddings. It's all dancing and drinking. There's always a feeling of the happiness of love. Does my whimsy about weddings sicken you? Then you haven't seized the spirit of the occasion in the right way.

May looks set to be a more sober affair, or so one hopes. I think we've all already welcomed the summertime and summertime things are setting in. The park, the table and chairs on the sidewalk and the mayflies. I sound like frigging Horace. But it can't be helped.

It's Friday today and I'm not at work. I had a terrible twelve hour day yesterday, due to a late meeting. The night before I had dreamt of taking Friday off and asking my boss who agreed. So, dreams can come true. I remember, years ago, in Paihia, Penelope and I went to a "Cosmic Fair" that had come to town and had our fortunes read. The fortune teller seemed to me to be a bit of a hack but he did say that I had the ability to dip into the Akashic records and see the future or the present or what not within my dreams. This same man also said that I was a "cripple" in a past life in London and that's why I had trouble with my legs (do I? Not really). Then he stood me up, pushed a little spot in my hip and asked if it hurt. Pinched nerve, apparently. I suspect it arises from wearing platform shoes throughout my teenage years rather than and incidence of past life. Still, it was probably worth the twenty dollars to be felt up by a fortune teller.

I now have three days to fill and I'm willing to take suggestions as to how to fill them... so far I've had three cups of tea and I'm expecting more of the same.

15 April 2011

I like that I get comments. Far from making me feel like a bad blogger and reprehensible, they make me cheery. And how can one not feel cheery on a Friday evening, with the sun streaming in... April is not the cruellest month, I find.

We've just checked the fridge situation and found eggs and noodles. So, whilst we think about the myriad concoctions that these might become, we've opened a bottle of wine as we watch all the possibilities that the weekend has to offer unfold at our feet.

This afternoon I tapped away at some work from home as I've been suffering again from a wretched affliction. My voice this week has varied between squeak and sexy, husky tones... with a less than sexy cough. Perhaps that's why April is a cruellest month - it's the change of season and Mr Elliott was known well to be an insatiable hypochondriac.

Last weekend, the last weekend in which I was the age of twenty six, I went to Pamplona. There were no bulls involved. I'm not particularly keen on the bull fighting aspect of the city. I'm not an afficionado in that respect but very keen on the two euro bottles of reserve wine. Moi bueno! We took the wrong way back to Santander in the hired car on Sunday and found ourselves winding through some beautiful, mountainous forest roads. Sometimes, the wrong way can be the right way.

And now, once again, I find myself a year older. And, as we all do, I look back on my achievements over the last twelve months. And you'll be pleased to know that my painting is two coats away from completion. I think then it takes a few months to dry proper and a bit of varnish over the top and voila! I'm too proud; I've added the photo above in the hope that you'll be proud too (although don't be too hard on my early unveiling).

My hair's a bit longer. The book is taking shape. Goodness me, what with all these achievements, I might as well just quit now, I'm doing so well.

This year, I'm tackling the Anna Karenina and come to the conclusion that I must go to Russia. That will be an event. And it's just another reason why I cannot drag myself away from London, regardless of a quiet yearning that I have to go back home and start setting up shop. Not literally. I don't want to set up a shop. Although, that would be a nice life. I'd have a crafts shop. I'd engage my crafty friend Bri Bri to make my wares and it would double as a tea shop where you can come and sit and take in the scenery and the people walking by. I'd live upstairs and that would be the limits of my little world.

But, probably, I'll just stick to my vocation, pushing paper from one side of the desk to the other for the rest of my working life. Occasionally, I'll answer the phone, and more often than not the caller will be subjected to the cough and the squeak rather than a husky phone voice.

For my birthday, daddy bought me Pascal, Proust, Lautremont and de Sade. Gems! All of them.

Don't snigger... each to their own, I say.

Each book came on a different day in a different package. That's how presents should be. My work-wife, Sandra, has this habit of saving the presents that she gets for Christmas and opening one every now and again over the course of the day. So, when everyone has already smashed through their wrapped goods, and finished their turkey, she'll say, in a satisfied tone, "oh, look! What's this? I have another present to open."

I broke my glasses again. How odd - looking back to this time last year, I did the same thing. And it was almost in the same manner. A night at the pub and glasses strewn across the floor and oops! What do you know. I've stood on them. Luckily, with a little DIY they were salvagable. After a brief but fraught argument with a less than helpful woman at Specsavers, Sandra, seeing my frustration, brought her glasses repair kit into work (she'd purchased it from Tesco for one pound to undertake one of those fiddly jobs for which only the tiniest of screw drivers will do) and I spent one lunch hour mending. Who needs the professionals? I certainly don't. I'm like a bush optometrist.

I have a lot more to say... but, I am half way through making a home made birthday card. It's a pièce de résistance. I've got a very flash private dining experience to attend tomorrow night, for which I will have to get my most glamourous, most flimsy frock out of the wardrobe, and the prospect has sent shivers down my wallet's spine. So, this week, I've made a pledge to only spend the sum total of ten pounds. That's right - a full seven days, feeding myself and what not... hence the eggs and noodles. Thank goodness for the points on my Boots card.

I must admit to you, I've spent fourteen pounds and it's only been five days, but in the spirit of the endeavour, the birthday card is home made. Lucky for the birthday boy, the present shall not be. On the contrary, in response to the flash dinner, I'll be heading down to Liberty for my purchase, and if you happen to find me in the champagne bar there, eating oysters, you'll know that the ten pound budget has been thrown out the window along with a raft of other good and frugal intentions...

The crafts corner calls... but, you'll hear from me again, and shortly this time, I'm sure...

6 March 2011

It's only been a few months. What of it? I've been a rather busy bee, that's all... Welcome to the new year, belatedly.

It's funny the kinds of thoughts that spark your desire share a post. For me, this time, it was pickled eggs. I've been thinking about them for a few days. Perhaps I saw some on the tele. They used to be a staple at pubs and now they've practically vanished. I've never had a pickled egg. I have tried a one thousand year old egg at a little place called Leung's Legend in China Town. It's a great restaurant - not because of its decaying eggs - but because they do an obscenely large stuffed crab full of chilli and garlic. They also give you a large cracking device to demolish it with.

I'm going to buy some pickled eggs. Have you tried them?

I've been the most ridiculous tourist since I last blogged. Everywhere I've been, I've taken all the same photos that everyone else has in their albums and bought all the same things that those oversized women on group tours have bought. Take Istanbul for example. I now have a lantern, a set of hand-painted bowls and some multi-coloured woven fabric in traditional designs. Ludicrously unoriginal. The photo above is a case-in-point. I took it on the Bosphorus as we pulled up to Asia in the ferry. I thought it was a good example of the descriptions of dilapidated houses from my Orhan Pamuk readings... until I looked around me and realised that everyone was taking a picture of the same thing...

In Hungary, we sang David Bowie in the Labyrinth...

In New York, I bought myself an "I heart NY" t-shirt...

I think that I had better stay in London for a while. Before I turn into some sort of cardboard cut-out. A lemming. Perhaps without the trademark cliff-diving. Having said that, sitting on the couch on a Sunday, up against the radiator with laptop in hand, isn't particularly original. Mildly warming at least - it's miserably cold outside. In fact, I'm wearing two scarves inside. One of these scarves is possum fur and Penny left it to me after she'd finished with it in New York. She reasoned that she'll never see that kind of cold again and she was concerned that I was warm enough in the London winter. Too thoughtful. She quietly left it in the hotel room, as she took off for the airport, and I happened upon it whilst packing myself up.

Like foxes, one shouldn't feel too sorry for possums, because they're extraordinarily warm.

I've been possum shooting before.

(It's quite odd to write a sentence like that).

I was staying at a friend's farm. I must have been about thirteen. There was a pig that you had to beat back with a stick if you wanted to cross its field. It was eaten that year for Christmas dinner. Not only did they take me on a possum shoot but they also took me on a turkey shoot. Why shoot the turkeys? I couldn't tell you. Perhaps they were rife. Population control. I guess that all experience is good experience. It all sounds more intrepid than my recent travels, doesn't it?

So, you see, you haven't been missing anything. Life is less than wild. Less wild than a lemming's.

I'm afraid that the little guys don't dive off cliffs or rain down from the sky though, in truth.

7 November 2010

I was told a desperately funny story the other day. It was Stephen in fact. We have these little chats at the appropriate times. You'd think it would be hard to orchestrate, with the thirteen hour time difference, but it's quite an adroit exercise.

I said to him, "I haven't told you about the fox". He said to me, "I haven't told you about the moth..."

We were discussing fish, actually. Too many animals, I know. Keep up though. And he'd arrived at a little barbecue, to which he'd brought some freshly caught and smoked fish, and was strumming away at the guitar, whilst his friend with the nice voice sung along, with an intimate little crowd amongst a wider group of barbecuees. All at once, instead of the sonorous tones of his friend's voice, it was a moth he heard and it bumbled straight into his ear!

Now, I can just imagine it - Stephen has long arms, imagine a monkey, and when they flail, they do so quite madly. I can just picture it now. When he told me the story, I laughed and thought, surely that's it - the moth flew in and then out and that's the end of that. No, no. It was a two day saga of moth in ear antics. How did he know it was a moth? There were apparently some quite telling clues, for example, the sound. Imagine that frantic flutter of dusty wings. Like a helicopter in a bubble perhaps? He toyed with the idea that it was a mosquito but discounted it on account of the level of a hum. Bug-in-ear connoisseur? Probably not. Probably just common sense.

Someone kindly suggested that they vacuum it out. Another rather sweet suggestion was to put his ear next to a light and it would be drawn out.

I like that.

In the end, one helpful person drowned it with a bottle of expired ear drops. But, the ex-moth was still in his ear. He wandered around with the little corpse in his head for another day! It was causing him considerable distress as he was having trouble hearing people.

On Monday morning, he took a detour to the doctor on his way to work and told the GP of his troubles. The GP wiped his hands of it and sent him to an ear specialist. The ear specialist had trouble believing his story but agreed in the end to suction it - like they would do for glue-ear or old men with excessive wax production. And, oh my stars, what pops out but that fated little moth - much to the horror of the specialist who kept repeating, "I can't believe it, I just can't believe it..."

He kept the moth. And the doctor's certificate.

How to you claim this back on medical insurance? Or would they tell you to claim it back on the accident compensation scheme?

In other news...

Life has been ticking along well enough for the most part. I've been to a number of seasonal events - dressing up as a cat, as I have done every year since I was thirteen, for Halloween and then playing with some fireworks (two sparklers to be precise). I finally took that day off from work on Friday and with every intention of using it wisely - I had two naps, read two books and did my accounting.

I went to a very interesting evening at the Shoreditch Church. What an amazing space! So cavernous. I recommend that you pop your head in if you're out that way. It was the premier of an independent film named for "Dirty Old Town". And who should be singing that same tune for us? Why, it was MacGowan himself! He looks well! I take that to mean that there's hope for us yet so keep heart.

I wore my fox fur scarf out last night. Ha! You'll rue the day, you dirty little beast.

One of the barristers at Chambers told me that she'd started jogging. Apparently I'd inspired her one night at the pub when I was lauding its benefits. I can't remember the conversation myself, but barristers do tend to ply you with more wine than they would think to consume themselves. She lives in the countryside and it's not foxes but deer that obstruct her path. I'm not sure whether they are as ferocious but perhaps they are a cause for concern to the jogger. I can't see her parading around in a deer hide on account of them. Not like this dastardly avenger, yours truly. Goodness, though, it's a warm little scarf. Next time you see a little fox darting around forlornly on a cold night, don't, on any account, feel sorry for it - they're snug as a bug under there.

This was the animal edition (bar the Pogues). I'll bring the human interest element next time.

16 October 2010

It's Saturday today and I'm heading into the office. Oh, the dedication! It's been like this for a while now... Me, the office, very little else. I'm not too sore about it, most of the time. But it can make me rather dull.

Perhaps, I did do something a little out of the ordinary. For example, on Thursday, I was wandering along Euston Road, with every intent to go to work. I had on my little, silk, grey shirt that I picked up at the second hand store, coupled with a black woollen skirt and then some boots. It's been cold recently, so I pulled out my heavy grey coat and to add a bit of colour to it, I wrapped by bright purple, woolly scarf around my neck. I never did have much of a sense for fashion. I'd love to employ someone to dress me chicly.

And just as I rounded the corner, at St Pancras International, I turned from my route - surprising myself - and strode up to the ticket booth requesting a round trip ticket to Paris for the day. And I went. And I saw some Rodin and ate some foie gras and sat in the jardin des tuileries watching the tourists and the pickpockets. And then I got back on the train and was in London in time for the ten o'clock evening news. It was quite a lonely little trip but it was nice, I think, on account of the pointless spontaneity.

I'm listening to Belle and Sebastian and waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle so that I can hang up my whites before I leave for the office. I've laid out all my little chores on the bed so that I can tackle them over the weekend. I do this every weekend and it seems I always face the same chores, since I never actually get them done. My guitar is lying there, sans one string. The mail for the previous tenants and the landlord waits for redirection and I have some local elections to vote in.

Far cry from a surprise Parisian day trip. I can transport myself with my Balzac though. Perhaps he's the reason why Paris is on my mind.

Those of you who saw me in London on Thursday head down in a pile of paperwork or sneaking up to the Council cafe for some greasy spoon - I assure you, it was my doppelganger. Her resemblance to me is uncanny. I'm afraid if we find ourselves in the same place, at the same time, I'll spontaneously combust! Isn't that the science behind the phenomenon?

11 October 2010

Today is the 11th of October.

Yes, I know that you can see that from my heading.

Did you know that I was chased by a fox? Well, I've told some of you - and you laughed. It was no laughing matter during that instant when I was determining whether she was going to lunge at me. She seemed quite fierce. I was out for my run at the time and I hate to run faster than a light jog. I had to run like the clappers though, because she was swift and she growled and I let out a little yelp as I quickened my pace.

Can you imagine me heaving along down Camden Road at 6am being chased by a fox? It's slapstick in the extreme.

In other misfortunes, I fell over into the road on Friday evening after a good wining with Sandra and I scrapped my knees off. It was truly unfortunate, because it was amongst the height of traffic and in front of a car that had stopped to let me cross. I had to wave him on, because it was going to take me sometime to pick myself up again.

It seems that my clumsy side is back in business. Let's hope it continues. It's the only matter which inspires me to turn to this blog and relay some of my happenings and thoughts lately.

Thoughts. It's October. It's unseasonably warm. My social calendar is perfectly empty until Christmas. And so, I thought I might book myself on a flight to Budapest, avoiding the toxic sludge of course. "Toxic sludge" - what a phrase. Who on earth coined it and why did it stick? Could it have been called anything else?

And quietly, down here at the end (so soon? yes, I must get into bed with book and tea), by way of explanation, I've had guests to entertain recently and they've taken my attention away from you.

Forgive me and wish me well on the roads.

6 September 2010

Time flies when you're not blogging. I've had many bloggable thoughts, but without carrying around a notebook with me, they're lost in the ether.

I used to carry a journal around with me when I realised that I couldn't go on writing all my thoughts down on post-its. I've got a wonderful post-it collection. But, one day, the post-it musings just dried up. I've collected them into my intended magnum opus which is as yet, unfinished.

It hasn't been notably busy recently. But I did manage to get along to the Glyndbourne screening down at Somerset House. They were doing the Rake's Progress. Stravinsky is very "plink, plonk". A note up here, and a note down there, and then up again perhaps... But these were the times, weren't they? The set was a Hockney creation. Perhaps you'll be shocked to know that I don't enjoy Hockney. I see what he's doing, but it reminds me of something that one can too easily write an essay at art school about and there's little flare to it.

Do I mean flare? I'm not sure I do.

Strike that. I do mean flare. I even mean the X-factor.

No, now I think I mean beauty. Don't complain to me that beauty was never the point. Why do I think that Rothko is beautiful? Boy, isn't he though?

And, once again, I was able to sit back and let some Auden swim past me. He was responsible for the libretto. The rain also swum past me, but only a little. Only enough to make my hair go curly which I can't stand. Andy and I sat on a pile of blankets eating truffles and drinking some sort of fantastically awful chocolate-bar-inspired drink which we decided to relabel Yuck. It was all bad. So bad, that it swung right back round to good through that meeting of dimensions. It's hell like that, hanging out with Andy. Hell in the sense that it swings right back around to heaven. We always eat these terrible, indulgent items that should never have been produced in the first place - not in a well-functioning society.

Recently, we've managed to replace "road futon" with some new couches. "Road" in the sense that we found it on the road and "new" in the sense that they weren't in our lounge before - they were in Darren's. And house suddenly feels like home rather than student flat. Although, we still have Johnny Cash on the wall flipping us the bird and a postcard of "farmer cat" courtesy of Chloe. This cat is simply smashed into a pair of dungarees and looks like he's been fed wholly on Yuck drinks. It's a nice touch to the decor. Thank goodness for Chloe's "LOL Cats" phase.

So now you can come around and sit on a couch, rather than starting on a couch which slowly falls apart under you until you're half sprawling on the floor. Many of you learnt to just start on the floor from the start of the evening - it being the more comfortable choice in the end. No more!

We've been playing this awful game recently. I'd call it a drinking game, but it's only association with drinking seems to be that one is only inclined to play it when drinking and one continues to drink throughout its duration. And one suffers. Not from the drinking, but from the contortion. I'm sure you've played it. The game involves a cardboard box, generally of the variety that houses beer at the beginning of the night. You cannot touch the ground, except with the soles of your feet and you must pick up the box with your teeth before ripping off a piece and throwing it back to the floor in a defiant manner.

Well, by the time this piece of box is teensy, it's quite the struggle to bend in such a fashion that will enable you to pick it up with your teeth. And you bend and then sink and suddenly, your on the floor. I suffer the next day with terrible pulled muscles in my posterior which stems from a very strong conviction that I can still gracefully sink to the floor the way I did when I was a little ballerina. I can't and it's especially not graceful. All I can say is, thank goodness for this tights-phase that the fashion is going through. I ended up handing them out to all the girls one night so that they could up their game. And then I lost. Altruism is what it is.

It's not quite the Withnail and I drinking game, is it? Probably less dangerous but also less inspired.

There's a lovely exhibition at the British Library at the moment and I would encourage you to go. It is a collection of old maps gathered from all over depicting spoils and triumphs and journeys to make the world larger. There's an incredibly big atlas. We imagined what it would be like to pull that out on the streets in place of an A to Z. It's much larger than me. And perhaps you.

The exhibition will take a mere forty minutes and is free.

I'm unsure whether I've told you that I've started running again. It's been mildly disastrous. Last Tuesday morning, as the sun rose, I tripped over again on another of those uneven paving stones and flew across the sidewalk ripping my poor hand to pieces. Poor old hand. It's taking an age to recover. Last week I had to shower in a glove. It's very hard to wash my hair in such a state and showering became an emotional experience. Finally, at the weekend, I'd given up washing altogether - too much of a chore. Such a dirty little urchin with a seething wound which wouldn't heal. But it was back to the office today so I picked myself up, I even hit the pavements again, more carefully this time, washed myself off and I'm almost whole again. They say that you should always get back on the horse, but I resent this feeling that I have that I will inevitably end up on the pavement again hardly knowing how bad it shall be next time...

It's autumn now. Definitely autumn. This is fine. I like the feeling of winter coming although it turns me upside down a little because my mind still responds as if it's April. I shan't be buying a new coat this year and will have to make do with whatever is in the wardrobe. If only I had a kind benefactor who would buy me a coat. I insist on buying these silly Vogue magazines and seeing all the lovely fashions that other people will be wearing. How nice for them.

Back to autumn, and we are planning an outing to the beach, having not seen one in quite some time. We've settled on Margate of which I've heard good things. And what of the weather, really. An outing is an outing, whatever the weather. If we end up sheltering in a stale pub playing scrabble and watching the rain, it is the good intentions that will make the day. I think we'll take one of those exorbitantly priced trains that they run.

I'm in the middle of putting together a batch of blueberry muffins. They have buttermilk in them. I always think of Charlotte's Web when I'm confronted with buttermilk. The farmer's wife washed the pig in buttermilk and he came up so shiny and won the show. And then they didn't eat him. A fair is a veritable smorgasbord, my friend... but a pig, covered in lashings of buttermilk, is not.

I take my leave and return to the muffins.

14 August 2010

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.

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.

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.

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...

15 June 2010

It's the laptop issue that's really devastating this blog. What's holding me back from making this purchase? Money probably. And time? No. Not time. I've found time to write this, haven't I? I'm not sure where the blame lies. With me, generally and ostensibly.

I'm reading a wonderfully melancholy book which Chloe sent to me for my birthday. It's Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys. I enjoyed Wide Sargasso Sea when I was 18. Midnight is more devastating than Plath, I would say. Rhys has taken me through the weekend, which was a long one, on account of the fact that I took Friday and Monday off to haul myself up to Inverness for the festival there. I made a little promise to myself to take it easy last week, in the days leading up to the trip, but it wasn't to be. I've had far too many dinners out. Far too many. I felt a quiet longing the other day for someone to make me a home-cooked meal. But, with no food in the house and scant inclination on my part, I think it will be to the restaurant again tonight. Doesn't that sound like a romantic life? It's like A Moveable Feast, except that I don't live in a hotel and I don't spend my days at the horse races...

I'd love to live in a hotel for a spell, wouldn't you?

Let me tell you about the festival. It was sublime! Disregard the weather, and the Scottish, and the lack of clean ablutions and the mud. Only consider the aspect of the lake and the mountains and the sound of the music and that great feeling when you're just dancing for hours and you've had too much wine. We had a ball. I especially enjoyed, to my surprise, Fat Boy Slim, Leftfield and The Strokes.

I new that I'd enjoy Blondie. She looks fantastic and she still gives a great show. I was not quite sober during her performance. At the end of each song, I yelled "Go Debbie" with desperate glee. I don't think she heard me. Nick thought perhaps she could because she has a Debdar - a radar only found in people with the name Deborah - I acknowledge that this isn't particularly witty, but I will admit that I was the one who came up with it.

It's football mild-fever at the moment. No one's too crazy about it. I was taken to lunch today but we sat too far from the screen for me to see New Zealand's goal. I had to ask the waitress who had won. She said that "the team in white" had scored a goal in the final minutes and that it was a draw. Okay, fine. They've done well.

We watched South Korea on a screen at the Drambuie tent on Saturday. I think they're a great team to watch. Perhaps it was the Drambuie, but I was charmed.

In other news, I haven't written you any poetry, painting is looking neglected on the easel and perhaps the dust gathers so much that it will add texture to the execution. I'm here at work rather too late tonight, on account of my long lunch on the agency's credit card (some are accustomed to these perks which are not to be had in public service). I'm taking this little break now, to indulge myself in a post and ease some of the unease that has grown out of the lack of writing lately, but breaks end.

And this one ends here.

1 June 2010

Politically-themed sandwiches sounds like a great idea for Mr Mabey's sandwich cart. How could you push the limits? What about a Ghengis Khan sandwich where the meat is cooked between one's thighs... That could be a myth about Khan but it's something I read somewhere about him and his compadres. It could be true though. There was this awful scene in the latest Murakami novel that I read where some Mongolian soldiers skinned a Japanese soldier alive. It was horrific. The image still sits in my mind and it makes me shudder.

What a good writer.

He also wrote What I Talk About When I Talk About Running - or some such title - and that's been recommended to me on the basis of my running which, by the way, I'm still not doing. And I've definitely deflated. I think I'll deflate some more. I've taken up walking instead. I walk to and from work which takes me around half an hour. Today, I'm afraid that I didn't walk on account of the fact that I rubbished myself yesterday trying to pack as much fun into the long weekend as possible and I was dog-tired this morning.

Still going strong though and would do it all over again tonight if I had the chance. And the company.

The painting is taking some serious shape. It's been likened to a vase full of celery which didn't please me particularly, but at least the viewer likened it to flora of some kind. I've attached a photo of the latest. It's still at undercoat stage so the hue isn't perfect but it will get there. Yesterday I picked up some sable brushes so that I can do some teeny work on the petals. I went to Soho to Cass Art and also picked up a sketch book which was dire because I managed to start my first sketch whilst playing cards at midnight after a couple of bottles of red wine. What a nerd I must have looked, scribbling away like that.

Down on Regent Street yesterday, the ipad was in the throes of its just-on-the-market celebration. I was considering getting a mac, especially because they do finance deals, but I just couldn't do it. You should have seen this place - it was rammed full of people. It was suffocating. I looked around in a confused manner for a couple of minutes, wandered up and down the great glass staircase and then left. The horror of it all.

I'm not sure about the mac idea anymore. It'll cost twice as much as a PC and I really don't use my laptop for anything but word processing and internet. I'm getting conflicting advice.

Back to that fateful day.

I turned on lappy, the trusty little guy that I've been using since 4th year university (you just can't do law school without one, I think), and up came the dreaded blue screen. I've had this problem before. It was during my professionals course, when I'd almost finished drafting my statement of case and all my notes ready to devastate opposing counsel at the mock trial, and then the blue screen tells me that I've lost all my work. Boyfriend of the day managed to restore the previous settings, but the trial notes were lost and I had to start again with time fast running out. How dramatic. Obviously it all worked out because here I am, sitting at my desk, being a lawyer. Well, no, I'm taking a lunch break and writing my blog post, but I was being a lawyer this morning. And I will be again right now if the phone rings.

I took lappy to the shop last Saturday and discussed the problem with the man behind the counter and the outcome of the conversation was that it was time to get a new laptop. He showed me an IBM. I thought about it and walked out, promising to return.

Part of the reason that it's now unsalvagable is because of that time that I was a little drunk and I knocked water all over it. Lucky for me it wasn't damaged, but for the fan which makes a terrible whirring and grinding noise every now and again.

It's a very good thing that I have the iphone. It's also a bad thing when it comes to posting random thoughts and photos on facebook. It's like making that drunken phone call but worse because your calling the world and laying your thoughts on display. Splash! All over the newsfeed. Irrevocable.

I've started this post in such an awkward place, it must be diabolical to read. Back to the beginning.

Its been a tiring couple of weeks. Fraught with the loss of lappy, amongst other things, as some of you will know. And you've offered your condolsences, which are appreciated. Some things just aren't meant to be, huh? Even with the best of intentions.

Work has been mad! But I did manage to get out to the Portrait Gallery after work on Thursday. What a great permanent collection! I only managed half, once again. I've still the third floor of the Tate and the second wing of the Tate Britian to do. It seems that I have a tendency to leave galleries half-finished. I took off to meet Nicola for a drink and she was nice enough to hop on my iphone and order Daddy's birthday present which I had been meaning to do for days and just hadn't managed to get round to because of the computer disaster. I would have much prefered to have seen the book with my own eyes and wrapped it up with the card I was yet to buy but it wasn't to be. And it will get there late. I've bought him the Bolano, 2666. Hopefully the translation isn't rubbish because it's supposedly a dense read. Nothing like the Pynchon I bought him for Christmas, of course.

I called him on Monday morning. We'd been out inordinately late the night before but I woke up early, duly, and managed to reach him as he was drinking his champagne and eating his roast chicken. Sounds like a brilliant birthday to me.

I can hradly remember what had happened the night before that. I think it involved Rock Band. Ugh. I can certainly remember the night before that though. On Saturday, it was Eurvision night. We'd decided to throw a BBQ, regardless of the fact that we have no outdoor space, save the entrance balcony, and we have no BBQ. We bought one of those instant party size disposable ones and managed to smoke the whole neighbourhood out by placing on a vinyl stool with scant insulation. The stool melted, the smoke alarm went off and there was a late night clandestine trip to dump the stool in a skip or some such receptacle.

I'm sure that it can't be healthy to eat sausages which are cooked in plastic fumes.

I was much surprised by the Eurovision voting. It's as if everyone had forgotten the world wars one night. Well, that's not strictly true because Israel didn't vote for Germany for example. But what about the Baltics. They supported their neighbours as if the devastation of the end of last century never happened.

Last Friday was the Greenwich Jazz and Beer Festival. We went along because Nick has an insatiable love for the Fun Loving Criminals, who were headlining that night. I don't drink beer, but I made an exception and I was plesantly surprised. Especially by the chocolate flavoured one. My word, did they make a tasty brew. It was a nice night. I was impressed by FLC. They conjure up memories of listening to 96.1 when I was thirteen or fourteen.

We happened upon a tapas bar on the way back to the tube and instead of getting home before the tubes stopped running, we bought a nice bottle of wine, ordered tapas and following it by dessert and yelled at eachother across the table in an enthusiastic manner. Nick and I carefully avoid talking about the nature of positivism. It gets ugly.

Then we passed out on the night bus and were kicked off in Russell Square.

And good times were had by all.

I'm sure there's more. I have a lot of musings that I haven't laid bare for you here because my lunch break is swiftly coming to its end.

Roll on the era of the new laptop.

4 June 2010

I have a post all ready for you. We'll have to live in the past for a while as I catch up on previous musings and we re-engage. I'm very much trying to get the new laptop organised so don't despair. We have the rest of our lives to post/read/laugh.

I'm going to try to post a photo from my iPhone in order to satiate you in the meantime...

Oh. Goodness. I can't.

Things could be worse for us.

But, boy, couldn't they be better?