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?