In the news today: Star’s Weight Loss Confession
What, she stopped eating? Took pills? Stopped eating AND took pills? That’s not news, msn! Get off your collective backsides and do some real work. Good God, how hard could it be to work for that faction?
Heath Ledger Death Perturbs 15-Year-Old Girls – Brokeback Mountain Sequel Postponed
Lily Allen Does Nothing of Interest but We Love Her Anyway
Winehouse Outbursts Becoming Predictable?
Mainstream Deigns to Notice Bat for Lashes – Not Too Weird for Hyde Park
It’s Friday, which means one more night on the booze before my houseguests return to Canada and I return to a comfortable diet of veggie dogs and reality television. We’re seeing two Harold Pinter plays and then we’re off to a friend’s for a post-Easter egg hunt. If I put that in writing, we stand every chance of going, too! (This friend and I have polar-opposite schedules it seems, or possess the same amount of apathy about leaving our little nests, but I hold out hope.)
And then it’s packing until our limbs atrophy and fall off, because on Tuesday we move to the new flat! I can’t wait to see what my garden looks like, so that I can begin the process of digging it all up and killing what I can’t. And that, my friends, is what makes a good gardener, at least in my experience. (Help!) I’m thinking that unless I make friends with Jamie Oliver, I’m going to be stuck tending forest-patterned wallpaper, or maybe a plastic fern…
I’m only here because I want to be left alone on my lunch hour. I don’t actually have anything to say. You? Naw, didn’t think so.
28 March 2008
27 March 2008
Enuff! Or why I ate Easter dinner from a vending machine
The girls have gone out for the evening and we are taking a break from heckling the television packing, so here I am, at the computer. And there is Bruce, shooting zombies on his new game console. The one he purchased after it was determined that we were broke - maybe because somebody had to go and buy a new dress at Orla Kiely. (Okay, that wasn’t Bruce.)
I thought I’d take this opportunity to tell you that whilst Brussels smells like pee in places and sometimes throws up oversized Tin-Tin characters where you’d least expect them (so, anywhere), it does have its merits, and so much of it was stunning.
Firstly there was our host, Lisa. Lisa is like the girl of your dreams and the best friend you wish you’d had, all rolled into one. On the subway, after she bested the lecherous advances of a cocky seventeen-year-old with bad skin in French, she pointed out a station that always made her out-of-town friends laugh. Indeed, it gave me pause, and I thought I was being a bit juvenile for thinking it, but what’s the fun in living if we can’t scoff at a place called Kunst – Wet?
Hmmm?
Possessing a hybrid accent and the comprehension of four or five languages, Lisa translates or interprets for NATO, I forget which, but either way – wow. When we told her about automatic car starters, which allow you to start your ignition from the warmth of your house, she looked momentarily stunned, and then said, “That would save your life if someone planted a bomb.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that stuff like bombs planted in cars only happens in the movies or on television, at least where I come from. Snow on the other hand! That’s some pretty life-threatening stuff.
She took us on a walking tour of the city: a tour that was frequented with stops in some utterly charming pub or restaurant, where we’d buy rounds of beer and devour plates of delicious food (punctuated by espressos). The streets were free of high-season shoppers so we roamed languidly from one district to the next, all night long, watching others and being watched, as it’s not very rude to stare in Belgium. I think all in all, we probably sat in five pubs and three restaurants, ate three meals and drank over ten glasses of beer that night. I put myself in a taxi at eleven and the others carried on until four or five (there simply isn’t a last call in Brussels).
Sunday could have been a write-off, but it was by far my favourite day there. We met up that morning and headed over to an Arabian market for breakfast, where a massive queue forms at a particular cart selling pancakes filled with goat’s cheese and honey or grilled vegetables (or all three!), and steaming glass cups of sweet tea made with fresh mint. We puffed on our pancakes at outdoor tables, listening to the desperate calls of the men trying to sell their fruit before things closed: Deux!Deux!Deux!Deux!
Then we wandered through the antique district, where you can buy furniture, dishware and toys for a pittance (if you can get them home), and the old town, which feels vaguely like the best parts of Paris, Krakow and Rothenberg, deftly stitched together. We paused to read hand-written letters pinned to clotheslines that somebody had strung through one of the squares. A voice behind me said, “Pardon, Madame,” which was my cue to keep walking, but somehow he got my attention. “Three minutes of your time, to list all the places you’ve slept.” “Does it cost anything?” I said, and he laughed. “No, this is for a festival.”
He showed me to a table where strangers sat elbow-to-elbow, scrawling messages amongst sheaves of loose paper and mismatched pens. It took more like five minutes, and I can’t remember what I wrote, but the experience of being tasked with something so random and simple, and then carrying that out in the quiet and warmth of that square reminded me of the better parts of childhood.
I pinned up my list of places I’d slept and did a little dance in front of it until the girls stopped trying to read, and we moved on. It rained a little later, making soup of all those words I bet. We visited too many chocolateres to count, and cooled our aching heads with fresh air and cups of hot Godiva exlixer.
That night I declined meeting them for dinner; I had to be up early to catch my train home. I figured I’d have a nap and then get dressed and go down to the hotel restaurant for a quiet meal alone.
I figured wrong! The hotel restaurant was closed for Easter Sunday, and instead a group of Spanish tourists swarmed the lobby in a shouting mass of confusion. I bought a bag of crisps, a packet of fuzzy peaches and a can of Carling from the vending machine and headed back up to the room to watch a programme on BBC, read the new Hanif Kareshi and basically feel sorry for myself.
The girls came back from dinner to see if I wanted to get a waffle, but it was late and I’d seen and done more than enough for one weekend.
The next morning I got out of bed shortly before the wake-up call that never came, showered, dressed and headed to the subway. I wandered around the crappy train station looking at bad installation art (stuff made from coloured construction tape?!) and then went through Eurostar security. By the time I reached France, it was snowing weevil-sized flakes of snow and I was looking forward to seeing Bruce, and sleeping in my own bed.
I thought I’d take this opportunity to tell you that whilst Brussels smells like pee in places and sometimes throws up oversized Tin-Tin characters where you’d least expect them (so, anywhere), it does have its merits, and so much of it was stunning.
Firstly there was our host, Lisa. Lisa is like the girl of your dreams and the best friend you wish you’d had, all rolled into one. On the subway, after she bested the lecherous advances of a cocky seventeen-year-old with bad skin in French, she pointed out a station that always made her out-of-town friends laugh. Indeed, it gave me pause, and I thought I was being a bit juvenile for thinking it, but what’s the fun in living if we can’t scoff at a place called Kunst – Wet?
Hmmm?
Possessing a hybrid accent and the comprehension of four or five languages, Lisa translates or interprets for NATO, I forget which, but either way – wow. When we told her about automatic car starters, which allow you to start your ignition from the warmth of your house, she looked momentarily stunned, and then said, “That would save your life if someone planted a bomb.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that stuff like bombs planted in cars only happens in the movies or on television, at least where I come from. Snow on the other hand! That’s some pretty life-threatening stuff.
She took us on a walking tour of the city: a tour that was frequented with stops in some utterly charming pub or restaurant, where we’d buy rounds of beer and devour plates of delicious food (punctuated by espressos). The streets were free of high-season shoppers so we roamed languidly from one district to the next, all night long, watching others and being watched, as it’s not very rude to stare in Belgium. I think all in all, we probably sat in five pubs and three restaurants, ate three meals and drank over ten glasses of beer that night. I put myself in a taxi at eleven and the others carried on until four or five (there simply isn’t a last call in Brussels).
Sunday could have been a write-off, but it was by far my favourite day there. We met up that morning and headed over to an Arabian market for breakfast, where a massive queue forms at a particular cart selling pancakes filled with goat’s cheese and honey or grilled vegetables (or all three!), and steaming glass cups of sweet tea made with fresh mint. We puffed on our pancakes at outdoor tables, listening to the desperate calls of the men trying to sell their fruit before things closed: Deux!Deux!Deux!Deux!
Then we wandered through the antique district, where you can buy furniture, dishware and toys for a pittance (if you can get them home), and the old town, which feels vaguely like the best parts of Paris, Krakow and Rothenberg, deftly stitched together. We paused to read hand-written letters pinned to clotheslines that somebody had strung through one of the squares. A voice behind me said, “Pardon, Madame,” which was my cue to keep walking, but somehow he got my attention. “Three minutes of your time, to list all the places you’ve slept.” “Does it cost anything?” I said, and he laughed. “No, this is for a festival.”
He showed me to a table where strangers sat elbow-to-elbow, scrawling messages amongst sheaves of loose paper and mismatched pens. It took more like five minutes, and I can’t remember what I wrote, but the experience of being tasked with something so random and simple, and then carrying that out in the quiet and warmth of that square reminded me of the better parts of childhood.
I pinned up my list of places I’d slept and did a little dance in front of it until the girls stopped trying to read, and we moved on. It rained a little later, making soup of all those words I bet. We visited too many chocolateres to count, and cooled our aching heads with fresh air and cups of hot Godiva exlixer.
That night I declined meeting them for dinner; I had to be up early to catch my train home. I figured I’d have a nap and then get dressed and go down to the hotel restaurant for a quiet meal alone.
I figured wrong! The hotel restaurant was closed for Easter Sunday, and instead a group of Spanish tourists swarmed the lobby in a shouting mass of confusion. I bought a bag of crisps, a packet of fuzzy peaches and a can of Carling from the vending machine and headed back up to the room to watch a programme on BBC, read the new Hanif Kareshi and basically feel sorry for myself.
The girls came back from dinner to see if I wanted to get a waffle, but it was late and I’d seen and done more than enough for one weekend.
The next morning I got out of bed shortly before the wake-up call that never came, showered, dressed and headed to the subway. I wandered around the crappy train station looking at bad installation art (stuff made from coloured construction tape?!) and then went through Eurostar security. By the time I reached France, it was snowing weevil-sized flakes of snow and I was looking forward to seeing Bruce, and sleeping in my own bed.
25 March 2008
Brussels: A Great Place, If You Don't Have to Go
I made a last-minute decision to go to Brussels with my Canadian visitors, and although Brussels has many merits (some of which I couldn’t shut up about), I think in retrospect I do prefer London.
Their international train station alone would put you off the city forever, just as an example. For design and efficiency, I give it an F, for: Fuck! Where Are the Fucking Toilets?!
Signs are usually pretty easy to follow because they rely on symbols rather than language to direct you. This is why they are called signs, and not instructions. If the train station in Brussels had come with a set of instructions, I would not have had to wander in painful circles for the better part of an hour, though, because their signage sucks monkey balls.
Getting off the train, you can either go left (into a maze of shops, cafes and more signs) or right (into a maze of signs and escalators to platforms). My instincts told me to go right, so right I went. Right past the only toilet I was able to find after a harrowing hour with a plaintive bladder, but I’ll get to that in a moment.
Information signs only lead to maps that serve to tell you what you already know: You Are ‘Here,’ hopelessly lost in the most poorly-designed train station on Planet Earth, where somewhere is hidden a toilet. Happy hunting! Flemish backpackers and Dutch families aimlessly covered the same square meter, and although I couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other, I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of what I was saying to Jesus Christ, who I haven’t welcomed into my heart, but who usually gets the brunt of my abuse when things start to go terribly wrong.
Here was the dilemma: the only sign I could find that included the male/female toilet symbol was posted next to an arrow and the platform numbers 3 and 4.
Those doors, on either side of that set of escalators: were those the toilets? No, they’re locked, and the escalators go to platforms 5 and 6.
So back to the sign I went, thereafter following the invisible sightline of its arrow, which eventually landed me at a lift. Above the lift were the male/female symbols, an upward-pointing arrow accompanying the male symbol and a downward-pointing arrow accompanying the female symbol. Finally, some progress!
Except that the lift only had one button – an arrow pointing up.
In desperation, I got onto the lift anyway, which took me to the platforms above the station. I walked for a very long time in silence until I came to the next toilet sign. It was located above a different lift. Men’s toilets: downward arrow – women’s toilets: upward arrow. The only button for the lift pointed down this time. I pushed the button, got into the lift, and went down. The doors opened and I found myself back on ground-level, in front of the same lift I’d gotten into earlier.
Feeling utterly dismayed, I retraced my steps to where I exited the Eurostar and went left this time. I walked for what seemed like a very long time, deep inside the maze of shops, until I found the international sign for Toilets, and an arrow. I lost track of the sign for a while, beginning instead to take note of all the puddles that dotted the station floor - puddles that might have resembled spilled drinks in a perfect world, a world where toilets were not obscured by riddles like some nightmarish, toiletless Wonderland – when finally I caught up with it again near the arrivals lounge.
Ten minutes later, I was back at the first lift, facing the same dilemma. Female toilet: down. Button to the lift: up. There wasn’t even a stairwell to retreat to - just more lifts that took you up and ever away from the elusive basement-level toilets.
Finally I braved a café that looked, for all the world, like it would never have a toilet. At the top of a set of stairs, I caught sight of a door emblazoned with a loafer. Against all hope, I bought a bottle of Evian and said to the girl, “Est-ce-que vous avez un salle de bain?” to which she replied, “Toilettes? Oui, la bas” and pointed at the set of stairs.
And after practically flattening myself between the pink-slipper-emblazoned door and the stall of that very small toilet, I asked the Lord Jesus Christ to please wait outside for me, or find his own damn stall.
Their international train station alone would put you off the city forever, just as an example. For design and efficiency, I give it an F, for: Fuck! Where Are the Fucking Toilets?!
Signs are usually pretty easy to follow because they rely on symbols rather than language to direct you. This is why they are called signs, and not instructions. If the train station in Brussels had come with a set of instructions, I would not have had to wander in painful circles for the better part of an hour, though, because their signage sucks monkey balls.
Getting off the train, you can either go left (into a maze of shops, cafes and more signs) or right (into a maze of signs and escalators to platforms). My instincts told me to go right, so right I went. Right past the only toilet I was able to find after a harrowing hour with a plaintive bladder, but I’ll get to that in a moment.
Information signs only lead to maps that serve to tell you what you already know: You Are ‘Here,’ hopelessly lost in the most poorly-designed train station on Planet Earth, where somewhere is hidden a toilet. Happy hunting! Flemish backpackers and Dutch families aimlessly covered the same square meter, and although I couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other, I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of what I was saying to Jesus Christ, who I haven’t welcomed into my heart, but who usually gets the brunt of my abuse when things start to go terribly wrong.
Here was the dilemma: the only sign I could find that included the male/female toilet symbol was posted next to an arrow and the platform numbers 3 and 4.
Those doors, on either side of that set of escalators: were those the toilets? No, they’re locked, and the escalators go to platforms 5 and 6.
So back to the sign I went, thereafter following the invisible sightline of its arrow, which eventually landed me at a lift. Above the lift were the male/female symbols, an upward-pointing arrow accompanying the male symbol and a downward-pointing arrow accompanying the female symbol. Finally, some progress!
Except that the lift only had one button – an arrow pointing up.
In desperation, I got onto the lift anyway, which took me to the platforms above the station. I walked for a very long time in silence until I came to the next toilet sign. It was located above a different lift. Men’s toilets: downward arrow – women’s toilets: upward arrow. The only button for the lift pointed down this time. I pushed the button, got into the lift, and went down. The doors opened and I found myself back on ground-level, in front of the same lift I’d gotten into earlier.
Feeling utterly dismayed, I retraced my steps to where I exited the Eurostar and went left this time. I walked for what seemed like a very long time, deep inside the maze of shops, until I found the international sign for Toilets, and an arrow. I lost track of the sign for a while, beginning instead to take note of all the puddles that dotted the station floor - puddles that might have resembled spilled drinks in a perfect world, a world where toilets were not obscured by riddles like some nightmarish, toiletless Wonderland – when finally I caught up with it again near the arrivals lounge.
Ten minutes later, I was back at the first lift, facing the same dilemma. Female toilet: down. Button to the lift: up. There wasn’t even a stairwell to retreat to - just more lifts that took you up and ever away from the elusive basement-level toilets.
Finally I braved a café that looked, for all the world, like it would never have a toilet. At the top of a set of stairs, I caught sight of a door emblazoned with a loafer. Against all hope, I bought a bottle of Evian and said to the girl, “Est-ce-que vous avez un salle de bain?” to which she replied, “Toilettes? Oui, la bas” and pointed at the set of stairs.
And after practically flattening myself between the pink-slipper-emblazoned door and the stall of that very small toilet, I asked the Lord Jesus Christ to please wait outside for me, or find his own damn stall.
24 March 2008
Chocolates are not the only fruit
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
The moment between wanting something very badly and then getting that something.
What is your greatest fear?
That everything I do is futile because for every me there are a few hundred thousand (million?) others and we’re all going to die one day.
What is your most marked characteristic?
My morbidity?
What is the trait you deplore most in yourself?
My reactionary nature – it’s forever getting me into trouble and it makes me seem unstable.
What living person do you most despise?
This girl at work who looks a bit piggy and is very smug and unfriendly for reasons I’ve yet to discern (maybe she won a blue ribbon for scratching her own name in the dirt).
What is your greatest extravagance?
On a semi-regular basis, it’s Orla Kiely. Her dresses are too expensive for the likes of me but I can’t seem to care.
What is your current state of mind?
A bit out of sorts – I’ve spent the last three days in Brussels and now have to think about moving flats, all the while trying to be a good host for my Canadian houseguests. My routine is completely mangled.
What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Beauty.
On what occasion do you lie?
At work (no problem, I can/know how to do that).
What do you dislike most about your appearance?
That it’s mutable and completely unreliable.
What is the quality you most like in a man?
Loyalty.
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Humility.
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Sorry.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Bruce.
What and where were you happiest?
Pick most times between today and nearly two years ago and you’ll have your answer.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would that be?
I would be less anxious.
Which talent would you most like to have?
I’d like to play a musical instrument very well.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Escaping the trappings of small-town histrionics; stepping out of a psychopathic ego and into the real world.
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
That’s a silly question.
Where would you like to live?
Muswell Hill, but we’re incapable of packing.
What is your most treasured possession?
Don’t really have one.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Childhood.
What is your favorite occupation?
I met a girl who translates for NATO. She has a work-issued gas mask in her desk drawer and a sign on her door that reads: No bombs No bombs No bombs. That seems pretty cool.
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Troilus, because he was such a dufus!
What are your favorite names?
Beryl, Astrid, Greta, Max (they sound like names belonging to people who’d want nothing to do with me)
What is it that you most dislike?
The sounds made by people who eat indelicately.
How would you like to die?
Quickly.
What is your motto?
If it feels bad, don’t do it (too often).
The moment between wanting something very badly and then getting that something.
What is your greatest fear?
That everything I do is futile because for every me there are a few hundred thousand (million?) others and we’re all going to die one day.
What is your most marked characteristic?
My morbidity?
What is the trait you deplore most in yourself?
My reactionary nature – it’s forever getting me into trouble and it makes me seem unstable.
What living person do you most despise?
This girl at work who looks a bit piggy and is very smug and unfriendly for reasons I’ve yet to discern (maybe she won a blue ribbon for scratching her own name in the dirt).
What is your greatest extravagance?
On a semi-regular basis, it’s Orla Kiely. Her dresses are too expensive for the likes of me but I can’t seem to care.
What is your current state of mind?
A bit out of sorts – I’ve spent the last three days in Brussels and now have to think about moving flats, all the while trying to be a good host for my Canadian houseguests. My routine is completely mangled.
What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Beauty.
On what occasion do you lie?
At work (no problem, I can/know how to do that).
What do you dislike most about your appearance?
That it’s mutable and completely unreliable.
What is the quality you most like in a man?
Loyalty.
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Humility.
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Sorry.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Bruce.
What and where were you happiest?
Pick most times between today and nearly two years ago and you’ll have your answer.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would that be?
I would be less anxious.
Which talent would you most like to have?
I’d like to play a musical instrument very well.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Escaping the trappings of small-town histrionics; stepping out of a psychopathic ego and into the real world.
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
That’s a silly question.
Where would you like to live?
Muswell Hill, but we’re incapable of packing.
What is your most treasured possession?
Don’t really have one.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Childhood.
What is your favorite occupation?
I met a girl who translates for NATO. She has a work-issued gas mask in her desk drawer and a sign on her door that reads: No bombs No bombs No bombs. That seems pretty cool.
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Troilus, because he was such a dufus!
What are your favorite names?
Beryl, Astrid, Greta, Max (they sound like names belonging to people who’d want nothing to do with me)
What is it that you most dislike?
The sounds made by people who eat indelicately.
How would you like to die?
Quickly.
What is your motto?
If it feels bad, don’t do it (too often).
19 March 2008
Rip it up and paste it back together
After I was told off by a superior and then invited to a meeting at fire o’clock (that’s 16:00, for those of you in cushy, government-funded roles), I was already digging a shallow grave for my short-lived media career. As it turns out, they only wanted my input on something, so. Thanks to corporate schizophrenia for keeping a gal on her toes.
All of these things that I’ve been excited about are finally coming to fruition - all at once - which has turned me into a shivering, cuticle-biting ball of flu-medicated anxiety rather than the party monster metamorphosis I was going for. This means I’ve been drinking a glass of wine at dinner, passing out before nine and begging forgiveness of my Canadian houseguests for being such a crap host.
So far, I’ve discovered that The Mighty Boosh does not interface well with jetlag, and that not everyone finds the Old Kent Road Tesco experience to be a harrowing one. Also, if you mention the word ‘porn’ in an email, the IT team monitors your stuff for some time after. Go figure.
Finally, RIP Anthony Minghella and Arthur C Clarke. Bruce says these things come in threes, so I’m designing a foil-covered crash helmet and Nerf kit for Mr. Greenaway, provided I can persuade him to, you know. Put them on please?
My line manager is looking at me in the manner of one who expects you to respond immediately to their emails over your lunch hour. And I’m looking dead on at my screen, in the manner of one who says You can go to hell and die, that’s what you can do. And it’s turning out brilliantly!
13 March 2008
Bon voyage
The word on everyone’s lips these days: Spring. I don’t think that season exists here though. Spring is when the temperature begins to rise above zero, and then frozen things melt. We don’t normally have temperatures below freezing, hence nothing to melt. Once it gets warmer, things will turn greener, I guess. But carry on with your Spring fever, I don’t mind! It does a body good to be in such close proximity to seasonally-derived exhilaration.
This week has felt like one big long nightmare: the kind you can’t wake up from, because it’s where you work. I’ve gone from holy prodigy to impure infidel in the space of a month. This is precisely why I’m against status; the good townspeople need an idol they can decorate in sin and then tear to shreds. It’s called civilization, and it’s why we go around feeling smug in our ugly plastic Crocs (well, not me, but).
Regardless, I’m glad I got it over with early, because now I can settle into a comfortable state of peevish reluctance to do anything, at least until I quit or get fired.
I should really spend my lunch hour away from my desk from now on, because invariably someone will remember me and then start a little notice-me!-dance in my peripheral vision on the off-chance I might engage them in an impromptu meeting, I guess because they have nothing better to do on their lunch hour. Go away, sad colleagues!
ON the plus side, we have a nice weekend planned around bowling, a modest gathering and another houseguest from Canada (two, actually), which will take us to nearly April, when we move into our new flat. Then it’s Norway, another visitor and ATP. It’s time to start focusing on the parts of my life I’m actually bothered about and let the rest drift back out to sea.
This week has felt like one big long nightmare: the kind you can’t wake up from, because it’s where you work. I’ve gone from holy prodigy to impure infidel in the space of a month. This is precisely why I’m against status; the good townspeople need an idol they can decorate in sin and then tear to shreds. It’s called civilization, and it’s why we go around feeling smug in our ugly plastic Crocs (well, not me, but).
Regardless, I’m glad I got it over with early, because now I can settle into a comfortable state of peevish reluctance to do anything, at least until I quit or get fired.
I should really spend my lunch hour away from my desk from now on, because invariably someone will remember me and then start a little notice-me!-dance in my peripheral vision on the off-chance I might engage them in an impromptu meeting, I guess because they have nothing better to do on their lunch hour. Go away, sad colleagues!
ON the plus side, we have a nice weekend planned around bowling, a modest gathering and another houseguest from Canada (two, actually), which will take us to nearly April, when we move into our new flat. Then it’s Norway, another visitor and ATP. It’s time to start focusing on the parts of my life I’m actually bothered about and let the rest drift back out to sea.
11 March 2008
From meme to youyou
Thanks, Lass.
1. Who was your first prom date?
I like where you’re going with that. But I didn’t go to prom. I think we called it after-grad, and I would have taken my then-boyfriend Tim, who I fell out with almost immediately, for punching him jokingly (though not) in the stomach before we got onto the secret bus that took us to the secret bar that was secretly rented out for us to secretly die of boredom inside of. All night long, baby.
2. Do you still talk to your first love?
No.
3. What was your first alcoholic drink?
White Rum, and I only drank it to tell a boy what I really thought of him (turns out it’s still considered mean if you say it when you’re really drunk).
4. What was your first job?
A kiosk that sold grilled Japanese food, in a food court, in a mall. I sliced frozen chicken breasts all morning and rang up orders during the lunch rush. Sometimes I stirred the chicken on the grill.
5. What was your first car?
Technically, it was my sister’s hand-me-down Cougar, but I think she was just using me for my parking space, as I didn’t have a license and had no intention of ever driving it. She sold it on me a year later.
6. Who was the first person to text you today?
I like where you’re going with this too. It was my husband. In fact, he was the only person to text me today.
7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
Other than my growing awareness of self? Bruce.
8. Who was your first grade teacher?
Madame Chauldice, I think. I don’t remember a thing about her though.
9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?
My dad flew us to Swift Current, though we didn’t land - we just circled the grain elevator and flew back again.
10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?
That would be Chad, and no, we haven’t been friends since we were 11, when the sad truth about our differing genders occurred to one or both of us.
11. What was your first sport played?
I’m still waiting to do that.
12. Where was your first sleepover?
My childhood was one long sleepover. My sister’s maybe?
13. Who was the first person you talked to today?
Bruce.
14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?
My sister’s. Is this an invitation to reminisce or something? Um, okay. I wore a horrible itchy white dress and was pursued by an overly friendly stranger whose attention scared me so badly that I ended up hiding in the toilet for most of the reception.
15. What was the first thing you did this morning?
Asked Bruce what time it was because it looked much lighter than seven.
16. What was the first concert you ever went to?
It was something at the Black Market, which was basically a stage in a basement beneath a Greek restaurant downtown. It had a makeshift bar but you needed a bracelet to drink. I think it was Funk ‘n Stein, actually.
17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?
I like where you’re going with this. It was MY EARS. The end.
18. What was the first foreign country you went to?
The United States of McDonalds. I guess that’s not strictly foreign since we shared a continent, regardless. Otherwise, it was Holland.
19. What was your first run-in with the law?
I was in a car with my friend and two boys we knew, driving aimlessly when suddenly the police pulled us over. We thought it was because we were high, but actually, there’d been a robbery in the neighborhood and the suspects fit our description (four kids in a white vehicle). The story grows less interesting each time I tell it though, so I’ll skip the details
20. When was your first detention?
I brought a flare gun to school, which accidentally went off in my locker and caused like this minor…oh wait, no. That was The Breakfast Club.
21. What was the first state you lived in?
I like where you’re going with this. But fuck off.
22. Who was the first person to break your heart?
James. He left me for his best friend, who was boring to look at, but romantically tragic because she had an abusive boyfriend and yet never stopped smiling.
23. Who was your first roommate?
My then-boyfriend Aidan and my friend Shauna.
24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?
I’ve never been in a limo, strangely. I had the opportunity to ride in one when I was an in-patient but I was out on a day pass that afternoon. That is what they do with the mentally ill in Canada – they pile them into a limo and send them to a neighboring town for ice cream.
1. Who was your first prom date?
I like where you’re going with that. But I didn’t go to prom. I think we called it after-grad, and I would have taken my then-boyfriend Tim, who I fell out with almost immediately, for punching him jokingly (though not) in the stomach before we got onto the secret bus that took us to the secret bar that was secretly rented out for us to secretly die of boredom inside of. All night long, baby.
2. Do you still talk to your first love?
No.
3. What was your first alcoholic drink?
White Rum, and I only drank it to tell a boy what I really thought of him (turns out it’s still considered mean if you say it when you’re really drunk).
4. What was your first job?
A kiosk that sold grilled Japanese food, in a food court, in a mall. I sliced frozen chicken breasts all morning and rang up orders during the lunch rush. Sometimes I stirred the chicken on the grill.
5. What was your first car?
Technically, it was my sister’s hand-me-down Cougar, but I think she was just using me for my parking space, as I didn’t have a license and had no intention of ever driving it. She sold it on me a year later.
6. Who was the first person to text you today?
I like where you’re going with this too. It was my husband. In fact, he was the only person to text me today.
7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
Other than my growing awareness of self? Bruce.
8. Who was your first grade teacher?
Madame Chauldice, I think. I don’t remember a thing about her though.
9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?
My dad flew us to Swift Current, though we didn’t land - we just circled the grain elevator and flew back again.
10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?
That would be Chad, and no, we haven’t been friends since we were 11, when the sad truth about our differing genders occurred to one or both of us.
11. What was your first sport played?
I’m still waiting to do that.
12. Where was your first sleepover?
My childhood was one long sleepover. My sister’s maybe?
13. Who was the first person you talked to today?
Bruce.
14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?
My sister’s. Is this an invitation to reminisce or something? Um, okay. I wore a horrible itchy white dress and was pursued by an overly friendly stranger whose attention scared me so badly that I ended up hiding in the toilet for most of the reception.
15. What was the first thing you did this morning?
Asked Bruce what time it was because it looked much lighter than seven.
16. What was the first concert you ever went to?
It was something at the Black Market, which was basically a stage in a basement beneath a Greek restaurant downtown. It had a makeshift bar but you needed a bracelet to drink. I think it was Funk ‘n Stein, actually.
17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?
I like where you’re going with this. It was MY EARS. The end.
18. What was the first foreign country you went to?
The United States of McDonalds. I guess that’s not strictly foreign since we shared a continent, regardless. Otherwise, it was Holland.
19. What was your first run-in with the law?
I was in a car with my friend and two boys we knew, driving aimlessly when suddenly the police pulled us over. We thought it was because we were high, but actually, there’d been a robbery in the neighborhood and the suspects fit our description (four kids in a white vehicle). The story grows less interesting each time I tell it though, so I’ll skip the details
20. When was your first detention?
I brought a flare gun to school, which accidentally went off in my locker and caused like this minor…oh wait, no. That was The Breakfast Club.
21. What was the first state you lived in?
I like where you’re going with this. But fuck off.
22. Who was the first person to break your heart?
James. He left me for his best friend, who was boring to look at, but romantically tragic because she had an abusive boyfriend and yet never stopped smiling.
23. Who was your first roommate?
My then-boyfriend Aidan and my friend Shauna.
24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?
I’ve never been in a limo, strangely. I had the opportunity to ride in one when I was an in-patient but I was out on a day pass that afternoon. That is what they do with the mentally ill in Canada – they pile them into a limo and send them to a neighboring town for ice cream.
10 March 2008
Death and natural imagery make for bad dreams (and posts)
Blahdiwhat you say? I don’t know. Sorry about that.
I have no time for this space anymore. I only have so many stones with which to anchor the unruly tarpaulin of my existence and this stone just isn’t big enough I’m afraid. That’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever said though, so let’s let that particular bygone be gone immediately and move swiftly ahead to something equally esoteric but possibly less annoying.
Watch Your Step
I’ve formed this habit of waking up about twenty minutes after I’ve fallen asleep with one thought in my head: O. M. G! I am going to die one day!
I mean, duh. But for some reason, that certainty is only a revelation when it occurs in the terrifying lucidity of half-sleep, and my subconscious will play it out in many different ways until my conscious mind goes OKAY, I GET IT: ‘I AM GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.’ CAN I PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP NOW?
But no, I have an image of little antelopes being driven off a sheer, planetary cliff-face by a relentless conveyor belt of death. And THAT’S not a very relaxing idea, so.
So so so, I’m already behind on this day. And it is raining so much rain that London looks like one big aquarium of miserable fish. Back to the drawing board.
The End
(But for how long?)
I have no time for this space anymore. I only have so many stones with which to anchor the unruly tarpaulin of my existence and this stone just isn’t big enough I’m afraid. That’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever said though, so let’s let that particular bygone be gone immediately and move swiftly ahead to something equally esoteric but possibly less annoying.
Watch Your Step
I’ve formed this habit of waking up about twenty minutes after I’ve fallen asleep with one thought in my head: O. M. G! I am going to die one day!
I mean, duh. But for some reason, that certainty is only a revelation when it occurs in the terrifying lucidity of half-sleep, and my subconscious will play it out in many different ways until my conscious mind goes OKAY, I GET IT: ‘I AM GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.’ CAN I PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP NOW?
But no, I have an image of little antelopes being driven off a sheer, planetary cliff-face by a relentless conveyor belt of death. And THAT’S not a very relaxing idea, so.
So so so, I’m already behind on this day. And it is raining so much rain that London looks like one big aquarium of miserable fish. Back to the drawing board.
The End
(But for how long?)
09 March 2008
Inconclusive
The past, be it near or far, isn’t the relative distance between an event experienced and our perception of that experience. It’s just as present in our lives as a book in the other room. The only difference between the past and a book in the other room is that the past remains inaccessible, behind a curtain; or petrified, like stone.
Distance is more like the past than the past is – real distance, or that which takes place elsewhere concurrently, is more inaccessible than the past, because one must rely on imagination (rather than memory) to transport us there. To instantly find oneself anywhere other than where one could reasonably be found in a matter of moments (say one thousand miles away) and hear its sounds, however mundane (children calling to each other outdoors; a dog barking; a refrigerator chugging to a halt), would be to experience the divine.
The divine isn’t another country where drifters aspire to travel one day; the divine is only that which exists on the opposite side of possibility.
Distance is more like the past than the past is – real distance, or that which takes place elsewhere concurrently, is more inaccessible than the past, because one must rely on imagination (rather than memory) to transport us there. To instantly find oneself anywhere other than where one could reasonably be found in a matter of moments (say one thousand miles away) and hear its sounds, however mundane (children calling to each other outdoors; a dog barking; a refrigerator chugging to a halt), would be to experience the divine.
The divine isn’t another country where drifters aspire to travel one day; the divine is only that which exists on the opposite side of possibility.
06 March 2008
It's official
This morning I woke up a few minutes before the alarm we didn’t set, got into the bath, put on my clothes, crawled back into bed, buried my face in Bruce’s chest and told him I couldn’t do it today. I say that on a semi-regular basis, but there must have been something in it this time, because Bruce told me to take the day off.
So after emailing work, I spent the morning and afternoon doing exactly what I felt like doing, which was a big fat nothing. I feel so much better for it, like I could take on the world tomorrow (which they’re sort of expecting from me) and not spend my whole weekend hiding under the bed with the cats. There is nothing like an impromptu day off.
Bruce called me from Trafalgar square to say that our estate agent called to say that our reference checks went through and our flat is ready to move into April first. That is a massive relief. I’m so excited I could jump up and down. But I’m reserving my energy for tomorrow.
So after emailing work, I spent the morning and afternoon doing exactly what I felt like doing, which was a big fat nothing. I feel so much better for it, like I could take on the world tomorrow (which they’re sort of expecting from me) and not spend my whole weekend hiding under the bed with the cats. There is nothing like an impromptu day off.
Bruce called me from Trafalgar square to say that our estate agent called to say that our reference checks went through and our flat is ready to move into April first. That is a massive relief. I’m so excited I could jump up and down. But I’m reserving my energy for tomorrow.
05 March 2008
x365: 21 of 365 - Chris K
We laughed at you, Tex and me. I’m glad you’re a fuck-up, and that your ex-girlfriend married a scientologist. Go pass out on a Salisbury steak, you waste of screen time.
In no particular order
A list of books we're giving away on freecycle
Allen Carr – Packing it in the Easy Way
Various - Philosophy, Society and Politics
Jake Arnott – True Crime
Ali Smith – The Accidental
Willy Russell – The Wrong Boy
Philip Kapleau – The Wheel of Life and Death
Descartes – Philosophical Writings
Descartes – Discourse on Method and Meditations on First Philosophy
Hume – An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
Hugo in 3 Months – Portuguese
C.G.Jung – The Undiscovered Self
Leibniz – Philosophical Writings
Stuart Hampshire – Spinoza
Bertrand Russell – The Problems of Philosophy
A.J. Ayer – The Central Questions of Philosophy
Various - What Philosophy Does
Chambers Dictionary of Beliefs and Religions
Russell Miller – The House of Getty
Jonathan Franzen – The Corrections
Anthony O’Hear – What Philosophy is
John King – Headhunters
Kate Christensen – In the Drink
Various - A Dictionary of Philosophy
The Photo Book
Davies – An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion
Howard Sounes – Fred & Rose
Perry Groves - We All Live in a Perry Groves World
Shawn Levy – Ratpack Confidential
Alex Garland – The Beach (first edition)
Godfrey Vesey – Philosophy in the Open
Caroline Sullivan – Bye Bye Baby
Iaian Banks – Dead Air
Paulo Coelho – The Alchemist
Nick Hornby – How to Be Good
Jason Burke – Al Qaeda
Peter Carey – True History of The Kelly Gang
Joan Didion – The Year of Magical Thinking
Elizabeth Wurtzel – Prozac Nation
Naomi Klein – Fences and Windows
Nick Hornby – About a Boy
Haruki Murakami – Sputnik Sweetheart
Irvine Welsh – Ecstasy
Christopher Isherwood – Goodbye to Berlin
Patricia Duncker – Hallucinating Foucault
John Irving – A Prayer for Owen Meaney
Nick McDonell – Twelve
Jeanette Winterson – Written on the Body
Craig W. Thomas – Losing My Religion
Jeanette Winterson – The Power Book
Calvin Pinchin – Issues in Philosophy
A.L.Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Alex Garland – The Beach
Reg Thompson – Dear Charlie: Letters to a Lost Daughter
Inazo Nitobe – Bushido: The Soul of Japan
Chuck Palahniuk – Diary
Manners for Men
Paul Theroux – Sir Vidia’s Shadow
Primo Levi – The Periodic Table
George Orwell – Homage to Catatonia
James Joyce – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce – Dubliners
Georges Bataille – Story of the Eye
Bizarro Postcards
Robertson Davies – Fifth Business
Roger-Pol Droit – 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life
Junot Diaz – Drown
Peter Carey – Bliss
Kathy Acker – Bodies of Work
Arundhati Roy – The God of Small Things
Evelyn Waugh – Black Mischief
Rudyard Kipling – Just So Stories
Alan Paton – Cry, The Beloved Country
Iaian Pears – An Instance of the Fingerpost
Iain Banks – Complicity
A.L. Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Sight and Sound Magazine (7 issues)
Allen Carr – Packing it in the Easy Way
Various - Philosophy, Society and Politics
Jake Arnott – True Crime
Ali Smith – The Accidental
Willy Russell – The Wrong Boy
Philip Kapleau – The Wheel of Life and Death
Descartes – Philosophical Writings
Descartes – Discourse on Method and Meditations on First Philosophy
Hume – An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
Hugo in 3 Months – Portuguese
C.G.Jung – The Undiscovered Self
Leibniz – Philosophical Writings
Stuart Hampshire – Spinoza
Bertrand Russell – The Problems of Philosophy
A.J. Ayer – The Central Questions of Philosophy
Various - What Philosophy Does
Chambers Dictionary of Beliefs and Religions
Russell Miller – The House of Getty
Jonathan Franzen – The Corrections
Anthony O’Hear – What Philosophy is
John King – Headhunters
Kate Christensen – In the Drink
Various - A Dictionary of Philosophy
The Photo Book
Davies – An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion
Howard Sounes – Fred & Rose
Perry Groves - We All Live in a Perry Groves World
Shawn Levy – Ratpack Confidential
Alex Garland – The Beach (first edition)
Godfrey Vesey – Philosophy in the Open
Caroline Sullivan – Bye Bye Baby
Iaian Banks – Dead Air
Paulo Coelho – The Alchemist
Nick Hornby – How to Be Good
Jason Burke – Al Qaeda
Peter Carey – True History of The Kelly Gang
Joan Didion – The Year of Magical Thinking
Elizabeth Wurtzel – Prozac Nation
Naomi Klein – Fences and Windows
Nick Hornby – About a Boy
Haruki Murakami – Sputnik Sweetheart
Irvine Welsh – Ecstasy
Christopher Isherwood – Goodbye to Berlin
Patricia Duncker – Hallucinating Foucault
John Irving – A Prayer for Owen Meaney
Nick McDonell – Twelve
Jeanette Winterson – Written on the Body
Craig W. Thomas – Losing My Religion
Jeanette Winterson – The Power Book
Calvin Pinchin – Issues in Philosophy
A.L.Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Alex Garland – The Beach
Reg Thompson – Dear Charlie: Letters to a Lost Daughter
Inazo Nitobe – Bushido: The Soul of Japan
Chuck Palahniuk – Diary
Manners for Men
Paul Theroux – Sir Vidia’s Shadow
Primo Levi – The Periodic Table
George Orwell – Homage to Catatonia
James Joyce – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce – Dubliners
Georges Bataille – Story of the Eye
Bizarro Postcards
Robertson Davies – Fifth Business
Roger-Pol Droit – 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life
Junot Diaz – Drown
Peter Carey – Bliss
Kathy Acker – Bodies of Work
Arundhati Roy – The God of Small Things
Evelyn Waugh – Black Mischief
Rudyard Kipling – Just So Stories
Alan Paton – Cry, The Beloved Country
Iaian Pears – An Instance of the Fingerpost
Iain Banks – Complicity
A.L. Kennedy – Now that you’re back
Sight and Sound Magazine (7 issues)
04 March 2008
In a future world
Gosh, I am writing myself into oblivion. It’s true. The more I write online, the less of me I see there. I don’t mean me as in the me you see when we read quietly on trains, glancing up to watch the countryside whip past us. But me as in: the words and ideas are all outgrowing the simplicity of what I have. And they aren’t even growing like some beautiful plant; they just spread flat, gleaming dully, like laminate.
I wish I could write somewhere, anywhere, else. All these trillions of words in their galaxy of binary code and screen pixels block out the true, lost faces of stars. Just look into them and imagine that I’m there among them somehow.
I wish I could write somewhere, anywhere, else. All these trillions of words in their galaxy of binary code and screen pixels block out the true, lost faces of stars. Just look into them and imagine that I’m there among them somehow.
02 March 2008
All's well that ends in Muswell
Yesterday we traveled to Muswell Hill to pay the remainder of our deposit, and because I wanted to see the place we’re moving to in less than a month. When we saw it being advertised, we felt it was better for Bruce to go and see it immediately (my job’s pretty inflexible) than risk losing it to somebody else. A few days later, he was so unsure of his decision that I was beginning to worry that we'd be living in a very posh broom closet.
The current tenants - a couple maybe five years older than us – were still home when we showed up, but they put to rest any doubts he might have had as they described the hydrangeas, lavender and honeysuckles that would begin to bloom in spring, extolled the virtues of the area and expressed their contentment with the flat overall. The only reason they’re leaving is because they can’t afford to actually buy property there. And who could? A flat like ours would cost a quarter of a million pounds (we looked it up).
The flat is smaller than the one we live in currently, but it’s chock-full of character and is nested in a grandiose house on a very pretty street. We had a walk around the commercial district, situated within a five minute walk from our front door, and were blown away by what we saw – specialty food and clothing shops, dozens of different types of restaurants, cafes, charity shops, pubs, book stores (one just for children), patisseries, three banks (one of them ours), a pet shop, two hairdressers, two cathedrals, two upper-crust grocers and a small first-run cinema. And that was only one arm (there are three, maybe four roads radiating from its center).
The youth there do not walk on their toes, their necks craning to see who or what might be stalking them from the shadows; instead, blushing young boys carried bouquets of flowers for their mothers (it’s Mother’s Day today), young couples strolled with prams and without, and every single person had an expression approximating ecstasy, though possibly I was projecting.
It all reminds me of the area I lived in before I left home, except vaster and more quaint, resembling certain parts of Vancouver as well (call it the hills and the chilled-out Starbucks-goers). There are even a few unexpected delights: a pub inside a converted stone cathedral and a breathtaking view from one of the spokes off Muswell Hill Broadway.
We had an early dinner at La Porchetta (situated minutes from where we’ll be living) and saw something we’d never seen before: diners jumped out of their seats as orchestral-sized music was suddenly piped from the speakers. Around the corner came four staff members - one playing a trumpet, one hiding a candlelit bowl of ice cream behind a menu and one singing happy birthday to a ten-year-old girl with black hair. The forth man twirled a massive disc of thin pizza dough, which he dropped resolutely on the girl’s head, where it fainted, sticking to her face, hair and neck.
And I revised my plans for Bruce’s thirty-seventh birthday.
Overall, it was a very good decision, and I owe Bruce my eternal happiness yet again. As do his family – they are now no more than a 45 minute drive away, which means we can see them more often. They didn’t really believe us when we said our visits would technically be longer if we moved to Canada, and I guess we didn’t really believe it either. They’re good people, and I’m happy for the chance to get to know them even better.
Speaking of family, I should really call my parents. They’re moving to a different apartment at the end of the month too, and probably still feeling a bit sad about our decision to stay here. Ironically, though, my family never feels closer than when we are furthest from one another.
The current tenants - a couple maybe five years older than us – were still home when we showed up, but they put to rest any doubts he might have had as they described the hydrangeas, lavender and honeysuckles that would begin to bloom in spring, extolled the virtues of the area and expressed their contentment with the flat overall. The only reason they’re leaving is because they can’t afford to actually buy property there. And who could? A flat like ours would cost a quarter of a million pounds (we looked it up).
The flat is smaller than the one we live in currently, but it’s chock-full of character and is nested in a grandiose house on a very pretty street. We had a walk around the commercial district, situated within a five minute walk from our front door, and were blown away by what we saw – specialty food and clothing shops, dozens of different types of restaurants, cafes, charity shops, pubs, book stores (one just for children), patisseries, three banks (one of them ours), a pet shop, two hairdressers, two cathedrals, two upper-crust grocers and a small first-run cinema. And that was only one arm (there are three, maybe four roads radiating from its center).
The youth there do not walk on their toes, their necks craning to see who or what might be stalking them from the shadows; instead, blushing young boys carried bouquets of flowers for their mothers (it’s Mother’s Day today), young couples strolled with prams and without, and every single person had an expression approximating ecstasy, though possibly I was projecting.
It all reminds me of the area I lived in before I left home, except vaster and more quaint, resembling certain parts of Vancouver as well (call it the hills and the chilled-out Starbucks-goers). There are even a few unexpected delights: a pub inside a converted stone cathedral and a breathtaking view from one of the spokes off Muswell Hill Broadway.
We had an early dinner at La Porchetta (situated minutes from where we’ll be living) and saw something we’d never seen before: diners jumped out of their seats as orchestral-sized music was suddenly piped from the speakers. Around the corner came four staff members - one playing a trumpet, one hiding a candlelit bowl of ice cream behind a menu and one singing happy birthday to a ten-year-old girl with black hair. The forth man twirled a massive disc of thin pizza dough, which he dropped resolutely on the girl’s head, where it fainted, sticking to her face, hair and neck.
And I revised my plans for Bruce’s thirty-seventh birthday.
Overall, it was a very good decision, and I owe Bruce my eternal happiness yet again. As do his family – they are now no more than a 45 minute drive away, which means we can see them more often. They didn’t really believe us when we said our visits would technically be longer if we moved to Canada, and I guess we didn’t really believe it either. They’re good people, and I’m happy for the chance to get to know them even better.
Speaking of family, I should really call my parents. They’re moving to a different apartment at the end of the month too, and probably still feeling a bit sad about our decision to stay here. Ironically, though, my family never feels closer than when we are furthest from one another.
29 February 2008
Chuffed, as we say
Well, I survived the event and even felt a wee bit hot (I’ll reserve the two-tees-in-hot-blogger-special for another day) if I do say so myself (I just did!).
Today everyone is feeling a bit less than ritzy though, and I’ve a lot of work to keep on top of and grumpy faces to keep from shouting at me.
Nonetheless, I wanted to post some photos so that my mother* can see what our new flat looks like. We found exactly what we were looking for, in the very posh Muswell Hill area, and will be moving to our new digs on 1 April.
Check it out:
Front!
Back!
Inside!
The living room comes with more furnishings than depicted, with a gigantic bed and wall of wardrobes in the bedroom, so now we can save up for dream furniture at our leisure, rather than splash out on top of a terrifying deposit.
And that garden back there? That’s not shared! Meaning we can have nude garden parties! How about it, Shhh?
So it’s goodbye troubled Bermondsey, hello Muswell Hill (and poverty) (hopefully not too much poverty) (or nudity)!
* I assume it’s her, so am writing freely about my drug addiction on a different, secret** site instead.
** Wouldn’t you like to know.
Today everyone is feeling a bit less than ritzy though, and I’ve a lot of work to keep on top of and grumpy faces to keep from shouting at me.
Nonetheless, I wanted to post some photos so that my mother* can see what our new flat looks like. We found exactly what we were looking for, in the very posh Muswell Hill area, and will be moving to our new digs on 1 April.
Check it out:
Front!
Back!
Inside!
The living room comes with more furnishings than depicted, with a gigantic bed and wall of wardrobes in the bedroom, so now we can save up for dream furniture at our leisure, rather than splash out on top of a terrifying deposit.
And that garden back there? That’s not shared! Meaning we can have nude garden parties! How about it, Shhh?
So it’s goodbye troubled Bermondsey, hello Muswell Hill (and poverty) (hopefully not too much poverty) (or nudity)!
* I assume it’s her, so am writing freely about my drug addiction on a different, secret** site instead.
** Wouldn’t you like to know.
28 February 2008
I feel pretty
Last night I went to buy a new dress for a fancy dress work thing. What should have been a relatively simple exercise - given that I found the dress within an hour of looking - ended with Bruce waiting miserably by himself amidst lingerie while I stood topless in a change room trying desperately to make something of the strapless bra-of-many-straps puzzle I’d been handed by the sales girl.
Let this be a lesson to you, ladies of fashion – if you buy a backless dress with a peep front, well. You’re a bit stupid then, aren’t you? Especially if you’ve been wearing the same cotton casual under-things since about twenty years ago, when you hit puberty and vowed never to let a stranger follow you into a cubicle with a tape measurer ever again.
That’s not to say I wasn’t using the power of my mind to try and will the sales girl to ask if I needed help so that I could reach through the curtain and drag her in and make her show me how to build a backless bra using two cups, three long straps and a short elastic bit (she didn't). But sales girls are not paid enough to know anything at all about what they are selling in this country. She was kind enough to let me sneak in a few more garments after the shop had closed, though, so I forgive her.
And now I’m stuck with this dress that looks fine from the front (peep peep!) and slightly ridiculous from the back. I paraded around in front of sales girl number two asking “If you were a girl and you saw someone in a backless dress with her bra strap showing like this, would you think it looked stupid?”
“No, it looks not stupid” she said in near-perfect English. Then she smiled reassuringly, as if to put a finer point on it.
Which at half eight on a Wednesday night was good enough for me. I’ve got a cardigan anyway, just in case I can sense mirth from the other, more sensibly dressed women at the event. Though I am hoping someone shows up looking like a chandelier, because that always trumps a visible bra strap.
Oh, and remember when tights used to be really itchy because they employed some type of unconditioned wool, but you weren’t allowed to take them off because then your legs would show and godforbid you show a little leg at age five? Well now you can have that itchy-legged feeling all over again, as a full-grown woman! I don’t know why fashion has to hurt, but it does.
And that’s all I have time for today, because I’m doing a few more hours work and then I have to go to the toilet and grapple with ten tiny buttons and a sash.
Let this be a lesson to you, ladies of fashion – if you buy a backless dress with a peep front, well. You’re a bit stupid then, aren’t you? Especially if you’ve been wearing the same cotton casual under-things since about twenty years ago, when you hit puberty and vowed never to let a stranger follow you into a cubicle with a tape measurer ever again.
That’s not to say I wasn’t using the power of my mind to try and will the sales girl to ask if I needed help so that I could reach through the curtain and drag her in and make her show me how to build a backless bra using two cups, three long straps and a short elastic bit (she didn't). But sales girls are not paid enough to know anything at all about what they are selling in this country. She was kind enough to let me sneak in a few more garments after the shop had closed, though, so I forgive her.
And now I’m stuck with this dress that looks fine from the front (peep peep!) and slightly ridiculous from the back. I paraded around in front of sales girl number two asking “If you were a girl and you saw someone in a backless dress with her bra strap showing like this, would you think it looked stupid?”
“No, it looks not stupid” she said in near-perfect English. Then she smiled reassuringly, as if to put a finer point on it.
Which at half eight on a Wednesday night was good enough for me. I’ve got a cardigan anyway, just in case I can sense mirth from the other, more sensibly dressed women at the event. Though I am hoping someone shows up looking like a chandelier, because that always trumps a visible bra strap.
Oh, and remember when tights used to be really itchy because they employed some type of unconditioned wool, but you weren’t allowed to take them off because then your legs would show and godforbid you show a little leg at age five? Well now you can have that itchy-legged feeling all over again, as a full-grown woman! I don’t know why fashion has to hurt, but it does.
And that’s all I have time for today, because I’m doing a few more hours work and then I have to go to the toilet and grapple with ten tiny buttons and a sash.
27 February 2008
A New York state of mind
That badge up there was given to me by the lovely and prolific Lass, a freelance writer from Texas who subverts any notions I may have held about Texans and their penchant for fried chicken, Richard Nixon and the electric chair. (I said may have.) She is one classy lady, with the same cheap taste in sweets as me, and I’m tickled that she chose to include me as a member of her online posse.
Earlier this month, I was recognised in a similar vein by Quelle Ergsome, who I’ve been following across the internet for years like some awe-struck little sister who goes Aw, I want to knit a pair of socks in less than a week and make tasty-sounding vegetarian dishes and have a party for all my friends too! and then stomps her foot and runs off to her bedroom to disembowel some Barbie dolls.
The fact of the matter is, I’m always touched and not a little surprised (so A LOT surprised then) when fellow bloggers shine a spotlight on me, partially because it can be such a solitary exercise and I assume that mostly stragglers skim to find out if I’m losing my marbles again or a banjo star or in a family way or divorced. And partially because I’m not used to kindness of the no-strings-attached sort, which is why my husband sometimes wants to shove me in the washing machine, turn the dial to WOULDJA CALM DOWN ALREADY and hit START.
So I’m an asshole and I forget to give props to those online writers who have no idea how much I rely on their openness, honesty and genuine insights into the human condition, because sometimes I forget that I’m not the only person in the world who feels anxious or irrational or oversensitive or un-fabulous. And that it’s okay to have the opposite of these feelings too.
I can’t pick only ten, because half of them are locked and half need no introduction, but you know who you are. So have an E, guys - it’s on me.
Alright, enough with the group hug. Let’s move on to…
Work! I had such a good day at work yesterday that I’m coming down a little bit and don’t feel like doing anything now. That’s the way I function though: up, down, up, down, round and round forever. I think I might also have a natural Extreme Happiness Inhibitor (EHI), which prevents me from overreacting to positive situations on the off-chance I get crushed.
No, I’m much more comfortable hovering inches above misery’s ocean floor, bumping heads with the small blind creatures that live in its perpetual darkness. It’s much easier to just hang about until I’m needed rather than wait for someone or something to dump me there from a helicopter.
I think my inner voice must belong to an angry taxi driver living in New York, as I spend my morning walk to work having thoughts like:
Jaysus Christ, you’re practically a giant and you can’t walk faster than a shuffle? Whatsamadda, you got your head caught in the Goodyear blimp or something? MOVEITBUDDY!
Look lady, don’t punish ME just because YOU decided to put on stupid shoes this morning.
Aw fantastic, now I godda walk behind these assholes. Why do suits always godda walk so goddamn slow when they get together? Mother of Christ, I just want to make that green light oh great now it’s red THANK YOU! Thanks for nothin’.
Meanwhile, my iPod is shuffling undecidedly between Bjork and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, singing me ever closer to a neurotic meltdown. My walks to work are never boring, I’ll give them that much.
I saw someone on a motorbike who had pulled over to the shoulder and was now trying to decipher a road map. The motorbike was an EMT-issued vehicle, and although I felt really sorry for whoever was on the receiving end of that service, I couldn’t help wishing I’d brought my camera.
26 February 2008
Where I complain about the Oscars and other oblique issues
I’ve found a new and improved way of living, which leaves very little room for anxiety. Basically, you put your overstuffed iTunes on shuffle and stop worrying about who made tea for whom and who should you make tea for today?
Am I on the tea train? Am I not on the tea train? Who cares! I’ll make a cup of tea for myself when I feel like one or, hell! I’ll make everyone a cup of tea! Hey! You over there on the south side! You want a cuppa too?! O! Kay!
And then you stop worrying about what everyone thinks of you and just do your job the best way you know how, and if they don’t like it, well, stuff ‘em, hey?
Easy fucking peasy.
Yesterday I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the opening credits of Sex and the City – walking along the city sidewalks, very much in my element, feeling sorta fabulous, when all of a sudden: WHOOSH! A bus flies by, flinging muddy puddle water at my designer pink chiffon dress, rendering me decidedly un-fabulous.
But then I got over it, because know what? Once you’ve hit your stride in life, a little bit of mud doesn’t make much of a lasting impression. Cover me in the stuff and I will still be fa-bu-lous. Oh I’ll cry a bit! But not for long.
Can I complain for a few minutes though? Okay good thanks.
So what was up with the Oscars? I mean, I know what’s up with the Oscars – they take an okay film, clock it on the head with a gold-painted statuette and raise it to the height of the Mother Theresa of all filmmaking, whilst giving nary a hat-tip to anything worthwhile. But what was up with the nominations, even?
Once There Will be Blood flickered up onto the big screen, it took me nearly forty-five minutes to catch my breath. I mean, wow! Wowowowowow! This is not the type of film critique that won me awards back in University, I know, but I have no other words! I was completely mowed down by the film in general, and the one thing about it that struck me the hardest was the soundtrack.
Did anyone notice the la-la-lackadaisical tippy-tap of the score in Atonement? Me neither!
But There Will be Blood has replaced The Conversation for me as the ultimate film soundtrack (barring any soundtracks containing pop tunes I might actually play at home), because, better than the cinematography, better than the mis-en-scene, this element exemplified the queasy ignorance of the period and the crushing impassiveness of the setting. It reminded me of the way Wisconsin Death Trip made me feel as I was reading it. Really, you couldn’t ask for more from a soundtrack.
But the Academy would still rather heap praise onto a conceptually uninteresting piece containing the innovative sound of…a typewriter. Because guess what. OMG she is TYPING the BOOK of the FILM we are WATCHING on a TYPEWRITER! *We faint at the ingeniousness of it all*
Meanwhile, There Will be Blood doesn’t even make the cut for notable soundtracks.
And that is the way of the world, good peeps. Mediocrity will rise to the top to sit upon the ornate heads of artists. It keeps the little guys feeling like big guys without ever asking them to lift a finger.
Whoops, and I’ve officially taken my complaint and upgraded it to a rant. Ah well. It's my soapbox, I can rant if I want to.
Am I on the tea train? Am I not on the tea train? Who cares! I’ll make a cup of tea for myself when I feel like one or, hell! I’ll make everyone a cup of tea! Hey! You over there on the south side! You want a cuppa too?! O! Kay!
And then you stop worrying about what everyone thinks of you and just do your job the best way you know how, and if they don’t like it, well, stuff ‘em, hey?
Easy fucking peasy.
Yesterday I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the opening credits of Sex and the City – walking along the city sidewalks, very much in my element, feeling sorta fabulous, when all of a sudden: WHOOSH! A bus flies by, flinging muddy puddle water at my designer pink chiffon dress, rendering me decidedly un-fabulous.
But then I got over it, because know what? Once you’ve hit your stride in life, a little bit of mud doesn’t make much of a lasting impression. Cover me in the stuff and I will still be fa-bu-lous. Oh I’ll cry a bit! But not for long.
Can I complain for a few minutes though? Okay good thanks.
So what was up with the Oscars? I mean, I know what’s up with the Oscars – they take an okay film, clock it on the head with a gold-painted statuette and raise it to the height of the Mother Theresa of all filmmaking, whilst giving nary a hat-tip to anything worthwhile. But what was up with the nominations, even?
Once There Will be Blood flickered up onto the big screen, it took me nearly forty-five minutes to catch my breath. I mean, wow! Wowowowowow! This is not the type of film critique that won me awards back in University, I know, but I have no other words! I was completely mowed down by the film in general, and the one thing about it that struck me the hardest was the soundtrack.
Did anyone notice the la-la-lackadaisical tippy-tap of the score in Atonement? Me neither!
But There Will be Blood has replaced The Conversation for me as the ultimate film soundtrack (barring any soundtracks containing pop tunes I might actually play at home), because, better than the cinematography, better than the mis-en-scene, this element exemplified the queasy ignorance of the period and the crushing impassiveness of the setting. It reminded me of the way Wisconsin Death Trip made me feel as I was reading it. Really, you couldn’t ask for more from a soundtrack.
But the Academy would still rather heap praise onto a conceptually uninteresting piece containing the innovative sound of…a typewriter. Because guess what. OMG she is TYPING the BOOK of the FILM we are WATCHING on a TYPEWRITER! *We faint at the ingeniousness of it all*
Meanwhile, There Will be Blood doesn’t even make the cut for notable soundtracks.
And that is the way of the world, good peeps. Mediocrity will rise to the top to sit upon the ornate heads of artists. It keeps the little guys feeling like big guys without ever asking them to lift a finger.
Whoops, and I’ve officially taken my complaint and upgraded it to a rant. Ah well. It's my soapbox, I can rant if I want to.
25 February 2008
Brave new self
My husband did some serious damage to his liver (and reputation as the most sober husband on earth) last night. And yet I’m the one feeling hungover this morning – why?
It’s becoming more and more difficult to rake back personal time at work. Everyone deserves a lunch hour, and everyone is responsible for ensuring they take one, but with the amount of work I do on a daily basis, I can barely justify doing no work for an entire hour, even to myself.
This morning I woke to the noise of birds, which was something I noticed a lot during that period of a few months when I was not well in the head. Their morning song seemed like a recording at that time; it was just another superficial element of a convincing backdrop concocted by the party (or parties) who were collaborating to keep me from understanding my predicament. Or so I believed.
I capitalised on the lucidity of this hazy recollection, extending the meaning to encapsulate what I find so impossible to nail down about my experience now. The only way to achieve continuity is to live without ever having to abandon your own foundational context. I’ve lost this context twice in my life: once when I went mad, and once when I fell in love (which is a bit like going mad) and moved away from home.
This morning, I had to concede that the life I experienced in the hospital almost six years ago is still the same life I lead now, in London. I won’t say there’s little difference between a mental ward and London, though I guess someone more cynical than me might try and make that comparison. But even though both experiences are vastly different in terms of what they mean, they share the same undigested quality.
The only way to measure experience is with the levelling tool of identity. Lose that essential component to life-building, though, and you’d be hard-pressed to understand much of anything. Okay fine, I’d tell my addled brain, Let’s regroup here on January 2008 at oh nine-hundred hours and assess where we’re at. Except that no thoughts resembling mine ever showed up to the meeting place.
Psychologists are forever telling you that it’s a bad idea to fracture identity, but when you discover something you find impossible to explain, the only thing to do is to stretch yourself until you can account for it. If not me, then some other self.
And this is the other me. The one who is not alone, bitter, narrow-minded and afraid. I can be all these things, of course, but I will never again be all these things, and only these things, all at once. These are the fragments of my identity that, compiled, would exclude everything I am becoming today, and that self is growing stronger by the minute.
But I’m sorry you had to weed through this to find out that none of it was about you. On the other hand, maybe you found yourself washed up on the shore of some brave new world too, in which case, I extend my hand across the divide to shake yours.
It’s becoming more and more difficult to rake back personal time at work. Everyone deserves a lunch hour, and everyone is responsible for ensuring they take one, but with the amount of work I do on a daily basis, I can barely justify doing no work for an entire hour, even to myself.
This morning I woke to the noise of birds, which was something I noticed a lot during that period of a few months when I was not well in the head. Their morning song seemed like a recording at that time; it was just another superficial element of a convincing backdrop concocted by the party (or parties) who were collaborating to keep me from understanding my predicament. Or so I believed.
I capitalised on the lucidity of this hazy recollection, extending the meaning to encapsulate what I find so impossible to nail down about my experience now. The only way to achieve continuity is to live without ever having to abandon your own foundational context. I’ve lost this context twice in my life: once when I went mad, and once when I fell in love (which is a bit like going mad) and moved away from home.
This morning, I had to concede that the life I experienced in the hospital almost six years ago is still the same life I lead now, in London. I won’t say there’s little difference between a mental ward and London, though I guess someone more cynical than me might try and make that comparison. But even though both experiences are vastly different in terms of what they mean, they share the same undigested quality.
The only way to measure experience is with the levelling tool of identity. Lose that essential component to life-building, though, and you’d be hard-pressed to understand much of anything. Okay fine, I’d tell my addled brain, Let’s regroup here on January 2008 at oh nine-hundred hours and assess where we’re at. Except that no thoughts resembling mine ever showed up to the meeting place.
Psychologists are forever telling you that it’s a bad idea to fracture identity, but when you discover something you find impossible to explain, the only thing to do is to stretch yourself until you can account for it. If not me, then some other self.
And this is the other me. The one who is not alone, bitter, narrow-minded and afraid. I can be all these things, of course, but I will never again be all these things, and only these things, all at once. These are the fragments of my identity that, compiled, would exclude everything I am becoming today, and that self is growing stronger by the minute.
But I’m sorry you had to weed through this to find out that none of it was about you. On the other hand, maybe you found yourself washed up on the shore of some brave new world too, in which case, I extend my hand across the divide to shake yours.
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