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...